i 
 
 ^"MJNlVi.w/^ 
 
 J al^' 'uujinj:-' 'uijaiiYjj JuxMiui' 
 
 -r, U 
 
 ^-^ 
 
 •</j
 
 
 13 'j! *£j( |iir 
 
 
 ^<i/ojnv3jo^ 
 
 tT) K /^ ^W \J— i-T 
 
 > Vt^ is > 
 
 
 .\W£yNIVEF 
 
 x^ 
 
 ^OFCAIIFO/?^ ^, 
 
 ^. 
 
 
 u 
 
 ij Jl» f i,'U 1 
 
 ^OFCALIF0%> v^r if-G 
 
 OC iiiwill 
 
 -^UIBRAR^'^- 
 
 --jj
 
 MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 PROSE WORKS. 
 
 BY 
 
 EDWARD RULWER, LORD LYTTON. 
 
 IN THREE VOLUMES. 
 
 Vol. II. 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 RICHARD BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET, 
 
 ^9ul)ltiSI)cr til CSrttnary tn ^tv iMaJcstjj. 
 
 1868. 
 
 [The Copyri-ght reserved,']
 
 PltrNTKD l;V W. CJJOWVJS AND SONS. STAMFORD SfTRKET, 
 AND CIIAllINO CKOfiS.
 
 CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 
 
 — •<>♦ — 
 
 ESSAYS WEITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 1. On the Difference between Authors and the 
 
 Impression of them conveyed by their Works 3 
 
 11. MoNos AND Daimonos 15 
 
 III. On the Departure of Youth 25 
 
 IV. The World as it Is 37 
 
 V. Knebworth 52 
 
 VI. The Choice of Phylias 64 
 
 VII. Lake Leman and its Associations 74 
 
 viri. The True Ordeal of Love 94 
 
 IX. On the Want of SympxVthy 105 
 
 X. Arasmanes, the Seeker 112 
 
 XI. On III Health, and its Consolations 146 
 
 XII. On Satiety 154 
 
 XIII. Chairolas 160 
 
 XIV. On Infidelity in Love 186 
 
 XV. Fi-Ho-Ti ; OR, The Pleasures of Eeputation. — 
 
 A Chinese Tale 191 
 
 XVI. The Knowledge of the World in Men and Books 202 
 
 XVII. The Tale of Kosem Kesamiji, the Magician .. 211 
 
 XVIII. Many-Sidedness and Self-Completion 229 
 
 XIX. Ferdinand Fitzroy ; or, Too Handsome for Any- 
 thing 236 
 
 XX. Juliet's Tomb in Verona 243 
 
 XXI. Conversations with an Ambitious Student in his 
 
 LAST Illness 247 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON LITERATURE AND 
 
 REAL LIFE. 
 
 Introduction 343 
 
 Love, in its Influence upon Literature 353 
 
 The Influence of Love upon the General Conditions 
 
 OF Human Life 377 
 
 196527.1
 
 ESSAYS WKITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 FIKST PUBLISHED UNDER THE TITLE OK 
 
 THE STUDENT, 
 
 IN 18'J2. 
 
 "The situation of the most enchanted enthusiast is preferahle to that 
 of a philosopher who, from continual apprehensions of being mistaken, at 
 length neither dares affirm nor deny anything."— Wieland : Agathon. 
 
 VOL. II, B
 
 ^ NOTE. 
 
 In these papers, a short tale or apologue is alternated with the more 
 didactic species of composition which we usually designate by the title of 
 essay; but as such tales were mostly intended to illustrate or allegorize 
 some definite sentiment or thought, they really belong, or at least are 
 akin, to the lighter kind of essay. Hence tales of a similar character or 
 purpose occupy no inconsiderable space in the pages of our standard 
 Essayists, — ' The Spectator,' ' The Kambler,' &c.
 
 ESSAYS WRITTEN IN YOUTH. 
 
 ON THE DIFFERENCE BETWEEN AUTHORS 
 
 AND 
 
 THE IMPKESSION OF THEM CONVEYED 
 BY THEIE WOEKS. 
 
 Authors, seen in the body, are expected to be ex- 
 actly like what tlie readers of their books choose to 
 imagine them. And when they differ from such 
 visionary type they are regarded with an indignation 
 akin to that which is felt for an impostor. If a phi- 
 losopher profound as Aristotle present himself to the 
 eye, as Aristotle is said to have done, sprucely dressed 
 as a youthful gallant, or a poet charming as Gold- 
 smith contrast the beauty and grace of his verse by 
 homely features and a clownish address, resentful 
 admirers pass at once into the ranks of malignant 
 critics. Out of this kind of disappointment has arisen 
 a very popular notion that authors are altogether 
 insincere deceivers, and that their books convey no 
 likeness of their real characters as men. But if the 
 personal appearance of an author disappoint the 
 spectator, it does not necessarily follow that he is an 
 impostor ; nay, he would perhaps be more justly ex- 
 posed to that charge if, instead of disappointing, he 
 had realized the popular expectation. " Mankind," 
 says Charron, " love to be cheated ;" and the men of 
 
 B 2
 
 4 DIFFKHEXCE HKTWKFX Al'TIIORS AND 
 
 genius, wIkj liavi- not (lis:i|>])ointcd tlie woild In tlieir 
 externals, and in wljat lias heen termed " the manage- 
 ment of self," have not disdained to study that species 
 of imposture which is jtractised on the stage. It is 
 sjiid that Napoleon took lessons from 'J'alma in the 
 art of majestic deportment, — and that Garriek in 
 turn horrowed hints for theatrical effects from the 
 studied dignity witli which Chatham arranged his 
 ilannels. There are some wise lines in 'The Corsair,' 
 the })eculiar merit of which the numerous critics of 
 that poem do not seem to liave discovered : — 
 
 " TIo lM>nn(Ls— lu- flies — until liis footsteps reach 
 The .spot wlitre ends tlic cliil', bej^ins the beaeh,] 
 There checks his speed ; but pauses less to breathe 
 The breezy freshness of the deep beneath, 
 Than there his wonted statelier step renew ; 
 Nor rush, disturbed by haste, to vulgar view : 
 Fur well had Conrad learned to curb the crowd, 
 By arts that veil and uft preserve the proud : 
 His was the lofty port, the distant mien. 
 That seems to shun the sight, and awes if seen : 
 The solemn aspect, and the high-born eye. 
 That cheeks low mirth, but lacks not courtesy." 
 
 In the.se lines are depicted tlio.se artifices of per- 
 sonal bearing which, to borrow the phrase of Roche- 
 foucauld, may be called " the hypocrisies of the body," 
 and are con.sidered legitimate accomplishments by 
 the rulers of the world of action. They who, as 
 authors, aspire to rule the world of thought, are 
 trained rather to despise than to cultivate "the hy[)o- 
 crisies of the body." They show themselves in their 
 own character, and do not attem|»t to dramatize that 
 character as a part; and tliis is so noticeable that 
 even where an author has the rare advantage of 
 resembling in his human Ibrm the ideal archetype of 
 his genius existing in the fancy of his readers — still 
 let tliat liuman form undergo a change even in the 
 garments it assumes, and reader.s, finding the outlines 
 of their archetype deranged, cry out " This Magician
 
 THE IMPRESSION MADE BY THEIR WORKS. 5 
 
 was an impostor." Whatever rank be accorded to 
 the genius of Lord Byron, it was certainly not greater, 
 nor in fact so richly developed, wlien Phillips painted 
 the poet in a dress which he could never have worn 
 except at a fancy ball, than it was when he startled 
 the eyes of Count D'Orsay as the wearer of a faded 
 nankin jacket and green spectacles. — As he appears 
 in the portrait of Phillips he was clearly an impostor ; 
 as he appeared to Count D'Orsay he was unquestion- 
 ably honest and genuine. Yet there were many 
 who, having formed their notions of the Man by a 
 fantastic and impossible costume, lost a great deal 
 of their admiration of the Poet when they heard of 
 the nankin jacket and green spectacles — who but a 
 schoolgirl ought to sympathize in such disappoint- 
 ments ? 
 
 We hear a great deal about the difference between 
 the Objective and the Subjective order of Oenius — i. e. 
 between the writer who casts himself out among 
 others and so forgets his individuality, and the 
 writer who subjects others to himself, and in treating 
 of them still preserves his individuality distinct. 
 But this distinction would be a very unsafe guide for 
 an arbitrary judgment on the character of the author 
 himself, though it may serve to define one kind of 
 composition from another. The true lyrical writer 
 must chiefly express himself, his own impulsive senti- 
 ments, feelings, opinions, passions ; — the true dra- 
 matic writer must chiefly express others, their sen- 
 timents, feelings, opinions, and passions. Hence the 
 same writer may be subjective or objective according 
 to the work he writes ; — as no writer can be more 
 objective than Shakspeare in his dramas, or more 
 subjective than Shakspeare in his sonnets. 
 
 For my own part I believe that, putting aside 
 all reference to mere outward show or conventional 
 accomplishments, and making but a fair allowance 
 for human foibles and frailties, the works of an
 
 C DIFFHIJENCK r.KTWEKN AUTIIOllS AND 
 
 autlmr are a faitlifiil roprcsentatioii of liis genuine 
 nature — except tli:it in j)iojiortion as the autlior 
 excels in the riclier and ln\i;-|ier atlrihutes of j^-onins, 
 he is in liis nature superior to all that he can ex])ress 
 in his hooks, and most unrpicstifuiably has within 
 himself an ;iniuenec of thou;4-ht and a loftiness of 
 asi)iration which he can never adequately make 
 visible in )>rint. 1 believe this to be true, even of 
 poets like La Fontaine, wlio succeed only in a par- 
 ticular line. I'ut it is doul>ly true of the mass of 
 great Authors, who are inostly various, accom))lished, 
 and all-attempting : such men never can perfect their 
 own numberless conceptions, nor realize their own 
 ideals of excellence. 
 
 An ancient writer says that there cannot be " a 
 good poet wdio is not first a good man." This is 
 a paradox, and yet it is not far from the truth : a 
 good poet may not be a good man, but he must 
 have certain good dispositions. Above all, that dis- 
 position which sym]iathises with noble sentiments — 
 with lofty actions — with th5 beauty discoverable not 
 only in extc^rnnl nature, but in that masterpiece of 
 Creation, the human mind. This disposition may 
 not sulHce to make him a good man — its influence 
 may be counteracted a liundred ways in life, but it 
 is not counteracted in his compositions. There the 
 better portion of his intellect awakes — there he 
 gives vent to enthusiasm, and enthusiasm to gene- 
 rous and warm emotions. We have been told, 
 though on very unsatisfactory evidence, that Sterne 
 could be harsh in his conduct to relatives. But 
 there can be no doubt that his heart was tender 
 enough when he wrote of ' Poor Maria.' He was 
 not, then, belying his real nature ; he was truthfully 
 expressing the gentlest part of it. The contrast 
 between softness in emotion, and callousness in con- 
 duct, is not however peculiar to poets and writers 
 of sentiment. Nero was womanishly affected by the
 
 THE IMPRESSION MADE BY THEIR WORKS. 7 
 
 harp ; and we are told by Plutarch that Alexander 
 Pheraeus, who was one of the sternest of tyrants, shed 
 a torrent of tears upon the acting of a play. So that 
 he who had furnished the most matter for tragedies, 
 was most affected by the pathos of a tragedy ! But 
 who shall say that tlie feelings which produced such 
 emotions, even in such men, were not laudable and 
 good ? Who that has stood in the dark caverns of 
 the human heart, shall dare to scoff at the contrast 
 between act and sentiment, instead of lamenting it ? 
 When a man comes into collision with others, various 
 passions or feelings may be aroused which suspend, 
 tliough they do not destroy, the operation of impulses 
 to good which would be constitutionally natural to 
 him if left to himself. Of our evil feelings, there is 
 one in especial which is the usual characteristic of 
 morbid literary men, though, hitherto, it has escaped 
 notice as such, and which is the cause of many of the 
 worst faults to be found both in the Author and the 
 Tyrant : this feeling is Suspicion ; and I think I am 
 justified in calling it the characteristic of morbid lite- 
 rary men. Their quick susceptibilities make them 
 over-sensible of injury, they exaggerate the enmities 
 they have awakened — the slanders they have in- 
 curred. They are ever fearful of a trap : nor this in 
 literature alone. Knowing that they are not adepts 
 in the world's common business, they are perpetually 
 afraid of being taken in : and, feeling their various 
 peculiarities, they are often equally afraid of being 
 ridiculed. Thus suspicion, in all ways, and all shapes, 
 besets them ; this makes them now afraid to be ge- 
 nerous, and now to be kind ; and acting upon a soil 
 that easily receives, but rarely loses an impression, 
 that melancholy vice soon obdurates and encrusts 
 the whole conduct of the acting man. But in literary 
 composition it sleeps. The thinking man then hath 
 no enemy at his desk, — no hungry trader at his 
 elbow, — no grinning spy on his uncouth gestures.
 
 8 DIFFKREXCK RK'I'WEEN AnilORR AND 
 
 His sonl is youiif^ atj^aiii — lie is wlial lie einl)()(lies; 
 and the feelinLi:s, clieckod in the real world, obtain 
 their vent in the ima^^inary. It was the Good Na- 
 tural, to borrow a phrase from the French, that 
 spoke in Rousseau, when he dwelt witli so glowinp^ 
 an eloquence on the love that he bore to mankind. 
 It was the Good Natural that stirred in the mind 
 of Alexander Pheroeus when he wept at the mimic 
 sorrows sul)jected to his ^aze. When to either came 
 the test of practical action and collision with ihe 
 real world other passions were aroused ; and, alike 
 to Author and to Tyrant, Suspicion peopled the 
 world with foes, and tainted the atmosphere with 
 hate. 
 
 Thus tender sentiments may be accompanied with 
 cruel actions, and yet the solution of the enigma be 
 easy to the inquirer; and thus, thoug-li the life of 
 an Author does not correspond with the spirit of his 
 w^orks, his nature may. 
 
 But tliis view is the most partial of all, — and I have, 
 therefore, considered it the first. How few instances 
 there are of that discrepancy, which I have just touched 
 upon, between the life of the author and the spirit of 
 his l)Ooks! How finely, in most instances, does the 
 one maintain concord wiih the other! Look at the 
 life of Schiller, — how faithfully his works reflect the 
 turbulence of his earlier and the serenitv of his later 
 genius — preserving in each his s])ecial idiosyncracy 
 in one constitutional grandeur of sentiment aiming at 
 old heroic types and infusing the power of the Titan 
 into the struggles of Man against the Fate which 
 overmasters him. Sir Phili}) Sidney* is the Arcadia 
 put into action; — Johnson is no less visible in the 
 ' Rambler,' in 'Rasselas,' in the * Lives of the Poets,' 
 than in his large chair at Mrs. Thrale's — his lonely 
 chamber in tlie dark court out of Fleet Street — or his 
 
 * " Poetry i)Ut iuto actiou " is the fiuc saying of Cami)bell as apijlied 
 to Sidney's life.
 
 THE IMPRESSION MADE BY THEIR WORKS. 9 
 
 leonine unbendings with the canicular soul of Boswell, 
 I might go on enumerating these instances for ever : 
 — Dante, Petrarch, Voltaire, rush on my memory as 
 I write, — but to name them is enough to remind the 
 reader that, if he would learn their characters, he has 
 only to read their works. I have been much pleased 
 in tracing the life of Paul Louis Courier. When he 
 was in the army in Italy, he did not distinguish 
 himself by bravery in his profession of soldier, but 
 by daring in his pursuits as an antiquarian ! Dis- 
 dainful alike of personal danger and of military 
 glory — sympathising with none of the objects of 
 others — wandering alone over the remains of old — 
 falling a hundred times into the hands of the brigands, 
 and a hundred times extricating himself by his ad- 
 dress, and continuing the same pursuits with the 
 same nonchalance ; — in all this the character of the 
 man is in strict unison with the genius of the writer 
 who, in his works, views with a gay contempt the 
 ambition and schemes of others — sneers alike at a 
 Bourbon and a Buonaparte — and, despising sub- 
 ordination, rather than courting persecution, defies 
 all authorities that could interfere with his absolute 
 right to do as he pleases with his own mind, and 
 follows with the sportiveness of whim ideas conceived 
 with the earnestness of conviction. 
 
 A critic, commenting on the writings of some 
 popular author, observed, that they contained two 
 views of life, contradictory of each other, — the one 
 inclining to the ideal and lofty, the other to the 
 worldly and cynical. The critic remarked, that 
 " this might arise from the Author having two sepa- 
 rate characters, — a circumstance less uncommon than 
 the world supposed." There is great depth in the 
 critic's observation. An Author usually has two 
 characters, — the one belonging to his imagination — 
 the other to his experience. From the one come all 
 his higher embodyings : by the helj) of the one he
 
 10 DII'FEIIKN'CK BHTWKEN AUTHORS AND 
 
 elevates — lie ivfincs ; IVoiii llie other come liis hein^s 
 of " tlie eaitli, eaitliy," and aphorisms of worldly 
 eaiitioii. From the one broke — briglit, yet scarce 
 distinct — the Kebecca of ' Ivanhoe,' — from the other 
 rose, slirewd and selfish, the Andrew Fairservice of 
 ' Kob Hoy.' The original of the former need never 
 to have existed — her elements belonged to the Ideal ; 
 but the latter was purely the creature of Experience, 
 and either copied from one, or moulded unconsciously 
 from several, of the actual denizens of the living 
 world. In Shakspeare the same doubleness of cha- 
 racter is remarkably visible. The loftiest Ideal is 
 perpetually linked with the most exact copy of the 
 commoners of life. Shakspeare had never seen Mi- 
 randa — but he had drunk his glass with honest Ste- 
 phano. Each character embodies a separate view of 
 life — the one (to return to my proposition) the off- 
 spring of Imagination, the other of Experience. This 
 complexity of character — which has often puzzled the 
 iiKjuirer — may, I tliink, thus be easily explained — 
 and the seeming contradiction of the tendency of the 
 work traced home to the conflicting principles in 
 the breast of the writer. The more a man of ima- 
 gination sees of the world, the more likely to be 
 prominent is the distinction I have noted. 
 
 I cannot leave the subject — though the following 
 remark is an episode from the inquiry indicated by 
 my title — without observing that the cliaracters drawn 
 by Experience stand necessarily out from the can- 
 vas in broader and more startling colours than those 
 created by the Imagination. Hence superficial critics 
 have often considered the humorous and coarse cha- 
 racters of a novelist or a dramatist as his best — 
 forgetful that the very indistinctness of his ideal 
 characters is not only inseparable from the nature of 
 purely imaginary creations, but a proof of the exal- 
 tation and intcnseness of the imaginative power. 
 The most shadowy and mistlike of all Scott's heroes
 
 THE IMPEESSION MADE BY THEIR WORKS. 11 
 
 is the Master of Ravenswood, and yet it is perhaps 
 the highest of his characters in execution as well as 
 conception. Those strong colours and bold outlines, 
 which strike the vulgar gaze as belonging to the best 
 pictures, belong rather to the lower schools of Art. 
 Let us take a work — the greatest the world possesses 
 in those schools, and in which the flesh-and-blood 
 vitality of the characters is especially marked — I 
 mean ' Tom Jones ' — and compare it with ' Hamlet.' 
 The chief characters in ' Tom Jones ' are all plain, 
 visible ; eating, drinking, and walking beings ; those 
 in ' Hamlet ' are shadowy, solemn, and mysterious : 
 we do not associate them with the ordinary wants 
 and avocations of earth ; they are 
 
 " Lifeless, but lifelike, and awful to sight, 
 Like the figures in arras that gloomily glare. 
 Stirred by the breath of the midnight air." 
 
 But who shall say that the characters in ' Tom Jones ' 
 are better drawn than those in ' Hamlet ;' or that 
 there is greater skill necessary in the highest walk 
 of the Actual School, than in that of the Imaginative ? 
 Yet there are some persons who, secretly in their 
 hearts, want Hamlet to be as large in the calves as 
 Tom Jones ! These are they who blame ' Lara ' for 
 being indistinct — that very indistinctness shedding 
 over the poem the sole interest it was capable of 
 receiving. To such critics, Undine is not a true 
 creation of genius, because they never saw any- 
 thing like her when they angled for dace in the 
 Thames. 
 
 We may observe in Humorous Authors that the 
 faults they chiefly ridicule have often a likeness in 
 themselves. Cervantes had much of the knight- 
 errant in him ; — Sir Greorge Etherege was uncon- 
 sciously the Fopling Flutter of his own satire ; — 
 Goldsmith was the same hero to chambermaids, and 
 coward to ladies, that he has immortalised in his
 
 12 DirFKHKNCE BETWEEN AUTHOKS AND 
 
 cliarminp^ coincMly ; — ami tlie antiquarian frivolities 
 of Jon;itliaii Oldbiick liad tlieir resuniMance in Jona- 
 tlian OlclbiK-k's creator. Tlie pleasure or the ])ain 
 we derive fr<jni our own f(jibles makes enough of our 
 nature to come off somewhere or otlier in the impres- 
 sion we stamp of ourselves on books. 
 
 There is — as I lliink it has been somewhere re- 
 marked hy a French writer — there is that in our 
 character whicli never can be seen except in our writ- 
 ings. Yes, all that we have formed from the Ideal — 
 all our vague aspirations — our haunting visions — our 
 vearninfj-s for some excellence so bevond our reach 
 that it would seem to others a presumption to have 
 cherished them — are not these the mysteries within 
 ourselves which w^e are forbidden to reveal to unini- 
 tiated hearers? Yet what he cannot tell to the one 
 man, the author will intimate to tlie Public, because 
 the Pid)lic seems to him less an entity than an ab- 
 straction. 
 
 Would it have been possible for Rousseau to have 
 gravely connnunicated to a living being the tearful 
 egotisms of his 'Reveries' ? — Could Shakspeare have 
 uttered the wild confessions of his Sonnets to his 
 friends at the Mermaid ? — Should we have any 
 notion of the youthful character of Milton — its 
 lustrous and crystal purity — if the 'Comus' had 
 been unwritten ? Authors are the only men we 
 ever really do know, — the rest of mankind die with 
 only the surface of their character understood. True, 
 as I have l^efore said, even in an Author, if of large 
 and fertile mind, much of his most sacred self is never 
 to be revealed, — but still we know what species of 
 ore the mine would have produced, though we may 
 not have exhausted its treasure. 
 
 Thus, then, to sum up what I have said, so far 
 from there being truth in the vulgar notion that the 
 character of Authors is belied in their works, their 
 works are, to a diligent inquirer, their clearest and
 
 THE IMPRESSION MADE BY THEIR WORKS. 13 
 
 fullest illustration — an appendix to their biography 
 far more valuable and explanatory than the text 
 itself. From this fact, we may judge of the beauty 
 and grandeur of the materials of the human mind, 
 although those materials are so often perverted, and 
 their harmony so fearfully marred. It also appears 
 that, despite the real likeness between the book and 
 the man, the vulgar will not fail to be disappointed, 
 because they look to externals ; and the man com- 
 posed the book, not with his face, nor his dress, nor 
 his manners, but with his mind. Hence, then, to 
 proclaim yourself disappointed with the Author is 
 usually to condemn your own accuracy of judgment, 
 and your own secret craving for stage effect. More- 
 over, it would appear, on looking over these remarks, 
 that there is truth in the assertion that an Author 
 has, not unoffcen, two separate characters ; the one 
 essentially drawn from the poetry of life, the other 
 from its iprose ; and that hence are to be explained 
 many seeming contradictions and inconsistencies in 
 his works. Lastly, that so far from the book be- 
 lying the author, unless he had written that book, 
 you, — even if you are his nearest relation, his 
 dearest connexion — his wife — his mother, — would 
 never have known the character of his mind. " Hce 
 pulcherrimse effigies et mansurae." All biography 
 proves this fact. Who so astonished as a man's 
 relations when he has exhibited his genius, which is 
 the soul and core of his character? Had Alfieri or 
 Rousseau died at the age of thirty, what would all 
 who had personally known either have told us of 
 them ? Would they have given us the faintest 
 notion of their characters ? — None. A man's mind 
 is betrayed by his talents as much as by his virtues. 
 A Councillor of a Provincial Parliament had a 
 brother a mathematician ; — " How unworthy in 
 my brother," cried the Councillor ; " the brother of a 
 councillor of the Parliament in Bretagne to sink into 
 
 VOL. II. c
 
 14 DirrERENCE BETWEEN AUTHORS, ETC. 
 
 a paltry matliomatician ! " Tliat mathematician was 
 Dt'scartcs ! Wliat slioiild we know ot" tlie character 
 of Descartes, supposing him to liave renounced the 
 pursuit of science, as he at one time intended, and 
 his brother, wlio miglit fairly be supposed to know 
 his life and character better than any one else, to 
 have written his biography? — A reflection that may 
 teach us how biography in general ought to be esti- 
 mated.
 
 MONOS AND DAIMONOS. 16 
 
 MONOS AND DAIMONOS. 
 
 I AM English by birth, but my early years were 
 passed in a foreign and more northern land. I had 
 neither brothers nor sisters ; my mother died when I 
 was in the cradle ; and I found my sole companion, 
 tutor, and playmate in my father. He was a younger 
 brother of a noble and ancient house : what induced 
 him to forsake his country and his friends, to abjure 
 all society, and to live on a rock, is a story in itself, 
 which has nothing to do with mine. 
 
 I said my father lived on a rock — the whole 
 country round seemed nothing but rock : — wastes, 
 bleak, blank, dreary ; trees stunted, herbage blighted ; 
 caverns, through which some black and wild stream 
 (tliat never knew star nor sunlight, but through rare 
 and hideous chasms amidst the huge stones above 
 it) went dashing and howling along its stormy 
 course ; vast cliffs, covered with eternal snows, where 
 the birds of prey lived, and sent, in harsh screams, 
 a music suited to skies which seemed too barren to 
 wear even clouds upon their wan, grey, comfortless 
 expanse : these made the character of that country 
 where the spring of my life sickened itself away. 
 The climate which, in the milder parts of * * * *^ 
 relieves the nine months of winter with three months 
 of an abrupt and autumnless summer, little varied the 
 desolate aspect of the landscape immediately around 
 my home. Perhaps, for a brief interval, the snow in 
 the valleys melted, and the streams swelled, and a 
 ghastly, unnatural kind of vegetation, seemed here and 
 there to scatter a grim smile over minute particles of 
 the universal rock ; but to these scanty witnesses of the 
 changing season the summers of my boyhood were 
 
 'c 2
 
 l«i MONOS AND DAIMUNOS. 
 
 confined. My fatlier was addicted to tlie sciences — the 
 pliysical sciences — and possessed but a moderate sliare 
 of ieai-ninir in anything; else; he tanf>:lit me all he knew; 
 and the rest ot'niy education, Nature, in a savage and 
 stern guise, instilled into my heart by silent but deep 
 lessons. She taught my feet to bound, and my arm 
 to smite ; she breathed life into my passions, and shed 
 darkness over my temper ; she taught me to cling to 
 her, even in her most rugged and unalluring form, 
 and to shrink from all else — from the companionship 
 of man, and the soft smiles of woman, and the shrill 
 voice of childhood, and the ties, and hopes, and social 
 gaieties of existence, as from a torture and a curse. 
 Even in that sullen rock, and beneath that ungenial 
 sky, I had luxuries unknown to the palled tastes of 
 cities, or to those who woo delight in an air of odours 
 and in a land of roses ! AVhat were those luxui-ies ? 
 They had a myriad varieties and shades of enjoy- 
 ment — they had but a common name. What were 
 those luxuries ? — Solitude ! 
 
 My father died when I was eighteen ; I was 
 transferred to my uncle's ])rotection, and I repaired 
 to London. I arrived there, gaunt and stern, a giant 
 in limbs and strength, and, to the judgment of those 
 about me, a savage in mood and bearing. They 
 would have laughed, but I awed them ; they would 
 have altered me, but I changed them ; I threw a damp 
 over their enjoyments. Though I said little, though 
 I sat with them estranged, and silent, and passive, 
 they seemed to wither beneath my presence. None 
 could live with me and be happy, or at ease ! I felt 
 it, and I hated them that they could not love me. 
 Three years passed — I was of age — I demanded my 
 fortune — and scorning social life, and pining once 
 more for loneliness, I resolved to travel to those 
 unpeopled and far lands, which if any have pierced, 
 none have returned to describe. So I took my leave 
 of them all — cousins, and aunt, and uncle. 
 
 I commenced my pilgrimage — I pierced the burn-
 
 MONOS AND DAIMONOS. 17 
 
 ing sands — I traversed the vast deserts — I came into 
 the enormous woods of Africa, where liuman step 
 never trod, nor human voice ever startled the thrilhng 
 and intense solemnity that broods over the great soli- 
 tudes, as it brooded over chaos before the world was ! 
 There the primeval nature springs and perishes, un- 
 disturbed and unvaried by the convulsions of the 
 surrounding world ; the seed becomes the tree, lives 
 through its uncounted ages, falls and moulders, and 
 rots and vanishes ; there the slow Time moves on, 
 unwitnessed in its mighty and mute changes, save 
 by the wandering lion, or that huge serpent — a 
 hundred times more vast than the puny boa which 
 travellers have boasted to behold. There, too, as 
 beneath the heavy and dense shade I couched in the 
 scorching noon, I heard the trampling as of an army, 
 and the crash and fall of the strong trees, and saw 
 through the matted boughs the Behemoth pass on its 
 terrible way, with its eyes burning as a sun, and its 
 white teeth arched and glistening in the rabid jaw, as 
 pillars of spar glitter in a cavern ; the monster to 
 whom those wastes alone are a home, and who never, 
 since the waters rolled from an earth transformed, 
 has been given to human gaze and wonder but my 
 own ! Seasons glided on, but I counted them not ; 
 they were not doled out to me by the tokens of man, 
 nor made sick to me by the changes of his base life, 
 and the evidence of his sordid labour. Seasons glided 
 on, and my youth ripened into manhood, and man- 
 hood grew grey with the first frost of age ; and then a 
 vague and restless spirit fell upon me, and I said in 
 my foolish heart, " I will look upon the countenances 
 of my race once more ! " I retraced my steps — I re- 
 crossed the wastes — I re-entered the cities — I resumed 
 the garb of civilized man ; for hitherto I had been 
 naked in the wilderness. I repaired to a seaport, 
 and took ship for England, 
 
 In the vessel there was one man, and only one, 
 who neither avoided my companionship nor recoiled
 
 18 MUNnS AND DALMONOS. 
 
 from my frown. J Ic was an idle and curious being, full 
 of the frivolities, and egotisms, and self-importance of 
 those to whom towns are homes, and talk has become 
 a mental aliment. Tie was one pervading, irritating, 
 offensive tissue of little and low thoughts. The only 
 meanness he had not was fear. It was impossible to 
 awe, to silence, or to shun him. He sought me for 
 ever ; he was as a blister to me, which no force could 
 tear away ; my soul grew faint when my eyes met 
 him. He was to my sight as those creatures which, 
 from their very loathsomeness, are fearful to us, 
 though we call them despicable. I longed to strangle 
 him when he addressed me ! Often I would have laid 
 my hand on him, and hurled him into the sea to the 
 sharks, which, quick-eyed and eager-jawed, swam 
 night and day around our ship ; but the gaze of many 
 was on us, and I curbed myself, and turned away, and 
 shut my eyes in very sickness ; and when I opened 
 them again, lo ! he was by my side, and his sharp 
 voice grated on my loathing ear ! One night I was 
 roused from my sleep by the screams and oaths of 
 men, and I hastened on deck ; we had struck upon a 
 rock. It was a fearful, but a glorious sight ! jMoon- 
 light still and calm — the sea sleeping in sapphires; 
 and in the midst of the silent and soft rejDOse of 
 all things, three hundred and fifty souls were to 
 perish from the world ! I sat apart, and looked 
 on, and aided not. A voice crept like an adder's 
 hiss into my ear ; I turned, and saw my tor- 
 mentor ; the moonlight fell on his face, and it 
 grinned with the maudlin grin of intoxication, and 
 his pale blue e^'e glistened, and he said, " We will 
 not 2^art even here ! " My blood ran coldly through 
 my veins, and I would have tlirown him into the sea, 
 which now came upon us faat and faster ; but the 
 moon seemed to gaze on me as the eye of heaven, 
 and I did not dare to kill him. But I would not 
 stay to perish with the crew. I threw myself alone 
 from the vessel and swam towards a rock. I saw
 
 MONOS AND DAIMONOS. 19 
 
 a shark dart after me, but I shunned him, and the 
 moment after he had plenty to sate his maw. I heard 
 a crash, and a mingled and wild burst of anguish, — 
 the anguish of three hundred and fifty hearts that a 
 minu.te afterwards were stilled, and 1 said in my own 
 heart, with a deep joy, " His voice is with the rest, 
 and we have parted ! " I gained the shore, and lay 
 down to sleep. 
 
 The next morning my eyes opened upon a land 
 more beautiful than a young man's dreams. The 
 sun had just risen, and laughed over streams of silver, 
 and trees bending with golden and purple fruits, and 
 the diamond dew sparkled from a sod covered with 
 flowers, whose faintest breath was a delight. Ten 
 thousand birds, with all the hues of a northern rain- 
 bow blended in their glancing wings, rose from turf 
 and tree, and filled the air with the melodies of 
 their gladness ; the sea, witliout a vestige of the 
 past destruction upon its glassy brow, murmured at 
 my feet ; the heavens, without a cloud, warmed my 
 veins with its golden light. I rose refreshed and 
 buoyant ; I traversed the new home I had found ; I 
 climbed a hill, and saw that I was in a small island ; 
 it had no trace of man, and my heart swelled as 
 I gazed around and cried aloud in my exultation, " I 
 shall be alone again ! " I descended the hill : I had 
 not yet reached its foot, when I beheld the figure of a 
 man approaching towards me. I looked at him, and 
 my heart misgave me. He drew nearer, and I saw 
 that my despicable persecutor had escaped the waters, 
 and now stood before me. He came up with his 
 hideous grin and his twinkling eye ; and he flung his 
 arms round me — I would sooner have felt the slimy 
 folds of the serpent — and said, with his grating and 
 harsh voice, " Ha ! ha ! my friend, we shall be 
 together still ! " I looked at him with a grim brow, 
 but I said not a word. There was a great cave by 
 the shore, and I walked down and entered it, and the 
 man followed me. " We shall live so happily here,"
 
 20 MONUS A-ND DALMONOri. 
 
 wiiil lie; "we will never separate!" And my lip 
 trembled, and my hand clenched of its own accord. 
 It was now noon, and hnnger came npon me ; I went 
 forth and killed a deer, and I l)roiight it home and 
 broiled part of it on a fire of fra<^rant wood ; and the 
 man ate, and crunched, and hiu^hed, and I wislied 
 that tlie bones had cliokod him ; and he said, wdien 
 we liad done, " "Wo f^hall have rare cheer here !" But 
 I still held my peace. At last he stretclied himself in 
 a corner of the cave and sle})t. I looked at him, and 
 saw that the slumber was heavy : and I went out and 
 lolled a huge stone to the mouth of the cavern, 
 and took my way to the opposite part of tlie island ; — 
 it w^as my turn to laugli then ! I found out another 
 cavern ; and I made a bed of moss and of leaves, and 
 I wrought a table of wood, and I looked out from the 
 mouth of the cavern and saw the wide seas before me, 
 and I said, " Now I shall be alone ! " 
 
 When the next day came, I again went out and 
 caught a kid, and brought it in, and y^repared it as 
 before ; but I was not hungered and I could not eat, 
 so I roamed forth and wandered over the island : the 
 sun had nearly set when I returned. I entered the 
 cavern, and sitting on my bed and by my table was 
 that man whom I thought I had left buried alive in 
 the other cave. He laughed when he s<iw me, and 
 laid down the bone he was gnaTving. 
 
 " Ha, ha ! " said he, " thou wouldst have served 
 me a rare trick ; but there was a hole in the cave 
 wliich thou didst not see, and I got out to seek thee. 
 It was not a diflicult matter, for the island is so 
 small ; and now we have met, and we wnll part no 
 more ! 
 
 I said to the man, " Rise, and follow me ! " So 
 he rose, and the food he quitted was loatlisome in 
 my eyes, for he had touched it. " Shall this thing 
 reap and I sow ? " thought I ; and my heart felt to 
 me like iron. 
 
 I ascended a tall cliff. " Look round," said I ;
 
 MONOS AND DAIMONOS. 21 
 
 " behold that stream which divides the island ; thou 
 shalt dwell on one side, and I on the other : hut 
 the same spot shall not hold us, nor the same feast 
 suppty !" 
 
 " That may never he ! " quoth the man ; " for I 
 cannot catch the deer, nor spring upon the mountain 
 kid ; and if thou feedest me not, I shall starve ! " 
 
 " Are there not fruits," said I, " and birds that 
 thou mayest snare, and fishes which the sea throws 
 up r 
 
 "But I like them not," quoth the man, and 
 laughed, " so well as the flesh of kids and deer ! " 
 
 " Look then," said I, " look ! by that grey stone, 
 upon the opposite side of the stream, I will lay a deer 
 or a kid daily, so that thou may est have the food 
 thou covetest ; but if ever thou cross the stream and 
 come into my kingdom, so sure as the sea murmurs, 
 and the bird flies, I will slay thee !" 
 
 I descended the cliff, and led the man to the side 
 of the stream. " I cannot swim," said he ; so I took 
 him on my shoulders and crossed the brook, and I 
 found him out a cave, and I made him a bed and a 
 table like my own, and left him. When I was on 
 my own side of the stream again, I bounded with 
 joy, and lifted up my voice ; " I shall be alone now," 
 said I. 
 
 So two days passed, and I was alone. On the 
 third I went after my prey ; the noon was hot, and 
 I was wearied when I returned. I entered my 
 cavern, and, behold, the man lay stretched upon 
 my bed. " Ha, ha ! " said he, " here I am ; I was 
 so lonely at home that I have come to live with thee 
 again ! 
 
 I frowned on the man with a dark brow, and I 
 said, " So sure as the sea murmurs, and the bird 
 flies, I will slay thee ! " I seized him in my arms ; 
 I plucked him from my bed ; I took him out into 
 the open air, and we stood together on the smooth 
 sand and by the great sea. A fear came suddenly
 
 22 MONOS AND DAIMONOS. 
 
 iqx^n inc : I was struck witlj llie awe of tlie still 
 Spirit wliicli rcifj^ns over solitude. Had a thousand 
 been round us, I would have slain him before them 
 all. I feared now because we were alone in the 
 desert, with Silence alid God! I relaxed my hold. 
 "Swear," J said, "never to molest me again; swear 
 to ])reserve uiij)assed the boundary of our several 
 homes, and I will not kill thee !" "I cannot swear," 
 answered the man : " I would sooner die than for- 
 swear the blessed human face, — even though that 
 face be my enemy's ! " 
 
 At those words my rage returned ; I dashed the 
 man to the groinid, and I put my foot upon his 
 breast, and my hand upon his neck, and he struggled 
 for a moment — and was dead ! I was startled ; and 
 as I looked upon his face I thought he seemed to 
 revive ; I thought the cold blue eye fixed upon me, 
 and the vile grin returned to the livid mouth, and 
 the hands which in the death-pang had grasped the 
 sand, stretched themselves out to me. So I stamped 
 on the breast again, and I dug a hole in the shore, 
 and I buried the body. " And now," said I, " I am 
 alone at last ! " And then the true sense of loneliness, 
 the vague, comfortless, objectless sense of desolation 
 passed into me. And I shook — shook in every limb 
 of my giant frame, as if I had been a child that 
 trembles in the dark ; and my hair rose, and my flesh 
 crept, and I would not have stayed in that spot a 
 moment more if I had been made young again for it. 
 I turned away and fled — fled round the whole island ; 
 and gnashed my teeth when I came to the sea, and 
 lonn;'(jd to be cast into some illimitable desert, that I 
 might flee on for ever. At sunset I returned to my 
 cave; I sat myself down on one corner of the bed, 
 and covered my face with my hands ; I thought I 
 heard a noise ; 1 raised my eyes, and, as I live, I saw 
 on the other end of the bed the man whom I had 
 slain and buried. There he sat, six feet from me, 
 and nodded to me, and looked at me with his w^an
 
 MONOS AND DAIMONOS. 23 
 
 eyes, and laughed. I rushed from the cave — I en- 
 tered a wood — I threw myself down — there, opposite 
 to me, six feet from my face, was the face of that man 
 again ! And my courage rose, and I spoke, but he 
 answered not. I attempted to seize him, he glided 
 from my grasp, and was still opposite, six feet from 
 me as before. -I ilung myself on the ground, and 
 pressed my face to the sod, and would not look up 
 till the night came on, and darkness was over the 
 earth. I then rose and returned to the cave ; I lay 
 down on my bed, and the man lay down by me ; and 
 I frowned and tried to seize him as before, but I could 
 not, and I closed my eyes, and the man lay by me. 
 Day followed day and it was the same. At board, 
 at bed, at home and abroad, in my uprising and 
 my downsitting, by day and at night, — there, by my 
 bedside, six feet from me, and no more, was that 
 ghastly and dead thing. And I said, as I looked 
 upon the beautiful land and the still heavens, and 
 then turned to that fearful comrade, " I shall never 
 be alone again ! " And the man laughed. 
 
 At last a ship came, and I hailed it ; it took me 
 up, and I thought, as I put my foot upon the deck, 
 " I shall escape from my tormentor 1" As I thought 
 so, I saw him climb the deck too, and I strove to 
 push him down into the sea, but in vain ; he was by 
 my side, and he fed and slept with me as before ! I 
 came home to my native land. I forced myself into 
 crowds — T went to the feast, and I heard music ; and 
 I made thirty men sit with me, and watch by day 
 and by night. So I had tlArtj-oiie companions, and 
 one was more social than all the rest. 
 
 At last I said to myself, " This is a delusion, and 
 a cheat of the external senses, and the thing is not, 
 save in my mind. I will consult those skilled in such 
 disorders, and I will be alone again !" 
 
 I summoned one celebrated in purging from the 
 mind's eye its films and deceits — I bound him by an 
 oath to secrecy — and I told him my tale. He was a
 
 24 MONOS AM) I'AIMONOS. 
 
 bold inaii and a learned, and promised rae relief and 
 release. 
 
 '* Where is the figure now?" asked lie, smiling; 
 " T see it not." 
 
 And 1 answered, "It is six feet from us !" 
 
 " I see it not," said lie again ; " and if it were real, 
 my senses would not receive tiie image less palpably 
 than thine." And he spoke to me as schoolmen 
 speak. I did not argue nor reply, but I ordered the 
 servants to prepare a room, and to cover the floor 
 with a thick layer of san<l. AVhen it was done, I 
 bade the leech follow me into the room, and I barred 
 the door. " Where is the figure now ?" repeated he ; 
 and I said, "Six feet from us as before!" And the 
 leech smiled. " Look on the floor ! " said I, and I 
 pointed to the spot; "what seest thou?" And the 
 leech shuddered, and clung to me that he might not 
 fall. " Tlie sand there," said he, " was smooth when 
 we entered ; and now I see on that spot the print of 
 human feet !" 
 
 And I laughed, and dragged my livbig compa- 
 nion on. " See," said I, " where we move what 
 follows us !" 
 
 Tiie leech gasped for breath : " The print," said 
 he, " of those human feet!" 
 
 " Canst thou not minister to me, then?" cried I, 
 in a sudden and fierce agony ; " and must I never be 
 alone again ?" 
 
 And I saw the foot of the dead thing trace these 
 words upon the sand : — 
 
 " Solitude is only for the guiltless — evil 
 
 thoughts are companions for a time evil deeds 
 
 are companions through eternity thy hatred 
 
 made me break upon thy loneliness thy crime 
 
 destroys loneliness for ever ! "
 
 DEPAKTURE OF YOUTH. 25 
 
 ON THE DEPARTURE OF YOUTH. 
 
 I NT the seven stages of man's life there are three 
 epochs more distinctly marked than the rest, viz. the 
 departure of Boyhood — the departure of Youth — the 
 commencement of Old Age. I consider the several 
 dates of these epochs, in ordinary constitutions, to 
 commence at fifteen, thirty, and fifty years of age. 
 It is of the second that I am about to treat. When I 
 call it the epoch for the departure of youth, I do not 
 of course intend to signify that this, the prime and 
 zenith of our years, is as yet susceptible of decay. 
 Our frames are as young as they were five years 
 before, it is the mind that has become matured. By 
 youth I mean the growing and progressive season — • 
 its departure is only visible inasmuch as we have 
 become, as it were, fixed and stationary. The 
 qualities that peculiarly belong to youth — its " quick- 
 thronging fancies," its exuberance of energy and 
 feeling, cease to be our distinctions at thirty.* We 
 are young but not youthful. It is not at thirty that 
 we know the wild phantasies of Romeo — scarcely at 
 thirty that we could halt irresolute in the visionary 
 weaknesses of Hamlet. The passions of youth may 
 be no less felt than heretofore ; it is youth's sentiment 
 we have lost. The muscles of the mind are firmer, 
 but it is the nerve that is less susceptible, and vibrates 
 no more to the lightest touch of pleasure or of pain. — 
 Yes, it is the prime of our manhood which is the 
 departure of our youth ! 
 
 It seems to me that to reflective and lofty minds 
 
 * The author was some years short of thirty Avhen this Essay \vas 
 written. Possibly, had he written it at thirty, he would have assigned a 
 more distant date to the departure of youth.
 
 26 I)I-.I'Al:'l'L'l{K OF YOU'J'H. 
 
 accustomed to snrvov, and fitted to comprehend, the 
 great aims of Hfc,- this is a period peculiarly solemn 
 and important. It is a spot on which we ought to 
 rest for a Avhile from our journey. It is the summit 
 of the hill from which we look down on two even 
 divisions of oiu' jouinev. We have left beln'nd us 
 a profusion of bright things ; never again shall we 
 traverse such faiiy fields, with such eager hopes; 
 never again shall we find the same 
 
 " Glory in the grass and splendour in the flower." 
 
 The dews upon the herbage are dried up. The 
 morning is no more. 
 
 " We made a posy while the time ran Ly, 
 
 * * * # « 
 But Time did beckon to the flowers, and they 
 By noon most cunningly did steal away 
 
 And wither in the hand. 
 
 * » * * * 
 
 Farewell, dear flowers, sweetly your time ye spent ! " * 
 
 We ought then to pause for a while — to review 
 the past — to gather around us tlie memories and the 
 warnings of experience — to feel that the lighter part 
 of our destinies is completed — that the graver has 
 begun — that our follies and our errors have become 
 to us the monitors of wisdom : for since these are 
 the tributes which Fate exacts from Mortality, they 
 are not to be idly regretted, but to be solemnly 
 redeemed. And if we are penetrated with this 
 thought, our Past becomes the mightiest preacher 
 to our P^iture. Looking back over the tombs of 
 departed errors, we behold, by the side of each, the 
 face of a warning angel ! It is the prayer of a 
 foolish heart, " Oh, that my time could return ! — 
 Oh, that this liad been done, or that could be un- 
 done !" rather should we rejoice that so long a season 
 of reparation yet remains to us, and that experience 
 has taught us the lessons of suffering which make 
 men wise. Wisdom is an acquisition purchased in 
 
 * George Herhort.
 
 DEPARTUEE OF YOUTH. 27 
 
 proportion to the disappointments which our own 
 frailties have entailed upon us. For no one is taught 
 by the sufferings of another. We ourselves must 
 have felt the burning in order to shun the fire. To 
 refer again to the beautiful poem I have already 
 quoted, the flowers that were 
 
 " Fit, while they lived, for smell and ornament, 
 Serve, after death, for cures." * 
 
 At the age of thirty the characters of most men 
 pass through a revolution. The common pleasures of 
 the world have been tasted to the full and begin to 
 pall. We have reduced to the sober test of reality 
 the visions of youth — w^e no longer expect that per- 
 fection in our species which our inexperience at first 
 foretold — we no longer chase frivolities, nor hope 
 chimgeras. Perhaps one of the most useful lessons 
 that disappointment has taught us, is a true estimate 
 of love. For at first we are too apt to imagine that 
 woman (poor partner with ourselves in the frailties 
 of humanity) must be perfect. — that the dreams of 
 the 23oets have a corporeal being, and that God has 
 ordained to us that unclouded nature — that un- 
 changing devotion — that unalterable heart, which it 
 has been the great vice of Fiction to attribute to the 
 daughters of clay. And, in hoping perfection, with 
 how much excellence have we been discontented — to 
 how many idols have we clianged our worship ! 
 Thirsting for the Golden Fountain of the Fable, from 
 how many streams have we turned away, weary and 
 in disgust ! The experience wdiich teaches us at last 
 the due estimate of woman, has gone far to instruct 
 us in the claims of men. Love, once the monopoliser 
 of our desires, gives way to more manly and less 
 selfish passions — and w^e wake from a false paradise 
 to the real earth. 
 
 Not less important is the lesson which teaches us 
 not to measure mankind by exaggerated standards of 
 morality ; for to imagine too fondly that men are 
 
 * Geor2;e Herbert.
 
 28 DKPAllTURE OF YOUTH. 
 
 gods, is to 011(1 l)y believing that tliey are demons : 
 the young usually |>ass through a period of mis- 
 anthropy, and the misanthropy is acute in proportion 
 to their own giMierous confidence in human excellence. 
 We the least forgive faults in those from whom we 
 tlie most exjiccted excellence. But out of the ashes 
 of misanthrojty benevolence rises again ; we find 
 many virtues where we had imagined all was vice — 
 many acts of disinterested friendship where we had 
 fancied all was calculation and fraud — and so gradually 
 from the two extremes we pass to the proper medium; 
 and feeling that no human being is wholly good, or 
 wholly base, we learn that true knowledge of mankind 
 which induces us to expect little and forgive much. 
 The world cures alike the optimist and the mis- 
 anthrope. Without this proper and sober estimate of 
 men, we have neither prudence in the affairs of life, 
 nor toleration for contrary opinions — we tempt the 
 cheater, and then condemn him — we l)elieve so 
 strongly in one faitli, that we would sentence dissen- 
 tients as heretics. It is experience alone that teaches 
 us that he who is discreet is seldom betrayed, and 
 that out of the ojjinions wc condemn, often spring 
 the actions we admire. 
 
 At the departure of youth, then, in collecting and 
 investigating our minds, we should feel ourselves 
 enriched with these results for our future guidance, 
 viz. a knowledge of" the true proportion of the pas- 
 sions, so as not to give to one the impetus which 
 should be shared by all ; a conviction of the idleness 
 of petty objects which demand large cares, and that 
 true gauge and measurement of men which shall 
 neither magm'fy nor dwarf the attributes and mate- 
 rials of human nature. From these results we draw 
 conclusions to make us not only wiser but better men. 
 The years through which we have passed have pro- 
 bably developed in us whatever capacities we possess 
 — they have taught us in what we are most likely 
 to excel, and for wliat we are most fitted. We may
 
 DEPARTURE OF YOUTH. 29 
 
 come now with better success than Rasselas to the 
 Choice of Life. And in this I incline to believe, that 
 we ought to prefer that career from which we are 
 convinced that our minds and tempers will derive the 
 greatest share of happiness — not disdaining the pur- 
 suit of honours, nor of wealth, nor the allurements of 
 a social career — but calmly balancing the advantages 
 and the evils of each course, whether of private life or 
 of public — of retirement or of crowds, — and deciding 
 on each, not according to abstract rules and vague 
 maxims on the nothingness of fame, or the joys of 
 solitude, but according to the peculiar bias and 
 temper of our own minds. For toil to some is 
 happiness, and rest to others. This man can only 
 breathe in crowds, and that man only in solitude. 
 Fame is necessary to the quiet of one nature, and is 
 void of all attraction to another. Let each choose his 
 career according to the dictates of his own breast — 
 and this, not from the vulgar doctrine that our own 
 happiness, as happiness only, is to be our being's end 
 and aim (for in minds rightly and nobly constituted, 
 there are aims out of ourselves, stronger than aught 
 of self), but because a mind not at ease with itself finds 
 it difficult to keep on very amiable terms with others. 
 Happiness and Virtue re-act upon each other ; the 
 best are not only the happiest, but the happiest 
 are usually the best. Drawn into pursuits, however 
 estimable in themselves, from which our tastes and- 
 dispositions recoil, we are too apt to grow irritable, 
 morose, and discontented with our kind. The genius 
 that is roused by things at war with it too often be- 
 comes malignant, and retaliates upon men the wounds 
 it receives from circumstance ; but when we are en- 
 gaged in that course of life which most harmonises 
 with our individual bias, whether it be action or 
 seclusion, literature or business, we enjoy within us 
 that calm which is the best atmosphere of the mind, 
 and in which there is the likeliest chance of fruitage 
 for the seeds that we sow by choice Oui- sense of 
 
 VOL. II. D
 
 30 DEPAirrrfiK of yoi'tii. 
 
 contcntmt'Tit makes us kindly and benevolent to 
 others. We arc lulfilling our proper destiny, and 
 those around us feel the sunshine of our own hearts. 
 It is for this reason that haj)piness sliould be our 
 main object in llic choice of life, because out of 
 ha})piness spriuij^s that state of mind which becomes 
 virtue : — and this should be remembered by tho.se of 
 generous and ardent dispositions who would immo- 
 late themselves for the supposed utility of others, 
 plunging- into a war of things for which their natures 
 are nnsuited. Among the few truths which Rous- 
 seau has left us, none is more true than this — " It 
 is not permitted to a man to corrupt himself for the 
 sake of mankind." We must be useful according, 
 not to general theories, but to our individual capaci- 
 ties and habits. To be practical we must exercise 
 ourselves in that vocation wliicli our special qualities 
 enable us to practise. Each star, shining in its ap- 
 pointed sphere, each — no matter what its magnitude 
 or its gyration — contributes to the general light. 
 
 To different ages there are different virtues — the 
 reckless generosity of the boy is a wanton folly in 
 the man. At thirty there is no apology for the 
 spendthrift. From that period to the verge of age, 
 is the fitting season for a considerate foresight and 
 prudence in affairs. Approaching age itself we have 
 less need of economy : and Nature recoils from the 
 .miser, caressing Mammon with one hand, while Death 
 plucks him by the other. AVe should provide for our 
 age, in order that our age may have no urgent wants 
 of this world to abstract it from the meditations of the 
 next. It is awful to see the lean hands of Dotage 
 making a coffer of the grave ! But while, with the 
 departure of youth, we enter steadfastly into the 
 great business of life, while our reason constructs its 
 palaces from the ruins of our passions — while we 
 settle into thoughtful, and resolute, and aspiring men 
 — we should beware how, thus occupied by the world, 
 the world grow 'too much with us.' It is a perilous
 
 DEPARTURE OF YOUTH. 31 
 
 age that of ambition and discretion — a perilous age 
 that in which youth recedes from us — if we forget 
 that the soul should cherish its own youth through 
 eternity ! It is precisely as we feel how feebly laws 
 avail to make us good while they forbid us to be evil 
 — it is precisely as our experience puts a check upon 
 our impulses — it is precisely as we sigh to own how 
 contaminating is example, that we should be on our 
 guard over our own hearts — not, now, lest they err, 
 but rather lest they harden. Now is the period when 
 the affections can be easiest scared — when we can 
 dispense the most with Love — when in the lustiness 
 and hardihood of our golden prime we can best stand 
 alone — remote alike from the romantic yearnings of 
 youth, and the clinging helplessness of age. Now is 
 the time, when neither the voice of woman nor the 
 smiles of children touch us as they did once, and may 
 again. We are occupied, absorbed, wrapped in our 
 schemes and our stern designs. The world is our 
 mistress, our projects are our children. A man is 
 startled when he is told this truth ; let him consider, 
 let him pause — if he be actively engaged (as few at 
 that age are not), and ask himself if I wrong him ? — 
 if, insensibly and unconsciously, he has not retreated 
 into the citadel of self? — Snail-like he walks the 
 world, bearing about him his armour and retreat. Is 
 not this to be guarded against ? Does it not require 
 our caution, lest caution itself block up the beautiful 
 avenues of the heart ? What can life give us if we 
 sacrifice what is fairest in ourselves? What does ex- 
 perience profit, if it forbid us to be generous, to be 
 noble — if it counterwork and blight the graces and 
 the charities without which wisdom is harsh, and 
 virtue has no music in her name? As Paley says, 
 that we ought not to refuse alms too sternly from 
 a fear that we encourage the idle, lest, on the other 
 hand, we habituate the heart to a want of compas- 
 sion for the distressed — so with the less vulgar 
 sympathies shall we check tlie impulsive frankness, 
 
 D 2
 
 32 nKrAii'i'n.'K of voi'm. 
 
 tlic kiiully interpretation, the Innnane sensibility, 
 Avliich are the alms of the soul, because they may 
 expose us to occasional deceit? Shall the error of 
 softness justify tlu- Imbits of obduracy ? — and lest we 
 should suiVer by the faults of others, shall we vitiate 
 ourselves? 
 
 This, then, is the ap:o in which, while experience 
 becomes our <^uidc, we should follow its dictates with 
 a certain measured and jealous caution. We must 
 remember how a]it man is to extremes — rushing 
 from credulity and weakness to suspicion and dis- 
 trust. vVnd still, if we are truly prudent, we shall 
 cherish, despite occasional delusions, those noblest and 
 hap])iest of our tendencies — to love and to confide. 
 
 I know not indeed a more beautiful spectacle in 
 the world than an old man, who has gone with honour 
 through all its storms and contests, and who retains 
 to the last the freshness of feeling that adorned his 
 youth. This is the true green old age — this makes 
 a soutlicrn winter of declinino^ vears, in which the 
 sunlight warms, though the heats are gone : ever 
 welcome to the young is the old man who retains his 
 sympathies with youth. They more than respect, 
 they venerate him, for there is this distinction 
 between respect and veneration, — veneration has 
 alwavs in it somethinQ- of love. 
 
 This, too, is the age in which we ought calmly to 
 take the fitting (.'stimate of the opinions of the world. 
 In youth we are too apt to despise, in maturity too 
 inclined to overrate, the sentiments of others, and the 
 silent influences of the public. It is right to fix the 
 medium. Among the happiest and proudest posses- 
 sions of a man is his cliaracter — it is a wealth — it is 
 a rank of itself. It usually procures him the honours 
 and rarely the jealousies that attend on Fame. Like 
 most treasures that are attained less by circumstances 
 than ourselves, Character is a more felicitous posses- 
 sion than Glory. The wise man therefore des])ises 
 not the opinion of the world — he estimates it at its
 
 DEPARTURE OF YOUTH. 33 
 
 full value — lie does not wantonly jeopardise his 
 treasure of a Q'ood name — he does not rush in self- 
 conceit against the received sentiments of others — he 
 does not hazard his costly jewel with unworthy com- 
 batants and for a petty stake. He respects the 
 Legislation of Decorum. If he be benevolent, as well 
 as wise, he will remember that Character affords him 
 a thousand utilities — that it enables him the better to 
 guide the erring and to shelter the assailed. But that 
 Character is built on a false and hollow basis, which 
 is formed not from the dictates of our own breast, but 
 solely from the fear of censure. What is the essence 
 and the life of Character ? Principle, integrity, 
 independence ! — or, as one of our great old writers 
 hath itj " that inbred loyalty unto Virtue which can 
 serve her without a livery." These are qualities that 
 hang not upon any man's breath. They must be 
 formed within ourselves ; they must make ourselves — 
 indissoluble and indestructible as the soul ! If, con- 
 scious of these possessions, we trust tranquilly to time 
 and occasion to render them known, we may rest 
 assured that our character, sooner or later, will 
 establish itself. We cannot more defeat our own 
 object than by a restless and fevered anxiety as to 
 what the world will say of us ; except, indeed, if we 
 are tempted to unworthy compliances with aught 
 which our conscience disapproves, in order to win the 
 fleeting and capricious countenance of the time. 
 There is a moral honesty in a due regard for Character 
 which will not shape itself to the humours of the 
 crowd. And this, if honest, is no less wise : for the 
 crowd never long esteems those who flatter it at 
 their own expense. He who has the suppleness of 
 the demagogue will live to complain of the fickleness 
 of the mob. 
 
 If in early youth it be natural sometimes to brave 
 and causelessly to affront opinion, so also it is natural, 
 on the other hand, and not perhaps unamiable, for the 
 milder order of spirits to incur the contrary extreme
 
 ;>4 DErAUTURE OF YOUTH. 
 
 aiul stand in too ^r(>at an awe of tlie voices of the 
 worlil. They feel as if they had no rip^ht to be confi- 
 dent of llioir own judpnent — they liave not tested 
 themselves hy teni])tation and experience. They are 
 wilhnr^ to ji:iVe way on points on wliicli they are not 
 assured. And it is a pleasant thing to prop their 
 douhts on the stubljorn asseverations of others. But 
 in vigorous and tried manhood, we should be all in 
 all to ourselves. Our ow^n past and our own future 
 should be our main guides. " He who is not a 
 physician at thirty is a fool" — a physician to his 
 mind, as to his body, acquainted with his own moral 
 constitution — its diseases, its remedies, its diet, its 
 conduct. We should learn so to regulate our own 
 thoughts and actions, that, while comprising the world, 
 the world should not tyrannise over them. Take 
 away the world, and we should think and act the same 
 — a world to ourselves. Thus trained and thus 
 accustomed, we can bear occasional reproach and 
 momentary slander witli little pain. The rough con- 
 tact of the' crowd presses upon no sore — the wrongs of 
 the hour do not incense or sadden us. We rely upon 
 ourselves and upon time. If I liave rightly said that 
 Principle is a main essence of Character, Principle is a 
 thing we cannot change or shift. As it has been finely 
 expressed, "Principle is a passion for truth,"* — and as 
 an earlier and homelier writer hath it, " The truths of 
 God are the pillars of the world." f The truths we 
 believe in are the pillars oi'our world. The man who at 
 thirty can be easily joersuaded out of his own sense of 
 right, is never respected after he has served a purpose. 
 I do not know even if we do not think more highly 
 of the intellectual uses of one who sells himself w^ell, 
 than of those of one who lends himself for nothing. 
 
 Lastly, this seems to me, above all, an age wdiich 
 calls upon us to ponder well and thoughtfully upon 
 the articles of oiu' moral and our religious creed. 
 
 ♦ HazUtt. 
 
 t From a scarce and cirioiis littlo tract called ' The Simple Cobbler of 
 A'^travvam.' Ifi47.
 
 DEPARTURE OF YOUTH. 35 
 
 Entering more than ever into the mighty warfare of 
 the world, we should summon to our side whatever 
 auxiliaries can aid us in the contest — to cheer, to 
 comfort, to counsel, to direct. It is a time seriously 
 to analyse the confused elements of Belief — to apply 
 ourselves to such solution of our doubts as reason may 
 afford us. Happy he who can shelter himself with 
 confidence under the assurance of immortality, and 
 feel " that the world is not an Inn but an Hospital — 
 a place not to live but to die in," acknowledging 
 " that ]Diece of divinity that is in us — that something 
 that was before the elements, and owes no homage to 
 the sun." * For him there is indeed the mastery 
 and the conquest, not only over death but over 
 life ; and " he forgets that he can die if he complain 
 of misery ! " f 
 
 I reject all sectarian intolerance — I affect no 
 uncharitable jargon — frankly I confess that I have 
 known many before whose virtues I bow down 
 ashamed of my own errors, though they were not 
 guided and supported by Belief. But I never met 
 with one such, who did not own that while he would 
 not have been worse, he would have been happier, 
 could he have believed. I, indeed, least of all men, 
 ought harshly to search into that realm of opinion 
 which no law can reach ; for I, too, have had my 
 interval of doubt, of despondency, of the Philosophy 
 of the Garden. Perhaps there are many with whom 
 Faith — the Saviour, — must lie awhile in darkness and 
 the grave of unbelief, ere, immortal and immortalis- 
 ing, it ascend from its tomb — a God ! 
 
 But humbly and reverently comparing each state 
 with each, I exclaim again, ' Happy, thrice happy, he 
 who relies on the eternity of the soul — who believes, 
 as the loved fall one after one from his side, that they 
 have returned ' to their native country " | — that 
 they await the Divine re-union ; — who feels that each 
 
 * ' Religio Medici,' Part IL sect. ii. f Ibid. Part I. sect. xliv. 
 
 % Form of Chinese epitaphs.
 
 :!(; DFU'AirrruE of youth. 
 
 treasure of knowledge lie atljiiiis lie carries with liiiii 
 tliron«2:]i illiiiiitaMe l)eiiif]^— who sees in Virtue tlie 
 essence and tlie element of the world he is to inherit, 
 and to which he hut accustoms liimself lietimes; who 
 comforts his weariness amidst the storms of time, by 
 seeing, far across the melancholy seas, the haven he 
 will reach at last — who deems that every struggle has 
 its assured reward, and every sorrow has its balm — 
 who knows, however forsaken or bereaved below, 
 that he never can be alone, and never be deserted — 
 that above him is the protection of Eternal Power, 
 and the mercy of Eternal Love! Ah, w^ell said the 
 dreamer of philosophy, "How much He knew of the 
 human heart who first called God our Father 1 " 
 
 As, were our lives limited to a single year, and 
 we had never beheld the flow^er that perishes from 
 the earth restored by the dawning spring, we might 
 doubt the philosophy that told us it was not dead, but 
 dormant only for a time ; yet, to continue existence to 
 another season, would be to know that the seeming 
 miracle was but the course of nature ; — even so, this 
 life is to eternity but as a single revolution of the sun, 
 in which we close our views with the winter of the 
 soul, when its leaves fade and vanish, and it seems 
 outwardly to rot away : but the seasons roll on 
 unceasingly over the barrenness of the grave — and 
 those who, above, have continued the lease of life, 
 behold the imperishable flower burst forth into the 
 second spring ! 
 
 This hope makes the dignity of man, nor can 
 I conceive how he who feels it breathing its exalted 
 eloquence through his heart, can be deliberately 
 guilty of one sordid action, or w^ilfully brood over 
 one base desire.
 
 THE WOULD AS IT IS. 37 
 
 THE WORLD AS IT IS. 
 
 " What a deliglitful thing the world is ! Lady 
 Lennox's ball, last night — how charming it was ! — 
 every one so kind, and Cliarlotte looking so pretty — 
 the nicest girl I ever saw ! But I must dress now. 
 Balfour is to be here at twelve with the horse he 
 wants to sell me. How lucky I am to have such 
 a friend as Balfour ! — so entertaining — so good- 
 natured — so clever too — and such an excellent heart ! 
 Ah ! how unlucky ! it rains a Kttle : but never mind, 
 it will clear up ; and if it don't — why one can play 
 at billiards. What a delightful thing the world is ! " 
 So soliloquised Charles Nugent, a man of twenty- 
 one — a philanthropist — an optimist. Our young 
 gentleman was an orphan, of good family and large 
 fortune ; brave, generous, confiding, and open-hearted. 
 His ability was above the ordinary standard, and he 
 had a warm love and a pure taste for letters. He 
 had even bent a knee to Philosophy, but the calm 
 and cold graces with which the goddess receives her 
 servants had soon discontented the young votary 
 with the worship. " Away ! " cried he, one morning, 
 flinging aside the volume of Rochefoucauld, which 
 he had fancied he understood ; " Away with this 
 selfish and debasing code ! — men are not the mean 
 things they are here described — be it mine to think 
 well of my kind ! " Oh, ruthless Experience, since 
 we must all pass through thy school, why dost thou 
 exact from us so heavy an entrance-fee ? Why must 
 we be robbed of so many amiable sentiments before 
 thou wilt deign to instruct us in the first rudiments 
 of thy compulsory education ? 
 
 " Ha ! my dear Nugent, how are you ? " and
 
 38 TllK WOULD AS IT IS. 
 
 Ca]>taln I^alfnur enters the room; a fine dark, liand- 
 st)ine lellow, witli soim'tliin*!; of preteiisiou in his air 
 and a great deal of fraidcness in his accost. "And 
 liere is tlie horse. Come to the window. Does he 
 not stop finely ? What action ! ])o yon remark his 
 fore-hand? How he carries his tail! Gad, I don't 
 think you shall have him, after all ! " 
 
 "Nay, my dear fellow, yon may well be sorry to 
 part with him. He is superb! Quite sound — eh?" 
 
 " Have him examined." 
 
 " Do vou tliink 1 would not take your word for 
 
 it? TheVice?" 
 
 " Fix it yourself. Prince Paul once offered me a 
 himdrcd and eighty ; but to you — say a bundled and 
 fifty." 
 
 " I'll not be outdone by Prince Paul — there's a 
 cheqne for a hundred and eighty guineas." 
 
 " Upon my soul, I'm ashamed : but you are such 
 a rich fellow. John, take the horse to ]\Ir. Nugent's 
 stal)les. Where will you dine to-day — at the Cocoa- 
 tree ? " 
 
 " With all my heart." 
 
 The young men rode together. Nugent was 
 delighted with his new pnrchase. They dined at 
 the Cocoa-tree. Balfour ordered some early peaches. 
 Nugent paid the bill. They went to the Opera. 
 
 " Do yon see that figurante, Floriue ? " asked 
 Balfour. " Pretty ankle — eh ? " 
 
 " Yes, comme qa — but dances awkwardly — not 
 handsome." 
 
 "What! not handsome? Come and talk to her. 
 She's more admired than any girl on the stage." 
 
 They went behind the scenes, and Balfour con- 
 vinced his friend that he ought to be enchanted with 
 Florine. Before the week was out the figurante kept 
 her carriage, and in return, Nugent supped with her 
 twice a-week. 
 
 Nugent had written a tale for ' The Keepsake ;' it 
 was his first literary effort ; it was tolerably good, and
 
 THE WOKLD AS IT IS. 39 
 
 exceedingly popular. One day he was lounging over 
 Ins breakfast, and a tall, thin gentleman, in black, was 
 announced, by the name of Mr. Gilpin. 
 
 Mr. Grilpin made a most respectful bow, and 
 heaved a peculiarly profound sigh. Nugent was 
 instantly seized with a lively interest in the stranger. 
 " Sir, it is with great regret," faltered forth Mr. 
 
 Gilpin, " that I seek you I — I — I " A low, 
 
 consumptive cough checked his speech. Nugent 
 offered him a cup of tea. The civility was refused, 
 and the story continued. 
 
 Mr. Gilpin's narration is soon told, when he him- 
 self is not the narrator. An unfortunate literary man 
 — once in afEuent circumstances — security for a 
 treacherous friend — friend absconded — pressure of 
 unforeseen circumstances — angel wife and four 
 cherub children — a book coming out next season — 
 deep distress at present — horror at being forced to 
 beg — forcibly struck by generous sentiments expressed 
 in the tale written by Mr. Nugent — a ray of hope 
 broke on his mind — and voila the causes of Mr. Gilpin's 
 distress and Mr. Gilpin's visit. Never was there a 
 more interesting personification of the afflicted man 
 of letters than Gregory Gilpin. He looked pale, 
 patient, and respectable ; he coughed frequently, and 
 he was dressed in deep mourning. Nugent's heart 
 swelled — he placed a bank-note in Mr. Gilpin's hands 
 — he promised more effectual relief, and Mr. Gilpin 
 retired, overpowered with his own gratitude and 
 Mr. Nugent's respectful compassion. 
 
 '^ How happy I am to be rich ! " said the generous 
 young philanthropist, throwing open his chest. 
 
 Nugent went to a conversazione at Lady Lennox's. 
 Her ladyship was a widow, and a charming woman. 
 She was a little of the blue, and a little of the fine 
 lady, and a little of the beauty, and a little of the 
 coquette, and a great deal of the sentimentalist. She 
 had one daughter, without a shilling ; she had taken 
 a warm interest in a young man of the remarkable
 
 K» THi: \V(i|;l,l) AS IT IS. 
 
 Inlunts :iii<l singular amiability of C^harles Nugent. 
 Ho sat next to lier — they talked of the lieartless- 
 ness of the world : it is a subject on which men of 
 twenty-one and ladies of forty-five are especially 
 elo(|uent. T/idy Lennox com|tlain('d, Mr. Nugent 
 defended. '* One does not talk much of innocence," 
 it is said, or something like it is said, somewhere in 
 Madame d'Kj)inay"s Memoirs, "without being sadly 
 corru]^ted ;" and nothing brings out the goodness of 
 our own hearts more than a charge against the heart- 
 lessness of others. 
 
 " An excellent woman ! " thought Nugent ; " what 
 warm feelings ! — how pretty her daughter is ! Oh ! a 
 charming family ! " 
 
 Charlotte Lennox played an affecting air ; Nugent 
 leaned over the piano ; they talked about music, 
 poetry, going on the water, sentiment, and Kichmond 
 Ilill. They made up a party of pleasure. Nugent did 
 not sleep well that night — he was certainly in love. 
 
 When he rose the next morning, the day was bright 
 and fine ; Balfour, the best of friends, was to be with 
 him in an hour ; Balfour's horse, the best of horses, 
 was to convey him to Richmond ; and at Richmond 
 he was to meet Ladv Lennox, the most ao-reeable of 
 mothers ■ — and Charlotte, the most enchanting of 
 daugliters. The f(juranie had always been a bore — 
 she was now forgotten. " It certainly is a delightful 
 world ! " repeated Nugent, as he tied his neckcloth. 
 
 It is some time — I will not say how long — 
 after the date of this happy day ; Nugent is alone 
 in his apartment, and walking to and fro — his arms 
 folded, and a frown upon his brow. " What a 
 rascal ! what a mean wretch ! — and the horse was 
 lame when he sold it — not worth ten ]iounds ! — and I 
 so confiding — That^ however, I should not mind ; but 
 \o have saddled me with his cast-off mistress ! — to 
 make me the laugliing-stock of the world ! By 
 heavens, he shall repent it ! Borrowed money of me, 
 then made a jest of my goodnature — introduced
 
 THE WORLD AS IT IS. 41 
 
 me to his club, in order to pillage me ! — but, thank 
 Heaven, I can shoot him yet ! Ha ! Colonel ; this is 
 kind ! " 
 
 Colonel Nelmore, an elderly gentleman, well known 
 in society, with a fine forehead, a shrewd, contem- 
 plative eye, and an agreeable address, entered tlie 
 room. To him Nugent communicated the long list 
 of his grievances, and concluded by begging him to 
 convey a challenge to the best of friends — Captain 
 Balfour. The colonel raised his eyebrows. 
 
 "But, — my dear Charles, — this gentleman has 
 certainly behaved ill to you, I allow it — but for what 
 specific offence do you mean to challenge him ? " 
 
 " For his conduct in general." 
 
 The colonel laughed. 
 
 " For saying yesterday, then, that I was grown a 
 bore, and he should cut me in future. He told 
 Selwyn so in the bay-window at White's." 
 
 The colonel took snuff. 
 
 " My good young friend," said he, "I see you 
 don't know the world. Come and dine with me to- 
 day — a punctual seven. ^Ve'll talk over these matters. 
 Meanwhile, you can't challenge a man for calling you 
 a bore." 
 
 " Not challenge him ! — what should I do, then ?" 
 
 " Laugh — shake your head at him, and say — Ah ! 
 Balfour, you're a sad fellow ! " 
 
 The colonel succeeded in .preventing the chal- 
 lenge, but Nugent's indignation a.t the best of friends 
 remained as warm as ever. He declined the colonel's 
 invitation — he was to dine with the Lennoxes. Mean- 
 while, he went to the shady part of Kensington Grar- 
 dens to indulge his reflections. 
 
 He sat himself down in an arbour, and looked 
 moralisingly over the initials, the dates, and the wit- 
 ticisms, that hands, long since mouldered, have con- 
 signed to the admiration of posterity. 
 
 A gay pa]"ty were strolling by this retreat — their 
 laughter and their voices preceded them. " Yes,"
 
 42 'JIIH WORLD AS IT IS. 
 
 said a sIkuj), dry voice, wliicli Nufi^cTit recognised as 
 Kdoiigiii^ to one of the wits of tlie day — " Yes, I 
 saw you, Lady Lennox, talking; sentiment to Nugent 
 — fie ! how could you waste your time so un})ro- 
 fital.ly!" ^ • 
 
 " Ah ! poor younf^ man ! he is certainly bieji b<He^ 
 wilh his fine phrases: hut 'tis a good creature on the 
 whole, and exceedingly useful !" 
 
 " Useful ! " 
 
 "Yes; fills u]) a vacant ])lace at one's tahle, at a 
 day's warning ; lends me his carriage-horses when 
 mine have cauglit coM ; subscrihes to my cliarities 
 for me ; and supplies my balconies with flowers. In 
 a word, if he were more sensible, he would be less 
 agreeable : his sole cliarm is in his foibles." 
 
 What a description by the most sentimental of 
 mothers, of the most interesting of young men ! 
 Nugent was thunderstruck ; the party swept by ; he 
 was undiscovered. 
 
 He raved, he swore, he was furious. He go to 
 the dinner to-day ! No, he would write such a letter 
 to the lady — it should speak daggers ! 'But the 
 daugliter : Charlotte was not of the party. Charlotte 
 — oh ! Charlotte was quite a different creature from 
 her mother — the most natural, the most simple of 
 human beings, and evidently loved him. He could 
 not be mistaken there. Yes, for lier sake he would 
 go to the dinner : he would smother his just resent- 
 ment. 
 
 He went to Lady Lennox's. It was a large party. 
 The young Marquess of Austerly had just returned- 
 from his travels. He was sitting next to tlie most 
 lovely of daughters. Nugent was forgotten. 
 
 After dinner, however, he foujid an opportunity 
 to say a few words in a whisper to Charlotte. He 
 hinted a tender reproach, and he begged her to sing, 
 " We met; "'twas in a crowds Charlotte was hoarse — 
 had caught cold. Charlotte could not sing. Nugent 
 left the room, and the house. When he got to the
 
 THE WORLD AS IT IS. 43 
 
 end of the street, he discovered that he had left his 
 cane behind. He went back for it, glad (for he was 
 really in love) of an excuse for darting an angry 
 glance at the most simple, the most natural of human 
 beings, that should prevent her sleeping the whole 
 night. He ascended the drawing-room ; and Char- 
 lotte was delighting the Marquess of Austerly, who 
 leaned over her chair, with " We met; 'twas in a 
 crowd." 
 
 Charlotte Lennox was young, lovely, and artful. 
 Lord Austerly was young, inexperienced, and vain. 
 In less than a month, his lordship proposed, and was 
 accepted. 
 
 " Well, well ! " said poor Nugent one morning, 
 breaking from a reverie ; " betrayed in my friendship, 
 deceived in my love, the pleasure of doing good is still 
 left to me. Friendship quits us at the first stage of 
 life. Love at the second, Benevolence lasts till death ! 
 Poor Gril2:)in ! how grateful he is ! I must see if I 
 can get him that place abroad." To amuse his 
 thoughts, he took up a new magazine. He opened 
 the page at a violent attack on himself — on his beau- 
 tiful tale in the ' Keepsake.' The satire was not con- 
 fined to the work ; it extended to the author. He 
 was a fop, a coxcomb, a ninny, an intellectual dwarf, 
 a miserable creature, and an abortion ! These are 
 pleasant studies for a man out of spirits, especially 
 before he is used to them. Nugent had just flung 
 the magazine to the other end of the room, when his 
 lawyer came to arrange matters about a mortgage, 
 which the generous Nugent had already been forced 
 to raise on his estates. The lawyer was a pleasant, 
 entertaining man of the world, accustomed to the 
 society, for he was accustomed to the wants, of young 
 men. He perceived that Nugent was a little out of 
 humour. He attributed the cause, naturally enough, 
 to the mortgage ; and to divert his thoughts, he 
 entered first on a o-eneral conversation. 
 
 " What rogues there are in the world ! " said he.
 
 44 'I'lii: \V(^i;t,1) as it is. 
 
 Nugent jT^roaned. " This iiioriiiiig, fur instance, before 
 I came to you, I was engaged in a very curious piece 
 of business. A gentleman gave bis son-in-law a qua- 
 lification to stand for a borough : the son-in-law ke})t 
 the deed, and so cheated the good gentleman out of 
 more than three hundred jiounds a-year. Yesterday 
 I was employed against a fraudulent bankrupt — such 
 an instance of long, ju'emeditated, cold-hearted, deli- 
 berate rascality ! And when I Icnn'e you, I must see 
 what is to be done witli a literary swindler, who, on 
 the strength of a consumptive cough, and a suit of 
 black, has been respectably living on compassion for 
 the last two years." 
 
 "Ha!" 
 
 " He has just committed the most nefarious fraud — 
 a forgery, in short, on his own uncle, who has twice 
 seriously distressed himself to save the rogue of a 
 nephew, and who must now sulnnit to this loss, or 
 proclaim, by a criminal prosecution, the disgrace of 
 liis own family. The nephew proceeded, of course, 
 on his knowledge of my client's goodness of heart ; 
 and thus a man suffers in proportion to his amiability." 
 
 "Is his name Gil — Gil — Gilpin?" stammered 
 Nugent. 
 
 " The same ! O-ho ! have you been bit, too, 
 Mr. Nugent ? " 
 
 Before our hero could answer, a letter was brought 
 to him. Nugent broke the seal ; it was from the 
 editor of the magazine in which he had just read 
 his own condemnation. It ran thus : 
 
 " Sir, — Having been absent from London on un- 
 avoidable business for the last month, and the care of 
 the Magazine having thereby devolved on an- 
 other, who has very ill discharged its duties, I had 
 the surprise and mortification of perceiving, on my 
 return this day, that a most unwarrantable and per- 
 sonal attack upon you has been admitted in the 
 number for this month. I cannot sufficiently express
 
 THE WORLD AS IT IS. 45 
 
 my regret, the more especially ou finding that the 
 article in question was written by a mere mei'cenary 
 in letters. To convince you of my concern, and my 
 resolution to guard against such unworthy proceed- 
 ings in future, I enclose you another and yet severer 
 attack, which was sent to us for our next numljei*, 
 and for which, I grieve to say, the unprincipled 
 author has already succeeded in obtaining from the 
 proprietor — a remuneration. I have the honour to 
 be. Sir," &c. &c. &c. 
 
 Nugent's eyes fell on the enclosed paper : it was 
 in the handwriting of Mr. Gregory Gilpin, the most 
 grateful of distressed literary men. 
 
 " You seem melancholy to-day, my dear Nugent," 
 said Colonel Nelmore, as he met his young friend 
 walking with downcast eyes in the old mall of St. 
 James's Park. 
 
 " I am unhappy, I am discontented, — the gloss is 
 faded from life," answered Nugent, sighing. 
 
 " I love meeting with a pensive man," said the 
 colonel : " let me join you, and let us dine together, 
 tete-a-tete, at my bachelor's table. You refused me 
 some time ago ; may I be more fortunate now ?" 
 
 "I shall be but poor company," rejoined Nugent ; 
 " but I am very much obliged to you, and I accept 
 your invitation with j^leasure." 
 
 Colonel Nelmore was a man who had told some 
 fifty years. He had known misfortune in his day, 
 and he had seen a great deal of the harsh realities 
 of life. But he had not suffered nor lived in vain. 
 He was no theorist, and did not affect the . philo- 
 sopher ; but he was contented with a small fortune, 
 popular with retired habits, observant with a love 
 for study, and, above all, he did a great deal of 
 general good, exactly because he embraced no par- 
 ticular system. 
 
 " Yes," said Nugent, as they sat together after 
 dinner, and the younger man had revealed to the 
 
 VOL. II. E
 
 46 TiiK \V()i:m) as it is. 
 
 elder, wlio li:i<l been liis father's intimate friend, 
 all that had seemed to liim tlie most nnexampled of 
 misfortunes — after lie had repeated the peifidy of 
 Balionr, the faithlessness of Charlotte, and the in- 
 gratitude of Gilj)in — "Yes," said he, "I now see 
 my error; I no longer love my species; 1 no longer 
 place reliance in tlic lovo, friendship, sincerity, or 
 virtue of the world ; I will no hjnger trust myself 
 open-hearted in this vast community of knaves : I 
 will not fly mankind, but I will despise them." 
 
 The colonel smiled. " Yon shall put on your hat, 
 my young friend, and pay a little visit with me : — 
 nay, no excuse : it is only to an old lady, who has 
 given me permission to drink tea with her." Nugent 
 demurred, but consented. The two gentlemen walked 
 to a small house in the Regent's Park. They were 
 admitted to a drawing-room, where they fomid a 
 blind old lady, of a cheerful countenance, and pre- 
 possessing manners. 
 
 " And how does your son do?" asked the colonel, 
 after the first salutations were over ; " have you seen 
 him lately?" 
 
 " Seen liim lately ! why yon know he rarely lets 
 a day pass without calling on, or writing to me. 
 Since the affliction which visited me with blindness, 
 though he has nothing to hoj)e from me, thongh from 
 my jointure I must necessarily be a burthen to one 
 of his limited income and mixing so mnch with the 
 world as he does ; yet had I been the richest mother 
 in England, and everything at my own disposal, he 
 could not have been more attentive, more kind to 
 me. He will cheerfully give up the gayest party 
 to come and read to me, if I am the least unwell, or 
 the least out of spirits; and he sold his horses to pay 
 !Miss Blandly, since I could not afford from my own 
 income to pay the salary wliich so accomplished a 
 musician asked to become my companion. Music, 
 you know, is now my chief luxury. Oh, he is a 
 paragon of sons — the world think him dissipated
 
 THE WOKLD AS IT IS. 47 
 
 and heartless ; but if they could see how tender he 
 is to me ! " exclaimed the mother, clasj^ing her hands, 
 as the tears gushed from her eyes. Nugent was 
 charmed : the colonel encouraged the lady to proceed ; 
 and Nugent thought he had never passed a more 
 agreeable hour than in listening to her maternal 
 praises of her affectionate son. 
 
 " Ah, colonel ! " said he, as they left the house, 
 "how much wiser have you been than myself: you 
 have selected your friends with discretion. What 
 would I give to possess such a friend as that good son 
 must be ! But you never told me the lady's name." 
 
 " Patience," said the colonel, taking snuff; "I have 
 another visit to pay." 
 
 Nelmore turned down a little alley, and knocked 
 at a small cottage. A woman with a child at her 
 breast opened the door ; and Nugent stood in one of 
 those scenes of cheerful poverty which it so satisfies 
 the complacency of the rich to behold. 
 
 " Aha ! " said Nelmore, looking round, " you seem 
 comfortable enough now ; your benefactor has not 
 done his work by halves." 
 
 " Blessings on his heart, no ! Oh ! sir, when I 
 think how distressed he is himself, how often he has 
 been put to it for money, how calumniated he is 
 by the world, I cannot say how grateful I am, how 
 grateful I ought to be. He has robbed himself to 
 feed us, and merely because he knew my husband in 
 youth." 
 
 The colonel permitted the woman to run on. 
 Nugent wiped his eyes, and left his purse behind him. 
 " Who is this admirable, this self-denying-man ?" 
 cried he, when they were once more in the street. 
 " He is in distress himself — would that I could relieve 
 him ! Ah, you already reconcile me to the world. 
 I acknowledge your motive in leading me hither ; 
 there are good men as well as bad. All are not 
 Balfours and Gilpins ! But the name — the name of 
 these poor people's benefactor ! " 
 
 E 2
 
 48 '111!': \V(»i;i,i) as it is. 
 
 " Stay," s;ii(l tlie colonel, as tlioy now ciitcrecl 
 Oxfoiil Street. ; "this is lucky indeeil, 1 see a ^ood 
 lady whom 1 wish to accost. Well, Mrs. Johnson," 
 aildressin*;- a stout, comely, middle-aged woman of 
 respectahlc a]i}K'arance, who, with a basket on her 
 arm, was coming out of" an oil-shop; "so you have 
 been laljouring in your vocation 1 see — making house- 
 hold ])urchases. And how is your young lady?" 
 
 " Very well, sir, 1 am happy to say," replied the 
 old woman, curtsying. " And you are well too, I 
 hope, 'sir?" 
 
 " Yes, considering the dissipation of the long 
 season, pretty well, thank you. J5ut I suppose your 
 young mistress is as gay and heartless as ever — a 
 mere iashionahle wife, eh?" 
 
 " Sir ! " said the woman, bridling up, " there is 
 not a better lady in the world than my young lady ; 
 I have known her since she was that high !" 
 
 " What, she's good-tempered, I suppose ? " said 
 the colonel sneering. 
 
 " Good-tempered ! I believe it is impossible for 
 her to say a har.sh word to any one. There never 
 was so mild, so even-like a temper." 
 
 " What, and not heartless ? eh ! this is too good ! " 
 
 " Heartless ! she nursed me herself when 1 broke 
 my leg by a fall ; and every night before she went 
 out to any party, she would come into my room with 
 her sweet smile, and see if I wanted any thing." 
 
 " And you fancy, Mrs. Johnson, that she'll make 
 a good wife : why she was not much in love when 
 she married." 
 
 " I don't know as to that, sir, whether she was or 
 not ; but I'm sure she is always studying my lord's 
 wislics, and I heard him say this very morning to 
 his brother — ' Arthur, if you knew what a treasure 
 I possess ! ' " 
 
 " You are very right," said the colonel, resuming 
 his natural manner : " and I only spoke for the plea- 
 sure of seeing how well and how justly you could
 
 THE WORLD AS IT IS. 49 
 
 defend your mistress ; she is, truly, an excellent lady 
 — o'ood evening: to you." 
 
 " I have seen that woman before," said Nugent, 
 " but I can't think where ; she has the appearance of 
 being a housekeeper in some family." 
 
 " She is so." 
 
 " How pleasant it is to hear of female excellence 
 in the great world ! " continued Nugent, sighing ; " it 
 was evident to see that the honest servant was sincere 
 in her praise. Happy husband, whoever he may be ! " 
 
 They were now at the colonel's house. " Just let 
 me read this passage," said Nelmore, opening the 
 pages of a French Philosopher ; and as I do not 
 pronounce French like a native, I will translate as I 
 proceed : — 
 
 " ' In order to love mankind — expect but little 
 from them ; in order to view their faults, without 
 bitterness, we must accustom ourselves to pardon 
 them, and to perceive that indulgence is a justice 
 which frail humanity has a right to demand from 
 wisdom. Now, nothing tends more to dispose us to 
 indulgence, to close our hearts against hatred, to open 
 them to the principles of a humane and soft morality, 
 than a profound knowledge of the human heart. 
 Accordingly, the wisest men have always been the 
 most indulgent,' &c. 
 
 " And now prepare to be surprised. That good 
 son whom you admired so much, whom you wished 
 you could obtain as a friend, is Captain Balfour ; that 
 generous, self-denying man, whom you desired so 
 nobly to relieve, is Mr. Gilpin ; that young lady who, 
 in the flush of health, beauty, dissipation, and con- 
 quest, could attend the sick chamber of her servant, 
 and whom her husband discovers to be a treasure, is 
 Charlotte Lennox ! " 
 
 " Good Heavens!" cried Nugent, "what then am 
 I to believe ? Has some juggling been practised on 
 my understanding ? and are Balfour, Gilpin, and Miss 
 Lennox, after all, patterns of perfection ? "
 
 50 'mi'; woiii.K AS yy is. 
 
 " No, indeetl, very l':ir I'nuii it : l*;iHuur is u dissi- 
 pated, rocklt'ss man — of loose morality and a low 
 standard of hoiKnii- : lie saw you were destined to 
 ])iufliase experience — he saw you were destined to be 
 ])lundered by some one — be tbouo-bt be mi_ii:bt as well 
 l)e ;i candidate for tbe profit, lie laugbed aiterwards 
 at your expense, not because be despised you; on the 
 contrary, 1 believe that be liked y(ju very mucb in bis 
 way ; but because, in tbe world be frequents, every 
 man enjoys a laugb at bis acquaintance. Cbarlotte 
 Lennox saw in you a desirable matcli ; nay, I believe 
 slie bad a positive regard for you ; but she bad been 
 taugbt all her life to tbink equipage, wealtb, and 
 station better tlian love. Slie could not resist the 
 temptation of being Marchioness of Austerly — not 
 one girl in twenty could resist it ; yet she is not on 
 that account the less good-tempered, good-natured, 
 nor the less likely to be a good mistress and a tole- 
 rable wife. Gilpin is the worst instance of the three. 
 Gilpin is an evident scoundrel ; but Gilpin is in evi- 
 dent distress. He was, in all })robability, very sorry 
 to attack you who bad benefited him so largely; but 
 perhaps, as he is a dull dog, the only thing the ma- 
 C'azines would buy of him was abuse. You must not 
 think he maligned you out of malice, out of ingra- 
 titude, out of wantonness ; he maligned you for ten 
 guineas. Yet Gilpin is a man, who, having swindled 
 his father out of ten guineas, would in the joy of the 
 moment give five to a beggar. In tbe present case 
 be w^as actuated by a better feeling : he was serving 
 the friend of his childhood — few men forget those 
 youthful ties, however they break through others. 
 Your mistake was not the single mistake of supposing 
 the worst people to be the best — it was the double mis- 
 take of supposing commonplace peojde now the best — 
 now the worst ; in making what might have been a 
 pleasant acquaintance an intimate friend ; in believing 
 a man in distress must necessarily be a man of merit ; 
 in thinking a good-tempered, pretty girl, was an
 
 THE WOULD AS IT IS. 51 
 
 exalted specimen of human nature. You were then 
 about to fall into the opposite extreme — and to be as 
 indiscriminating in suspicion as you were in cre- 
 dulity. Would that I could flatter myself tliat I had 
 saved you from that — the more dangerous — error of 
 the two ! " 
 
 " You have, my dear Nelmore ; and now lend me 
 your Philosopher!" 
 
 " With pleasure ; but one short maxim is as good 
 as all philosophers can teach you, for philosophers 
 can only enlarge on it : it is simple — it is this — 
 
 * TAKE THE WORLD AS IT IS ! ' "
 
 52 KNEDWOliTII. 
 
 KNEBWORTIT. 
 
 The Enprlish arron^atc to themselves the peculiar 
 attaclnneiit to Home— the national conviction of the 
 sacredness of its serene asylum. But Home was 
 a name*not less venerable in the ideas of the ancient 
 Romans : not less by them was the hospitable hearth 
 deemed the centre of unspeakable enjoyments — their 
 gayest ])oets linger on its attractions — the house was 
 a temple that had its secret penetralia, which no 
 uninitiated stranger might proftxnc with unbidden 
 presence; the household gods were their especial 
 deities, the most f^imiliarly invoked, the most piously 
 preserved. And a beautiful superstition it was, tliat 
 of the household gods ; — a Ijeautiful notion that our 
 ancestors, for us at least, were divine, and presided 
 with unforgetful tenderness over the scene wherein 
 their life on earth has known its happiest emotions, 
 and its most trancpiil joys. A similar worship is not 
 only to be traced to the eldest times, beyond the date 
 of the civilized races that we popularly call "the 
 Ancients," but is yet to be found cherished among 
 savage tribes. It is one of the universal proofs how 
 little fleatli can conquer the aftections. 
 
 But with us are required no fond idolatries of 
 outward images. We bear our Penates with us 
 abroad as at home, their atrium is the heart. Our 
 household jj:ods are the memories of our childhood — 
 the recollections of the hearth round which we ga- 
 thered — of the fostering hands which caressed us — of 
 the scene of all the cares and joys — the anxieties and 
 the hopes — the ineffable yearnings of love, which 
 made us first acquainted with the mystery and the 
 sanctity of Home. I was touched once in visiting an 
 Irish cabin, which, in the spirit of condescending
 
 KNEBWORTH. ' 53 
 
 kindness, the Lady Bountiful of the place had trans- 
 formed into the graceful neatness of an English 
 cottage, training roses up the wall, glazing the win- 
 dows, and boarding the mud floor ; — I was touched 
 by the homely truth which the poor peasant uttered 
 as he gazed, half gratefully, half indignantly, on the 
 change. " It is all very kind," said he, in his dialect, 
 which I am obliged to translate ; " but the good lady 
 does not know how dear to a poor man is every thing 
 that reminds him of the time when he played instead 
 of working — these great folks do not understand us." 
 It was quite true : on that mud floor the child had 
 played ; round that hearth, with its eternal smoke, 
 which now admitted, through strange casements, the 
 uncomfortable daylight, he had sat jesting with 
 the kmd hearts that beat no more. These new com- 
 forts saddened and perplexed him — not because they 
 w^ere comforts, but because they were new. They had 
 not the associations of his childhood ; the great folks 
 did not understand him ; they despised his indifference 
 to greater luxuries. Alas ! they did not perceive that in 
 that indifference there was all the poetry of sentiment. 
 The good lady herself dwelt in an old-fashioned, incon- 
 venient mansion. Suppose some oppressive benefactor 
 had converted its dingy rooms and dreary galleries into 
 a modern, w^ell-proportioned, and ungenially cheerful 
 residence, would she have been pleased? Would she 
 not have missed the nursery she had played in ? — 
 the little parlour by whose hearth she could yet recall 
 to fancy the face of her mother long gone ? — Would 
 ottomans and mirrors supply the place of the old 
 worm-eaten chair from which her father, on Sabbath 
 nights, had given forth the holy lecture ? — or the 
 little discoloured glass in which thirty years ago^ she 
 had marked her own maiden blushes, when some 
 dear name was suddenly spoken? No, her old pa- 
 ternal house, rude though it be, is dearer to her than 
 a new palace ; can she not conceive that the same 
 feelings may make " the hut to which his soul con-
 
 54 KNKBWOirill. 
 
 forms,'' di'urer to the peasant tliiin llie now residence 
 wliifli is as a palace to liiiii ? Why sliould tliat be a 
 nobl'" and tender sentiment in tlie ricli, "wliich is 
 scorned as a brutal a]>atliy in the poor? Tlie ])easant 
 was rig'ht — " Great folks did not understand him ! " 
 
 Amidst the active labours, in which, from my 
 earliest youth, 1 have been plunged, one of the 
 greatest luxuries I know is to return, ibr short in- 
 tervals, to the ])lace in which the happiest days of 
 my childhood glided away. It is an old manorial 
 seat that belongs to my mother, the heiress of its 
 former lords. The house, formerly of vast extent, 
 built round a quadrangle, at different periods, from 
 the date of the second crusade to that of the reign of 
 Elizabeth, was in so ruinous a condition wlien she 
 came to its possession, that three sides of it were 
 obliged to be pulled down : the fourth yet remaining, 
 is in itself a house larger than most in the county, 
 and still contains the old oak hall, with its lofty 
 ceiling and raised music gallery. The park has 
 something of the character of Penshurst, — and its 
 venerable avenues, wdiich slope from the house down 
 the gradual declivity, giving wide views of the oppo- 
 site hills crowned with some distant spire, impart to 
 the scene that peculiarly English, half stately, and 
 wholly cultivated, character upon which the ])oeis of 
 Elizabeth's day so much loved to linger. As is often 
 the case with similar residences, the church stands in 
 the park, at a bow-shot from the house, and formerly 
 the walls of the outer court nearly reached the green 
 sanctuary tliat surrounds the sacred edifice. The 
 church itself, dedicated anciently to St. Mary, is 
 worn and grey, in the simplest architecture of the 
 Ecclesiastical Gothic ; and, standing on the brow of 
 the hill, its single tower at a distance blends with the 
 turrets of the house, — so that the two seem one 
 pile. Beyond, to the right, half-way down the hill, 
 and neighboured by a dell belted with trees, is an 
 octagon building erected by the present owner for
 
 KNEBWORTH. 55 
 
 the mausoleum of the family. Fenced from the deer, 
 is a small surrounding space sown with flowers — 
 those fairest children of the earth, which the custom 
 of all ages has dedicated to the dead. The modern- 
 ness of this building, which contrasts those in its 
 vicinity, seems to me, from that contrast, to make 
 its object more impressive. It stands out alone, in 
 the venerable landscape with its immemorial hills 
 and trees — the prototype of the thought of death — a 
 thing that dating with the living generation, admo- 
 nishes them of their recent lease and its hastening 
 end. For with all our boasted antiquity of race, we 
 ourselves, — we mankind, — are the ephemera of the 
 soil, and bear the truest relation, so far as our mor- 
 tality is concerned, with that which is least old. 
 
 The most regular and majestic of the avenues I 
 have described conducts to a sheet of water, that lies 
 towards the extremity of the park. It is but small 
 in proportion to the demesnes, but is clear and deep, 
 and, fed by some subterraneous stream, its tide is 
 fresh and strong beyond its dimensions. On its 
 opposite bank is a small fishing-cottage, whitely 
 peeping from a thick and gloomy copse of firs and 
 oaks, through which shine, here and there, the red 
 berries of the mountain-ash ; and behind this, on the 
 other side of the brown, moss-grown deer-paling, is a 
 wood of considerable extent. This, the farther bank 
 of the water, is my favourite spot. Here, when a 
 boy, I used to while away whole holydays, basking 
 indolently in the noon of summer, and building castles 
 in that cloudless air, until the setting of the sun. 
 
 The reeds then grew up, long and darkly green, 
 along the margin ; and though they have since 
 yielded to the innovating scythe, and I hear the 
 wind no longer glide and sigh amidst those earliest 
 tubes of music, yet the whole sod is still fragrant, 
 from spring to autumn, with innumerable heaths and 
 wild flowers, and the crushed odours of the sweet 
 thyme. And never have I seen a spot which the
 
 50 KXEinVORTII. 
 
 hufti'illy more loves to haunt, jiaiticularly tliat siiiall 
 fairy, l»Iiir-wiii_nv<l species wliicli is tamer tliaii the 
 rest, and seems ahnost to invite you to admire it — 
 tlirowinn; itself on the child's mercy as the rohm 
 upon man's. The varieties of the dra^^on-fly, flitter- 
 in ^i: in tiie sun, dart ever throug-h the bou<i;hs and 
 alonir the water. It is a world which the fairest of 
 the insect race seem to have made their own. There 
 is somethinij^ in the hum and stir of a summer noon, 
 which is inexpressihly attractive to the dieams of the 
 imairination. It fills us with a sense of life, but a 
 life not our own — it is the exuberance of creation 
 itself that overflows around us. Man is absent, but 
 life is present. Who has not spent hours in some 
 such spot, cherishino- dreams that have no connexion 
 with the earth, and courting with half-shut eyes the 
 imac^es of the Ideal ? 
 
 t^tretched on the odorous grass, I see on the oppo- 
 site shore the quiet church, wliere "the rude fore- 
 fathers of the hamlet sleep " — that mausoleum where 
 my own dust shall rest at last, and the turrets of my 
 chiMhood's home. All so solitary and yet so elo- 
 quent ! Now the fern waves on the slope, and the 
 deer comes forth, marching with his stately step to 
 the water-side to pause and drink. Nymphs! — 
 Fairies! — Poetry, I am yours again ! 
 
 I do not know how it is, but every year that 
 I visit these scenes I have more need of their solace. 
 My departed youth rises before me in more wan and 
 melancholy hues, and the past saddens me more 
 deej)ly with the i)resent. Yet every year, perhaps, 
 has been a stepping-stone in the ambition of my boy- 
 hood, and brought me nearer to the objects of my 
 early dreams. It is not the mind that has been dis- 
 appointed, it is the heart. AVliat ties are broken — 
 what affections marred ! the Egeria of my liopes, — no 
 cell conceals, no spell can invoke her now! Every 
 pausing-place in the life of the ambitious is marlced 
 alike by the trophy and the tomb. But unambitious 
 men have the tomb without the trophy !
 
 KNEBWOllTH. ' 57 
 
 It is a small, and sequestered, and primitive vil- 
 lage, tliat of Knebworth, thougli bnt thirty miles 
 from London ; consisting of scattered cottages, with 
 here and there a broad green patch of waste land 
 before the doors ; and one side of the verdant lane, 
 which makes the principal street, is skirted by the 
 palings of the park. The steward's house, and the 
 clergyman's, are the only ones — (save the manor- 
 house itself) — aspiring to gentility. And here, never- 
 theless, did Dame Natuie find her varieties — many 
 were they and duly contrasted, when first, in the 
 boundless sociability of childhood, we courted the 
 friendship of every villager. The sturdy keeper, a 
 stalwart man and a burly, whose name was an heir- 
 loom on the estates ; and who, many years after- 
 wards, under another master, perished in a memorable 
 fray with the implacable poachers ; — the simple, horn- 
 eyed idiot basking before the gardener's door, where 
 he lodged — a privileged pensioner, sitting houi- after 
 hour, from sunrise to sunset — what marvels did not 
 that strange passive existence create in us — the young, 
 the buoyant, the impetuous ! how we used to gather 
 round him, and gaze, and wonder how he could pass 
 his time without either work or play !— the one patri- 
 arch beggar of the place, who seemed to beg from 
 vanity not from want ; for, as he doffed his hat, his 
 long snow-white locks fell, parted on either side, 
 down features of apostolic beauty— and many an 
 artist had paused to sketch the venerable head ;■ — the 
 single Lais of the place, stout and sturdy, with high 
 cheekbones and tempting smile, ill-favoured enough, 
 it is true, but boasting her admirers : — the genius, 
 too, of the village — a w^oman with but one hand, who 
 could turn that hand to anything ; nominally pre- 
 siding over the dairy, she was equally apt at all the 
 other affairs of the public life of a village. — Logs, 
 cows, horses, — none might be ill or well without her 
 august permission ; in every quarrel she was witness, 
 jury, and judge. Never had any one more entirely
 
 58 KNEi'.woinn. 
 
 the pfonins of action : sliu was alway.s in cverytliing;, 
 and at tlic liead of cverytliin.2; — niixiDf!;, it is true, 
 Avitli all her enerfry and .arts, a wonderful fidelity and 
 spirit of clauHliip towards her emj^loyer. Tall, d«rk, 
 and luuscular, Mas she ; a kind of caught-and-tamed 
 ^loir ^lerrilies ! 
 
 J^ut our two especial friends were an old cou]de, 
 quartered in a little angle of the village, who, hard 
 on their eiu'litieth year, had ioof^red on, for nearly 
 sixty revolutions of the sun, hand in hand together, 
 and never seemed to have stunil)led on an unkind 
 tliought towards each other. The love of those two 
 old persons was the most perfect, the most beautiful 
 I ever helield. Their children had married and 
 grown up and left them — they were utterly alone. 
 Their simple affections were all in all to them. They 
 had never heen to London, nor, the woman at least, 
 above fifteen miles from the humble sjwt where they 
 had been born, and where their bones were to re- 
 pose. Them the march of knowledge had never 
 ]'eached. They could neither read nor write. Old 
 Age had frozen up the portals of their intellect 
 before the schoolmaster had gone his rounds. So 
 ignorant were they of the world, that they scarce 
 knew the name of the kino-. Chano-es of ministrv, 
 peace and war, the agitations of life, were as utter 
 notliings to them as to the wildest savage of Caf- 
 fraria. Few, as the arithmetic of intellect can com- 
 prise, were their ideas ; but they wanted not to swell 
 the sum, for the ideas were centred, with all that 
 the true sentiment of love ever taught the wisest, 
 within each other. If out of that circle extended 
 their radii of love, it was to the family under 
 whom they had vegetated, and to us who were its 
 young hopes. Us indeed they did love warmly, as 
 something that belonged to them. And scarcely a 
 day ever passed — but A\'hat, in all the riot and glee 
 of boyhood, with half-a-score of dogs at our heels 
 — we used to rush into the quiet of that lonely
 
 KNEBWOKTH. 59 
 
 cottage — scrambling over the palings — bustling 
 throiTgli the threshold — sullying with shoes that 
 had made a day's circuit through all tlie woods and 
 plantings, the scrupulous cleanliness of the hearth, 
 and making their old hearts glad, and proud, and 
 merry, by the very discomfort we occasioned. Then 
 were^ the rude chairs drawn into the jaws of that 
 wide ingle nook — then was the fresh log thrown on 
 the hearth — then would the old dame insist upon 
 chafing our hands, numbed with the cold, as one of 
 us — ah, happiest he!' — drew forth the fragment of 
 cake, or the handful of figs and raisins — brought to 
 shew that they had not been forgotten. And, indeed, 
 never were they forgotten by a more powerful hand 
 and a more steady heart than ours, for daily from the 
 hall came the savoury meal, which the old woman 
 carved tenderly for her husband (for his hands were 
 palsied), and, .until his appetite was sated, sat apart 
 and refused to share. Old Age, so seldom unselfish ! 
 — and the old age of the poor peasant- woman, how 
 many young hearts, full of the phrases of poetry and 
 the mockeries of sentiment, would it have shamed ! 
 
 I see the old man now in a great high -backed 
 tapestry chair, which had been a part of the furniture 
 of the old manor house : in his youth he had served 
 in the sporting establishment of a former squire, my 
 grandfather's predecessor and uncle, and he had con- 
 trived to retain still, fresh and undimmed, through 
 how many years time might forget to register^ a 
 habit of green velvet, whose antiquated cut suited 
 well his long grey locks and venerable countenance. 
 Poor Newman Hagar ! a blessing on that old head — 
 surely you are living yet ! — while I live, you are 
 not all vanished — all swallowed up by the oblivious 
 earth. And, even after I have joined you, perhaps 
 this page, surviving both, shall preserve you among 
 those whom the world does not willingly let jDcrish ! 
 And on the opposite side of the hearth sat the partner 
 of that obscure and harmless existence, ^vith a face
 
 60 KNKim'oinii. 
 
 wliicli, wlien rce were there, never was witliout a 
 smile at oiii- |iresence, nor a tear for our ])arting. 
 Plain tlioii;:;h.lior features must ever have been, and 
 worn and wrinkled as tliey were tlien, I never saw a 
 countenance in wliich not the intellect, Init the feeling 
 of our divine nature, had left a more pleasant and 
 touching trace. 
 
 Sometimes, as the winter day closed in, and dogs 
 and children crowded alike round the comfortahle 
 fire, we delighted to make the old man tell us of his 
 dim memories of former s:quires — the notes of bugles 
 long silenced — the glories of coaches and six long 
 vanished — how the squire was dressed in scarlet and 
 gold — and how my lady swept the avenues in 
 brocade. But pleasanter to me, child as I was, was 
 it to question the good old folks of their own past 
 fortunes — of their first love, and how they came to 
 marry, and how, since, thev had weathered the winds 
 of the changing world. 
 
 " And I dare say you have scolded your wife 
 very often, Newman," said I once ; Old Xewman 
 looked down, and the wife took up the reply. 
 
 " Never to signify — and if he has, I deserved it." 
 
 " And I dare say, if the truth were told, you have 
 scolded him quite as often." 
 
 " Nay," said the old woman, with a beauty of 
 kindness which all the poetry in the world cannot 
 excel, " how can a wife scold her good man, who lias 
 been working for her and her little ones all the day ? 
 It may be for a man to be peevish, for it is he who 
 bears the crosses of the world ; but who should make 
 him forget them but his own wife ? And she had 
 best, for her own sake — for nobody can scold much 
 when the scolding is only on one side." 
 
 Who taught this poor woman her wisdom of love? 
 Something less common than ordinary nature, some- 
 thing better than mere womanhood. For, verily, 
 there are few out of novels to whom either nature or 
 womanhood liath communicated a similar secret !
 
 KNEBWORTH. 61 
 
 And we grew up from children to boys — from 
 boyhood to youth. And old Hagar died — he died 
 during my absence ; and, when I returned, I called 
 at the old woman's solitary house ; I opened the latch ; 
 there she sat by the hearth with dull lack-lustre 
 eyes. And Newman's high-backed chair was ojoposite 
 in the accustomed place, and the green velvet habit 
 was folded carefully on the seat. Poor old woman ! 
 her pleasure at seeing me could be revived no more. 
 She was past all pleasure. Year after year time had 
 essayed in vain to numb her gentle feelings and 
 kindly sympathies : but one single hour — which had 
 taken from her side its helpmate — had done the 
 allotted task. Newman was dead — and the widow 
 could feel no more. She lived on — but it was clock- 
 work. She did not seem to mourn for him, but 
 rather to be grown indifferent to everything else. 
 Once only I saw her weep — it was when, out of com- 
 passion for her solitary age, we wished to place a 
 companion — a nurse in the cottage. " The sooner 
 I'm dead the better," she said. " How can I bear to 
 see a strange face where the old man used to sit ? " 
 
 It is over now, the broken bridge is past ; they 
 are again united. If I were an Atheist for myself I 
 would still pray that there might be a heaven for the 
 poor ! It may be said, indeed, that even in this 
 world the poor are as happy as the rich, and the 
 ignorant more contented than the wise. Possibly 
 it may be so — 3^et, while all the disparities in human 
 condition, which need another world for solution of 
 the riddles in this, come from the efforts of men to 
 gain riches and knowledge, no man who has known 
 riches covets a return to poverty — no man who has 
 tasted knowledge desires to regain the content of 
 ignorance. 
 
 How many hours in the summer nights have I 
 passed in the churchyard which lies embedded in 
 those widths of enamelled sward ! There, at least, no 
 unseemly decorations maintain, after the great era of 
 
 VOL. II. F
 
 62 KXEBWORTJl. 
 
 e(iiiality bas commenced, llie paltry distiiictions of 
 the Past; — distinctions of a day — tlie equality of the 
 Eternal ! There, for the most part unmarked and 
 unrecorded, rise the green hillocks of the liumhle 
 dead, — or, where the stone rer!;isters a little while 
 the foru-otteii name and departed date, the epitaph is 
 simi)le and the material rude. It is tlie very model, 
 the very ideal, of the country churchyard ; so ([uiet 
 is it; so solitary, so ancient, so unadorned. It is 
 the spot above all others where Death teaches, — not 
 as the spectre, hut tjie angel ; oljtruding on us no 
 unreal terror, hut eloquent with its tender moral 
 of Repose. And who has not felt his heart echo 
 that saying of the brilliant Frenchwoman's,* half in- 
 tended as a point, but carried by nature, against the 
 very will of the speaker, into a homely and most 
 touching truth : " At times I feel the want to die, as 
 the wakeful feel the want to sleep ! " 
 
 This is the justest of similes, — worn, wearied, and 
 sated, who has not felt the want to die, as the wakeful 
 the want to sleep ? But this is not the lesson which, 
 after a little thought, the true morality of the grave 
 bequeaths. No, it is from death that we extract the 
 noble and magnificent lesson of life. Awed by the 
 sense of its shortness, we turn away elevated by its 
 objects. Let us crowd it with generous and useful 
 deeds, — if eternity be at hand, let us prepare our- 
 selves for its threshold by the aims and ends which 
 arc most worthy of the soul ; and by the glory of 
 our own thoughts and our own deeds, walk, natur- 
 ally as it were, to the Immortal. Filling ourselves 
 with this ambition, we rise beyond our sorrows and 
 our cares — we conquer the morbid darkness wdiich 
 satiety gatliers round us, and take from the dead a 
 moral won from their spirits and not their dust. He 
 who fails in this does not comprehend the true philo- 
 sophy of the tomb. 
 
 The churchyard — the village — the greensward — 
 
 * M;ulanic dii Di-flaiid.
 
 KNEBWOETH. 63 
 
 tlie water-side, odorous with reeds and thyme — the 
 woods in which first came to me as from the heart of 
 summer the note of the cuckoo — the hmes under which 
 I first read the ' Faery Queen,' Kstening to the coo of 
 the ringdove — all united and blended together make 
 the only place on earth wherein I can dream myself 
 back to the gates of youth. All know some such spot — 
 blessed and blessing; — the scene of their childhood 
 — the haunt of their fondest recollections. And while 
 it is yet ours to visit it at will — while it yet rests in 
 the dear and sacred hands to which it belonged of 
 yore — while no stranger sits at the hearth, and no 
 new tenants chase away ' the old familiar faces,' who 
 has not felt as if in storm and shower there were 
 a shelter over his head — as if he were not unprotected 
 — as if fate preserved a sanctuary to the fugitive, 
 and life a fountain to the weary ? 
 
 A blessing upon that home, and upon its owner ! 
 In the presence of a Mother we feel that our child- 
 hood has not all departed ! It is as a barrier be- 
 tween ourselves and the advance of Time. 
 
 F 2
 
 <!l TIIK CIIOICK OF I'llVI-lAS. 
 
 TJIE CHOICE OF IMIYLTAS. 
 
 l*iiYMAS was a yoiiiijo; Atlienian, whom the precepts 
 of Socrates had reared to the desire of glory, and tVie 
 worship of virtue! lie wislicd at once to be great 
 and to be good. Unfortunately, Phylias nourished a 
 third wish, somewhat less elevated, but niuch more 
 commonly entertained — the wish to be loved ! He 
 aimed at esteem, but he yearned for aflection ; and to 
 an aspiring soul he united a too-susceptible heart. 
 
 One day, as he was wandering among the olive- 
 groves that border Cephisus, and indulging in those 
 reveries on his future destiny which make the hap- 
 piest prerogative of the young, his thoughts thus 
 broke into words : — 
 
 " Yes, I will devote my life to the service of my 
 countrymen : I will renounce luxury and ease. Not 
 for me shall be the cooks of Sicily, nor the garlands of 
 Rhodes. My chambers shall not stream with Syrian 
 frankincense, nor resound with the loud shouts of 
 Ionic laughter. No : I will consecrate my youth to 
 the pursuit of wisdom and the practice of virtue ; so 
 shall I become great, and so beloved. For when I 
 have thus sacrificed my enjoyments to the welfare of 
 others, shall they not all honour and esteem me ? 
 Will they not insist tliat I take the middle couch at 
 the public festivals ? and will not all the friends of 
 my youth contend who among them shall repose 
 upon my bosom ? It is happy to be virtuous ; but, 
 O Socrates, is it not even happier to be universally 
 beloved for virtue?" 
 
 While Phylias was thus soliloquising, he heard a 
 low, sweet laugh Iteside him ; and, somewhat startled
 
 THE CHOICE OF PHY LIAS. 65 
 
 at the sound — for he had fancied himself entirely 
 alone — he turned hastily round, and heheld a figure 
 of very singular appearance. It was a tall man in 
 the prime of life ; but one side of the face and form 
 was utterty different from the other : on one side the 
 head was crowned with the festive wreath — the robes 
 flowed loose and disordered — joy and self-complacency 
 sparkled on the smiling countenance. You beheld a 
 gaiety which could not fail to attract ; but an air of 
 levity which you could not respect. Widely con- 
 trasted was the other half of this strange apparition : 
 without crown or garland, the locks fell in sober flow, 
 after the fashion of the Areopagites ; the garb was 
 costly, but decent and composed ; and in the eye and 
 brow the aspect was dignified and lofty, but some- 
 what pensive, and clouded either by thought or care : 
 in the one half you beheld a boon companion, whom 
 you would welcome and forget ; in the other a lofty 
 monitor, from whom you shrank in unacknowledged 
 fear ; and whom even in esteeming you were willing 
 carefully to shun. 
 
 " And who art thou ? And from what foreign 
 countrv comest thou ? " asked the Athenian, in as- 
 tonishment and awe. 
 
 " I come from the Land of the Invisibles," an- 
 swered the apparition : " and I am thy tutelary 
 demon. Thou art now of that age, and hast attained 
 to that height of mind, in which it is permitted me 
 to warn and to advise thee. By what vain dreams, 
 Phylias ! art thou befooled ? Dost thou not see 
 that thou art asking two boons incompatible with 
 each other — to be popular with the many and to be 
 esteemed by the few? Take thy choice of either; 
 thou canst not combine both. Look well at the guise 
 and garb in which I appear to thee ; if thou wouldst 
 please in life, thou seest in one half of me the model 
 which thou shouldst imitate ; if thou wouldst be 
 renowned in death, in the other half behold an 
 example. Be superior to thy fellow-men in wisdom.
 
 60 TFIK CHOICE OF TIIVLIAS. 
 
 aii<l prepare for tlie liatretl of all whose self-love thou 
 wilt wound : he the erpial of thy fellow-men in lolly, 
 and enjoy the good will they readily accord to the com- 
 panion who contrihiites to their amusement without 
 provoking; their envy. Look at me a<2:ain ! which side 
 of mine iinag'C wilt thou choose for thy likeness?" 
 
 "False demon!" answered Phvlias; "thou 
 wouklst sicken me of life itself couldst thou compel 
 me on the one hand to arouse hatred, or on the 
 other to justify contempt. Thou mistakest alike the 
 attributes of the wisdom I covet, and the character 
 of my own ambition. There is nothing in the one so 
 severe that it should rejjel men's aftection, nor in 
 the other so arrogant as to mortify their self-love. 
 Away ! thou speakest but to mock or betray me ; and 
 art no demgn of that kindly race in which Socrates 
 would have permitted a disciple to recognise his 
 guardian spirit." 
 
 Again the demon laughed. " Thou wilt know me 
 better one of these days. Meanwliile is thy choice 
 made ? Dost thou place thy happiness in the pursuit 
 of renown ? " 
 
 " Yes ! " cried the Athenian ; " convinced that if 
 renowned I must be beloved, — because the only fame 
 I desire is tliat of one who has served his country 
 and benefited mankind." 
 
 " Follow the path of life thou hast chosen," said 
 the demon, " and from time to time pause to contrast 
 thyself with Glaucus. Farewell ! " 
 
 The apparition vanished : musing and bewildered 
 Phylias returned home. 
 
 II is resolutions were not shaken, nor his ambition 
 dam])ed. He resigned the common pleasures of his 
 youth ; he braced his limbs by hardihood and tem- 
 perance, and fed the sources of his mind from the 
 quiet fountain of wisdom. 
 
 The first essays of his ambition were natural to 
 his |)eriod of life. He went through the preparatory 
 exercises, and entered himself a candidate for the
 
 THE CHOICE OF PHYLIAS. 67 
 
 crown at the Olympic Games. On the day preceding 
 that on which the Games commenced, PhyHas met 
 among the crowd, which a ceremony of such brilhant 
 attraction had gathered together in the Sacred Land, 
 a young man whom he had known from his childhood. 
 Frank in his manner, and joyous in his disposition, 
 Glaucus was the favourite of all who knew him. 
 
 Though possessed of considerable talents, no one 
 envied him : for those talents were never exerted in 
 order to distinguish himself — his ambition was to 
 amuse others. He gave way to every caprice of his 
 own or of his comrades, provided that it promised 
 pleasure. Su^^ple and versatile, even the sturdiest 
 philosophers were charmed with his society ; and the 
 loosest profligates swore sincerely that they loved, 
 because they were not compelled to respect, him. His 
 countenance never shamed them into a suspicion that 
 their career was ignoble ; and they did justice to his 
 talents, because they could sympathise with his foibles. 
 
 " You do not contend for any of the prizes, I 
 think," said Phylias ; " for I do not remember to have 
 seen you at the preparatory exercises ? " 
 
 " Not I, by Hercules ! " answered Glaucus, gaily. 
 " I play in the Games the part that I play in Life — I 
 am merely a spectator. Could I drink more deeply, 
 or sleep more soundly, if my statue were set up in 
 the Sacred Grove ? Alas ! no. Let my friends love 
 Glaucus their comrade — not hate Glaucus their rival. 
 And you ? " 
 
 " I am a competitor in the chariot race." 
 
 " Success to you ! I shall offer up my sacrifice 
 for your triumph : meanwhile I am going to hear 
 Therycides read his new play. Farewell ! " 
 
 " What a charming person is Glaucus ! " thought 
 Phylias. 
 
 Even Phylias liked Glaucus the better for know- 
 iug that Glaucus was not to be his antagonist. 
 
 The morning rose — the hour of trial came on. 
 With a flushed cheek, and a beating heart, Phylias
 
 68 TllK CIKUCK OF PHYLIAS. 
 
 mounted his chariot. He was successful : he achieved 
 tlic pahn. He returned to Athens amidst tlie loudest 
 acclamations. His chariot rolled throug'h the l)roken 
 wall of his native city: the poets lauded him to the 
 skies. Phvlias had conuuenced the career of fame, 
 and its first fruits were delicious. His parents wept 
 with joy at his triumph ; and the old men pointed 
 him out as a model to their sons. Sons hate models ; 
 and the more Phvlias was praised, the more his 
 contemporaries disliked him. When the novelty of 
 success was cooled he hegan to feel that the palm 
 branch had its thorns. It' he met his young friends 
 iu the street, they saluted him coldly : " We do not 
 ask you to come to us," said they ; " you have 
 weightier matters on hand than our society can af- 
 ford. We are going to sup with Glaucus : while 
 you are meditating, we suppose, the best way to 
 eclipse Alcibiades." 
 
 Meetings like these threw an embarrassment over 
 the manner of Phylias himself. He thought that he 
 was ill-treated, and retired into the chamber of pride. 
 He became reserved, and he was called supercilious. 
 
 The Olympic Games do not happen every day, 
 and Phylias began to feel that he who is ambitious 
 has no o])tion between excitement and exhaustion. 
 He therefore set about preparing himself for a nobler 
 triumph than that of a charioteer ; and from the 
 management of horses aspired to the government of 
 men. He fitted himself for the labours of puljlic life, 
 and the art of public speaking. He attended the 
 popular assemblies — he rose into repute as an orator. 
 
 It was a critical time in the history of the 
 Athenian Commonwealth. Alternately caressing and 
 quarrelling with tlie passionate Alcibiades, his coun- 
 trymen now saw him a foe in Sparta, and now 
 hailed him a saviour in Athens. Phylias, dreading 
 the ambition of that unprincipled genius, and yet 
 resisting the encroaching tyranny of the four hundred 
 rulers, performed the duty of a patriot, and pleading
 
 THE CHOICE OF PHYLIAS. 69 
 
 for liberty displeased both parties. Nothing could 
 be more disinterested than his conduct, nor more 
 admired than his speeches. He proved his virtue, 
 and he established his fame ; and wherever he went 
 he was vehemently abused. 
 
 He frequently met with Glaucus, who, taking no 
 share in politics, was entertained by all parties, and 
 the most popular man in Athens, because the most 
 unobtrusive. 
 
 " You are become a great man now," said Grlaucus 
 to him one day ; " and you will doubtless soon arrive 
 at the last honour Athens can confer upon her chil- 
 dren. Your property will be confiscated, and your 
 person will be exiled." 
 
 " No ! " said Phylias, with generous emotion ; 
 " truth is great, and must prevail. Misinterpretation 
 and slander will soon die away, and my countrymen 
 will requite me by their esteem." 
 
 " The gods grant it ! " said the flattering Glaucus. 
 " No man merits esteem more." 
 
 In the short intervals of repose which public life 
 allowed to Athenian statesmen, Phylias contrived to 
 fall in love. 
 
 Chyllene was beautiful as a dream. She was full 
 of all amiable qualities ; but she was a human being, 
 and fond of an agreeable life. 
 
 In his passion for Chyllene, Phylias, for the first 
 time in his career, found a rival in Grlaucus ; for love 
 was the only passion in which Glaucus did not shun 
 to provoke the jealousy of the powerful. Chyllene 
 was sorely perplexed which to choose : Phylias was 
 so wise, but then Glaucus was so gay ; Phylias was 
 so distinguished, but then Grlaucus was so popular ; 
 Phylias made excellent speeches, — but then how 
 beautifully Glaucus sung ! 
 
 Unfortunately, in the stern and manly pursuits of 
 his life, Phylias had necessarily outgrown those little 
 arts of pleasing which were so acceptable to the ladies 
 of Athens.
 
 70 THE CHOICE or I'll V [J AS. 
 
 He dressed witli a decorous dic^nity, but not with 
 tlie studied, yet easy, graces of (Jlaucus. TTow, too, 
 amidst all his occn])ati()i)s, could lie find tlie time to 
 deck the doors of liis beloved with p'lrlands, to renew 
 the libations on her threshold, and to cover every 
 wall in the city with her name added to the flattering 
 e})ithet of kuXtj. But none of these important cere- 
 monies were neglected by Glaucus, in whom the art 
 to please had been the sole study of hfe. Glaucus 
 gained ground daily. 
 
 "I esteem you beyond all men," Chyllene could 
 say to Phylias without a blush. But she trembled, 
 and said nothing, when Glaucus approached. 
 
 " I love you better than all things ! " said Glaucus, 
 passionately, one day to Chyllene. 
 
 " I love you better than all things, save my 
 country," said Phylias the same morning. 
 
 " Ah, Phylias is doubtless the best patriot," 
 thought Chyllene; "but Glaucus is certainly the 
 best lover ! " 
 
 The very weaknesses of Glaucus were charming, 
 but his virtues gave to Phylias something of austerity. 
 With Phylias, Chyllene felt ashamed of her faults ; 
 with Glaucus, she was only aware of her merits. 
 
 Alcibiades was now the idol of Athens. He 
 prejiared to set out with a hundred ships for the 
 Hellespont, to assist the allies of Athens. Willing 
 to rid the city of so vigilant a guard upon his actions 
 as Phylias, he contrived that the latter should be 
 appointed to a command in the fleet. The rank of 
 Glaucus obtained him a lesser but distinguished 
 appointment. 
 
 Chyllene was in xlanger of losing both her lovers. 
 
 " "Wilt thou desert me ? " said she to Phylias. 
 
 "Alas! my country demands it. I shall return 
 to thee covered with laurels." 
 
 "And thou, Glaucus?" 
 
 " Perish Alcibiades and Greece herself, before I 
 quit thee ! " cried Glaucus, who, had there been no
 
 THE CHOICE OF PHYLIAS. 71 
 
 mistress in the case, would never willingly have 
 renounced luxury for danger. 
 
 Phylias, with a new incentive to glory, and a full 
 confidence in the sympathy of his beloved, set out for 
 Andria. Glaucus was taken suddenly ill, remained 
 at home, and a month afterwards his bride Chyllene 
 was carried by torchlight to his house. It is true 
 that every body at Athens detected the imposition ; 
 but every one laughed at it goodhumouredly ; " For 
 Glaucus," said they, " never set up for a paragon of 
 virtue!" Thus his want of principle was the very 
 excuse for wanting it. 
 
 The expedition to Andria failed — Alcibiades was 
 banished again — and Phylias, though he had per- 
 formed prodigies of valour, shared in the sentence of 
 his leader. His fellow citizens were too glad of an 
 excuse to rid themselves of that unpleasant sensation 
 which the superiority of another always inflicts on 
 our self-love. 
 
 Years rolled away. Phylias had obtained all 
 that his youth coveted of glory. Greece rang with 
 his name ; he was now aged, an exile, and a de- 
 pendant at the Persian court. There every one 
 respected, but no one loved him. The majesty of 
 his mien, the simplicity of his manners, the very 
 splendour of his reputation, made the courtiers of the 
 great king uneasy in his presence. He lived very 
 much alone ; and his only recreation was in walking 
 at evening among the alleys of a wood, that re- 
 minded him of the groves of Athens, and meditating 
 over the past adventures of his life. 
 
 It happened that at this time Glaucus, who had 
 survived both his wife and his patrimony, had suf- 
 fered himself, under the hope of repairing his broken 
 fortunes, to be entrapped into a conspiracy to restore 
 the Oligarchy after the death of Conon. He was 
 detected, and his popularity did not save him from 
 banishment. He sought refuge in the Persian court : 
 the elastic gaiety of his disposition still continued.
 
 "- 'IIIK CIKUCK OI' I'lIVLIAS. 
 
 and over his grey Imirs yet glowed the festive cliaplet 
 of roses. Tlie courtiers were (leh'glited witli his wit 
 — the king could not feast without him : — they con- 
 sulted Pliylias, hut they associated with Glaucus. 
 
 One evening as Phylias was musing in liis 
 favourite grove, and as afar off he heard the music 
 and the merriment of a banquet, held by the king 
 in his summer-house, and with Glaucus at his right 
 hand, — the melancholy exile found himself gently 
 plucked by the hem of his garment. He turned 
 hastily round, and once more beheld his Genius. 
 
 " Thy last hour fast approaches," said the demon ; 
 " again, then, I come to visit thee. At the morning 
 of life I foretold that fate w-hich should continue to 
 its close : I bade thee despair of uniting celebrity and 
 love. Thou hast attempted tlie union — what hath 
 been thy success ? " 
 
 "Mysterious visitor!" answered Phylias, "thy 
 words were true, and my hope was formed in the 
 foolishness of youth. I stand alone, honoured and 
 urdoved. But surely this is not the doom of all who 
 have pursued a similar ambition?" 
 
 "Recollect thyself," replied the phantom: " w^as 
 not thy master Socrates persecuted unto death, and 
 Aristides ostracised on account of his virtues ? Canst 
 thou name one great man who in life was not calum- 
 niated for his services? Thou standest not alone. 
 To shine is to injure the self-love of others ; and 
 self-love is the most vindictive of human feelings." 
 
 " Yet had I not been an Athenian," murmured 
 Phylias, " I might have received something of 
 gratitude." 
 
 "They call Athens ungrateful," answered the 
 spectre ; " but everywhere, while time lasts, the in- 
 gratitude shall be the same. One state may exile 
 her illustrious men, another merely defame them ; 
 but day is not more separate from night, than true 
 fame from general popidarity." 
 
 " Alas ! thou teachest a bitter lesson," said
 
 THE CHOICE OF PHYLIAS. 73 
 
 Phylias, sighing ; " better, then, to renounce the 
 glory which separates us from the indulgent mercies 
 of our kind. Has not mv choice been an error, as 
 well as a misfortune ? " 
 
 The countenance of the Genius became suddenly 
 divine. Majesty sat upon his brow, and unspeak- 
 able wisdom shone from his piercing eyes, as he 
 replied, " Hark ! as thou askest thy unworthy ques- 
 tion, the laugh of the hoary Glaucus breaks upon 
 thy ear. The gods gave to him the privilege to be 
 beloved — and despised. Wouldst thou, w^ere the 
 past at thy control, — wouldst thou live the life that 
 he hath lived ? wouldst thou, for the smiles of revel- 
 lers, or for the heart of the mistress of thy manhood, 
 feel that thy career had been worthless, and that thy 
 sepulchre should be unknown ? No ! by the flush 
 upon thy cheek, thou acknowledgest that to the great 
 the pride of recollection is sufficient happiness in 
 itself. Thine only error was in this, — the wish to 
 obtain the fleeting breath of popular regard, as the 
 reward for immortal labours. The illustrious should 
 serve the world, unheeding of its frail applause. The 
 whisper of their own hearts should convey to them 
 a diviner music than the acclamation of crowds. 
 Thou shouldst have sought only to be great, so w^ould 
 it never have grieved thee to find thyself unbeloved. 
 The soul of the great should be as a river, rejoicing 
 in its mighty course, and benefiting all — nor con- 
 scious of the fading garlands which perishable hands 
 may scatter upon its tide." 
 
 The corpse of Phylias was found that night in 
 the wood by some of the revellers returning home. 
 And the Persian king buried the body in a gorgeous 
 sepulchre, and the citizens of Athens ordained a 
 public mourning for his death. And to the name of 
 Phylias a thousand bards promised immortality — 
 and, save in this momentary record, the name of 
 Phylias has perished from the earth !
 
 LAKE LKMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 LAKE LKMAN, AND TTS ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 TnKRE are some places in tlie world wLicli persons 
 of lively imafji^iiintioii, who contract a syni]>atliy with 
 genius, feel it almost a duty to visit. Not to per- 
 form such ]iilgrimages seems a neglect of one of the 
 o])jects of life. The world has many a Mecca and 
 many a Medina for those who find a prophet in 
 genius, and a holiness in its sepulchre. Of these 
 none are more sacred than 
 
 " Leman — with its crystal face." 
 
 The very name of the lake retains the spell of the 
 Enchanters who have practised their art npon its 
 banks. Utter the name, think of the Enchanters, 
 and at once before the eye rise the rocks of Meillerie, 
 the white walls of Chillon. Lo, Byron in his boat, 
 with the storm breaking over Jura ! — lo, " the covered 
 walk of acacias," in which Gibbon turned from the 
 last page of the work which assured his fame to gaze 
 on the passing wave lighted up by the moment's 
 moonlight. Linger yet longer on that name, think 
 of Enchanters yet more potent over the fates of men 
 — and before you glide the phantoms of Calvin, Vol- 
 taire, Rousseau. 
 
 The morning after my arrival at the inn, which 
 is placed (a little distance from Geneva) on the 
 margin of the lake, 1 crossed to the house which 
 Byron inhabited, and which is almost exactly oppo- 
 site. The day was calm but gloomy, the waters 
 almost without a ripple. Arrived at the opposite 
 shore you ascend, by a somewhat rude and steep 
 ascent, to a small village, winding round which you
 
 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 75 
 
 come upon the gates of the house. On the right- 
 hand side of the road, as you thus enter, is a vine- 
 yard, in which, at that time, the grapes hung ripe 
 and clustering. Within the gates are some three or 
 four trees, ranged in an avenue. Descending a few 
 steps, you see in a small court before the door a rude 
 fountain ; it was then dried up — the waters had 
 ceased to play. On either side is a small garden 
 branching from the court, and by the door are rough 
 stone seats. You enter a small hall, and, thence, an 
 apartment containing three rooms. The principal 
 one is charming, — long, and of an oval shape, with 
 carved wainscoting — the windows on three sides of 
 the room command the most beautiful views of Geneva, 
 the Lake, and its opposite shores. They open upon 
 a terrace paved with stone ; on that terrace how often 
 he must have " watched with wistful eyes the setting 
 sun ! " It was here that he was in the ripest maturity 
 of his genius — in the most interesting epoch of his 
 life. He had passed the bridge that divided him 
 from his country, but the bridge was not yet broken 
 down. He had not yet been enervated by the soft 
 south. His luxuries were still of the intellect — his 
 sensualism was yet of nature — his mind had not faded 
 from its youthfulness and vigour — his was yet the 
 season of hope rather than of performance, and 
 the world dreamed more of what he would be than 
 what he was or had been. 
 
 His works (the Paris edition) were on the table. 
 Himself was everywhere ! Near to this room is a 
 smaller cabinet, very simply and rudely furnished. 
 On one side, in a recess, is a bed, — on the other, a 
 door communicates with a dressing-room. Here, I was 
 told, he was chiefly accustomed to write. And what 
 works ? ' Manfred,' and the most beautiful stanzas of 
 the third canto of ' Childe Harold,' rush at once upon 
 our memory. You now ascend the stairs, and pass a 
 kind of corridor, at the end of which is a window, com- 
 manding a superb view of the Lake. This corridor
 
 7(1 LAKE LKM.W, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 or ])as.sage is Imiiii; w itli some curious hut wretclied 
 portniits. Francis I., I)iaiia of Poitiers, and Julius 
 Scaliger among the rest. You now enter In's hed- 
 room. Nothing can he more liomely tlian tlie furni- 
 ture ; the hed is in a recess, and in one corner an 
 old walnut-tree hureau, where you may still see writ- 
 ten over some of the com])artments, " Letters of 
 
 Lady J5 ." His ideal life vanishes before this 
 
 simple label, and all the weariness, and all the dis- 
 ai)i)ointment of his real domestic life, come sadly 
 upon you. You recall the nine executions in one 
 year — the annoyance and the bickering, and the 
 estrangement, and the gossip-scandal of the world, 
 and the " Broken Household Gods." * Men may 
 moralise as they will, but misfortunes cause error, — 
 and atone for it ! 
 
 I wished to see no other rooms but those occupied 
 by him. I did not stay to look at the rest. I passed 
 into the small garden that fronts the house — here 
 was another fountain which the Nymph had not 
 deserted. Over it drooped the boughs of a willow ; 
 beyond, undivided by any barrier, spread a An'neyard, 
 whose verdant leaves and laughing fruit contrasted 
 somewhat painfully witii the associations of the spot. 
 The Great Mother is easily consoled for the loss of 
 the brightest of her children. The sky was more in 
 harmony with the Genius Loci than the earth. Its 
 quiet and gloomy clouds were reflected upon the 
 unwrinkled stillness of the Lake ; and afar its horizon 
 rested, in a thousand mists, upon the crests of the 
 melancholy mountains. 
 
 * " I was disiwscd to be pleased. I am a lover of Nature and an admirer 
 of Beauty. I can bear fatigue, and welconu' ])rivatinii, and have seen some 
 of the noblest views in the world. But in all tliis, the recollection of bitter- 
 ness, and more esixxiially of recent and more home desolation, which must 
 accompany me through life, has preyed upon me here ; and neither the 
 music of the shejiherd, the crashing of the avalanclie, nor the torrent, the 
 mountain, the glacier, the forest, nor the cloud, have for one moment 
 lightened the weight uixin my heart, nor enabled me to lose my own 
 wretchwl identity in the majesty, and the power, and the glory, aroimd, 
 above, and beneath me." — Byron's Journal of his Swiss Tour.
 
 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 77 
 
 The next day I was impatient to divert my mind 
 from the reflections which saddened it whenever, 
 from the gardens of the hotel, I caught sight of the 
 opposite villa, with all its mournful associations. I 
 repaired on a less interesting pilgrimage, though 
 to a yet more popular shrine. What Byron was 
 for a season, Voltaire was for half a century : a power 
 in himself — the cynosure of civilization — the dictator 
 of the Intellectual Eepublic. He was one of the few 
 in whom thought has j^roduced the same results as 
 action. Modern Europe can boast of many a pro- 
 founder thinker, whose influence has been incalcul- 
 ably more acknowledged in those lofty regions in 
 which the philosophy of pure reasoning holds her 
 home. But perhaps no one among them has exer- 
 cised so extensive a sway over the average order of 
 minds in the relationship between philosophy and 
 politics. Not that to him or to the freethinkers with 
 whom he co-operated up to a certain extent, but 
 whom he mocked as visionaries if they went beyond 
 it, are to be ascribed the causes of that French Eevo- 
 lution from which civilized communities date a new 
 era in their annals. The causes would have equally 
 existed if Voltaire had never written a line. His 
 influence was on the effects — it permeated the spirit 
 which the Revolution conceived. That spirit was the 
 copyist of his genius in its power to destroy and its 
 impotence to reconstruct. Where it pulled down 
 with Voltaire its triumph was signal ; where it sought 
 to build up with Rousseau its failure was signal. 
 
 The drive from Greneva to Ferney is pictur- 
 esque and well cultivated enough to make us doubt 
 the accuracy of the descriptions which proclaim the 
 country round Ferney to have been a desert prior 
 to the settlement of Voltaire. You approach the 
 house by an avenue. To the left is the well-known 
 church which "Voltaire erected to Grod." ("Deo 
 erexit Voltaire.") It is the mode among tourists to 
 
 VOL. II. G
 
 78 l.AKi: l.KMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 woikUt at this piety, and to call it inconsistent witli 
 tlie tenets of its founder. ]5ut tourists are seldom 
 profound inquirers. Any one the least acquainted 
 witli A'oltaire's Nvriting^s, would know tliat atlieism 
 is the last charge to be laid to his account, lie is 
 one of the strongest arguers riiilosoi)hy possesses 
 in favour of the existence of the Supreme Being; 
 and much as he ridicules fanatics, they are well off 
 from his satire when com]xired with the atheists. 
 His zeal, indeed, for the Divine existence some- 
 times carries him be};ond his judgment, as in tliat 
 Romance, where Dr. Friend (Doctor of Divinity, 
 and Member of Parliament !) converts his son Jenni 
 (what names these F'rcnchmen do give us!), and 
 Jenni's friend Birton, in a dispute before a circle of 
 savages. — Dr. Friend overthrows the sturdy Atheist 
 with too obvious an ease. In fact, Voltaire w^as im- 
 patient of an argument against which he invariably 
 declared that the evidence of our senses was opposed. 
 He was intolerance itself to a reasoner against the 
 evidence of reason. I must be pardoned for doing 
 Voltaire this justice — I do not wish to leave atheism 
 so brilliant an authority. 
 
 Opposite to the church, and detached from the 
 liouse, was once the theatre, now pulled down — a 
 thick copse is planted on the site. 1 should like, 1 
 own, to have seen, even while I defend Voltaire's 
 belief in a Deity, whether " Mahomet" or " Le bon 
 Dieu " were the better lodged ! 
 
 The house is now before you — long, regular, and 
 tolerably handsome, when compared with the usual 
 character of French or of Swiss architecture. It has 
 been described so often, that I would not go over the 
 same ground if it did not possess an interest which 
 no repetition can wear away. Besides, it helps to 
 illustrate the character of the owner. A man's home 
 is often a witness of hi^nself. 
 
 The salle de reception is a small room, the furniture
 
 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 79 
 
 unaltered — the same needlework chairs in cabriole 
 frames of oak — the same red-flowered velvet on the 
 walls. The insensibility to beautiful form in the 
 abstract which rendered Yoltaire a bad critic, except 
 where some genuine work of art, like a tragedy by 
 Corneille, haj^pened to be in accordance with his con- 
 ventional taste, seems typified in the wretched pictures, 
 which would have put an English poet into a nervous 
 fever — and in the huge stove, elaborately gaudy, of 
 barbarous shape, and profusely gilt, which supports 
 his bust. In this room is the- celebrated picture of 
 which tradition says that he gave the design. Herein 
 Voltaire is depicted as presenting the ' Henriade ' to 
 Apollo, while his enemies are sinking into the infernal 
 regions, and Envy is expiring at his feet ! A singular 
 proof of the modesty of merit, and the tolerance of 
 philosophy. So there is a hell then for disbelievers — 
 in Voltaire ! But we must not take such a design in a 
 literal spirit. Voltaire was a conceited man, but he 
 was also a consummate man of the world. We may 
 depend upon it that he himself laughed at the whole 
 thing as much as any one else. How merry he must 
 have been when he pointed out the face of each par- 
 ticular foe ! How gaily he must have jested on their 
 damnatory condition ! It was one of those joyous 
 revenges in which the extravagance of caricature 
 proves the absence of malignity. Malignity is a 
 sombre and melancholic vice, incompatible with the 
 brisk animal spirits which Voltaire retained to the 
 last. 
 
 The bedroom joins the salon ; it contains the 
 portraits of Frederic the Grreat and himself, which 
 were engraved for the edition of his works by Beau- 
 marchais. You see here the vase in which his heart 
 was placed, with the sentiment of " Mon esprit est 
 partout — Mon cceur est id." Le Kain's portrait hangs 
 over his bed. Voltaire was the man to appreciate 
 an actor : he had owed much of his own success in 
 
 G 2
 
 80 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 life to his knowlud/j^e f)f Htap;o effect, and lie did 
 not like Nature to be too natural. The first 
 tlion<^ht of a horn poet like Byron, in l)uilding 
 his lionse in such a spot, would have been to open 
 the windows of his favourite rooms upon the most 
 beautiful parts of that enchantiiif^ scenery. But Vol- 
 taire's windows are all carefully turned the other 
 way ! ^'ou do not behold from them either the Lake 
 or the Alps, a view which (for they are visible im- 
 mediately on entering the garden) might so easily 
 have been obtained. But the Lake and the Alps 
 were not things Voltaire ever thought it necessary 
 either to describe or study. Living chiefly in the 
 country, he was essentially the poet of cities. And 
 even his profound investigation of men was of arti- 
 ficial men. If men had neither profound emotions, 
 nor subtle thoughts and intense imaginations, Voltaire 
 would have been the greatest painter of mankind 
 that ever existed. 
 
 You leave the house — you descend a few steps ; 
 opposite to you is a narrow road, with an avenue 
 of poplars. You enter into a green, overarching 
 alley, which would be completely closed in l)y the 
 thickset hedge on either side, if here and there 
 little mimic windows had not been cut through the 
 boughs : through these wdndows you may take an 
 occasional peep at the majestic scenery beyond. That 
 was the way Voltaire liked to look at Nature ; through 
 little windows in an artificial hedge ! And without 
 the hedge, the landscape would have been so glorious ! 
 This was Voltaire's favourite morning walk. At the 
 end is a bench, Tipon which the great man was wont 
 to sit, and think. I sec him now, in his gold-laced 
 crimson coat — his stockings drawn half-way up the 
 thigh — his chin rested on his long cane — his eyes, 
 not dark, as tliey are sometimes misrepresented, but 
 of a clear and steely blue — fixed, not on the ground, 
 nor upward, but on the s})ace before him ; — thus
 
 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 81 
 
 does tlie old gardener, who remembers, pretend to 
 describe him : I see him meditating his last journey 
 to Paris, — that most glorious consummation of a life 
 of literary triumph which has ever been accorded to 
 a literary man — that death which came from the 
 poison of his own laurels. Never did Fame illumine 
 so intensely the passage to the grave : but the same 
 torch that flashed upon the triumph, lighted the 
 pyre. It was like the last scene of some gorgeous 
 melodrame, and the very effect which most dazzled 
 the audience was the signal to drop the curtain ! 
 
 The old gardener, who boasts himself to have 
 passed his hundredth year, declares that he has the 
 most perfect recollection of the person of Yoltaire ; 
 I taxed that recollection severely. I was surprised 
 to hear that even in age, and despite the habit of 
 stooping, Yoltaire was considerably above the middle 
 height. But the gardener dwelt with greater plea- 
 sure on his dress than his person ; he was very proud 
 of the full wig and the laced waistcoat, still prouder 
 of the gilt coach and the four long-tailed horses. 
 Yoltaire loved parade — there was nothing simple 
 about his tastes. It was not indeed the age of sim- 
 plicity. 
 
 Amidst a gravel space is a long slip of turf, un- 
 touched since it was laid down by Yoltaire himself, 
 and not far from it is the tree he planted, fair, 
 tall, and flourishing ; at the time I saw it, the sun 
 was playing cheerily through its delicate leaves. 
 From none of his works is the freshness so little faded. 
 My visit to Byron's house of the day before, my visit 
 now to Ferney, naturally brought the illustrious in- 
 habitants of each into contrast and comparison. In 
 the persecution each had undergone, in the absorbing 
 personal power which each had obtained, there was 
 something similar. But Byron attached himself to 
 the heart, and Yoltaire to the intellect. Perhaps if 
 Byron had lived to old age and followed out the im-
 
 82 I.AKK I,F,MAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 j)ulses of Doll .hiaii, lie would li;ive ^nadiially drawn 
 tlic compaiisoM closer. And, indeed, lie had more in 
 eoiunion witli \'olt^nre than with ]{(jiisseaii, to whom 
 he has heen likened. He was above the efteminacy 
 and the falseness of Rousseau ; and he had the strong 
 sense, and the stern mockery, and the earnest bitter- 
 ness of Voltaire. 15oth Hyron and Voltaire wanted 
 a true mastery over the passions; for Byron does not 
 paint nor arouse passion ;* lie paints and he arouses 
 sentiment. But in I5yron sentiment itself had much 
 of the stren^^-th and all the intensity of passion. He 
 kindled thoughts into feeling.;. Voltaire had no senti- 
 ment in his writings, though not, perhaps, devoid 
 of it in iiimself. Indeed he could not have been 
 generous with so much delicacy, if he had not pos- 
 sessed a finer and a softer spirit than his works dis- 
 play. Still less could he have had that singular love 
 for the unfortunate, that courageous compassion for 
 the opj^ressed, which so prominently illustrate his 
 later life. No one could with less justice be called 
 " heartless " than Voltaire. He w^as remarkably 
 tenacious of all early friendships, and loved as 
 strongly as he disdained deeply. Any tale of dis- 
 tress imposed u])on him easily ; he was the creature 
 of impulse, and half a child to the last. He had a 
 
 * Byron lias been CiiUetl, \>y suiK'rficial critics, the Poet of Passion, but 
 it is not true. To psiint passion, you must juiint the struggle of ]iassion ; 
 and this Ryrun (out of his plays at least) never does. There is no delinea- 
 tion of jKission in the love of Medora, nor even of Oulnarc; but the seuti- 
 naent in each is made as iwwerfid as {Ktssion itself. Everywhere, in ' Childe 
 Harold,' in ' Don Juan, in the Eastern Tales, Byron paints sentiments, 
 not jiassions. When Macbeth soiijicpiises on his " way of life," he utters a 
 sentiment; — wlien he pauses Iwfore he murders his king, he bares to us 
 his jassions. Othello, torn by that jealousy which is half love and half 
 hatred, is a jx)rtraiture of jiassion : Chilile Harold moralising over Rome, is 
 a ftortraiture of sentiment. The Poets of Passion paint various and 
 contending emotions, each warring with the other. The Poets of Senti- 
 ment paint the prevalence of one i»articular cast of thought, or affection of 
 the mind. But readers are too apt to confuse the two, and to call an 
 author a passionate writer if his hero always says he is jiassionately in 
 love. Few jx-rsons would allow that Clarissa and Clementina are finer 
 delineations of passion than Julia and Ilaidce.
 
 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 83 
 
 stronger feeling for Immanity than any of his con- 
 temporaries : he wept when he saw Turgot, and it 
 was in sobs that he stammered out, " Laissez-mui 
 haiser cette main qui a signe le salut dii peupley Had 
 Voltaire never written a line, he would have com.e 
 down to posterity as a practical philanthropist. A 
 village of fifty peasant inhabitants was changed 
 by him into the home of twelve hundred manu- 
 facturers. His character at Ferney is still that of 
 the father of the poor. As a man he was vain, self- 
 confident, wayward, irascible ; but kind-hearted, 
 generous, and easily moved. He had nothing of the 
 Mephistophiles. His fault was, that he was too 
 human — that is, too weak and too unsteady. We 
 must remember that, in opposing religious opinion, 
 he was opposing the opinion of monks and Jesuits ; 
 — and Fanaticism discontented him with Christianity. 
 Observe the difference with which he speaks of the 
 Protestant faith — with what gravity and respect. 
 Had he been born in England, I doubt if Voltaire 
 would have attacked Christianity ; had he been born 
 two centuries before, I doubt whether his spirit of 
 research, and his daring courage, would not have 
 made him the reformer of the church and not its 
 antagonist. It may be the difference of time and 
 place that makes all the difference between a Luther 
 and a Voltaire. 
 
 As an Author, his genius has been disputed on 
 the ground that, though in many things it is eminent, 
 in no one thing it is pre-eminent. The proposition 
 is not fair — it is pre-eminence to do eminently well 
 a greater variety of things, each requiring extra- 
 ordinary capacities to do, than the genius of any 
 single author has ever yet achieved. He has written 
 pre-eminently well ! He is, on the whole, the great- 
 est prose writer his country has produced. 
 
 From Ferney I went to Coppet ; diverting my 
 thoughts from the least to the most sentimental of
 
 «4 LAKK LKMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 writers. NOItaire is the moral antipodes to De Staiil. 
 TIk' road to Coppct from I'eniey is ])retty but mono- 
 t')ri()ns. Yoii ;i]>|)r(>acli tlie house hy a field or ])ad- 
 dock, which reminds you of England. To the left, 
 in a thick copse, is the tomb of Madame de Stael. 
 As I Kiw it, how many of her eloquent thoughts on 
 the weariness of life rushed to my memory ! No one 
 perhaps ever felt more palpably the stirrings of the 
 soul within, than she whose dust lay there. Few 
 had ever longed more intensely for wings to flee 
 away .and be at rest. She wanted precisely that 
 which Voltaire had — common sense. She had pre- 
 cisely that which Voltaire wanted — sentiment. Of 
 the last it has been said, that he had the talent which 
 the greater luunber of persons possess but in the 
 greatest degree. Madame de Stael had the talent 
 which few possess, but not in the greatest degree. 
 For her thoughts are micommon, but not profound; 
 and her imagination is destitute of invention. No 
 work so imaginative as the ' Corinne ' was ever so 
 little inventive. 
 
 And now the house is before you. Opposite the 
 entrance, iron gates admit a glimpse of grounds laid 
 out in the English fasliion. The library opens at 
 once from the hall ; a long and liandsome room 
 containing a statue of Necker : the forehead of the 
 minister is low, and the face has in it more of bon- 
 liomw than esprit. In fact, that very respectable 
 man was a little too dull for his jDOsition. The 
 windows look out on a gravel-walk or terrace; the 
 library communicates with a bedroom hung with old 
 tapestry. 
 
 In the salle a manger on the first floor is a bust of 
 A. W. Scldegel and a print of Lafayette. Out of 
 the billiard-room, the largest room of the suite, is 
 the room where Madame de Stael usually slept, and 
 frequently wrote, though the good woman who did 
 the honours declared " she wrote in all the rooms."
 
 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 85 
 
 Her writing indeed was but an episode in her conver- 
 sation. Least of all persons was Madame de Stael 
 one person as a writer, and another as a woman. 
 Her whole character was in harmony ; her thoughts 
 always overflowed and were always restless. She 
 assumed nothing factitious when she wrote. She 
 wrote as she would have spoken.* Such authors are 
 rare. On the other side of the billiard-room, is a 
 small salon in which there is a fine bust of Necker, 
 a picture of Baron de Stael, and one of herself in a 
 turban. Every one knows that countenance full of 
 power, if not of beauty, with its deep dark eyes. 
 Here are still shown her writing-book and inkstand. 
 Throughout the whole house is an air of English 
 comfort and quiet opulence. The furniture is plain 
 and simple — nothiiig overpowers the charm of the 
 place ; and no undue magnificence diverts you from 
 the main thought of the genius to which it is con- 
 secrated. The grounds are natural, but not remark- 
 able. A very narrow but fresh streamlet borders 
 them to the right. I was much pleased by the 
 polished nature of a notice to the people not to com- . 
 mit depredations. The proprietor put his "grounds 
 under the protection " of the visitors he admitted. 
 This is in the true spirit of gentle breeding. 
 
 It is impossible to quit this place without feeling 
 that it bequeaths a tender and enduring recollection. 
 Madame de Stael was the male Rousseau ! She had 
 all his enthusiasm and none of his meanness. In the 
 eloquence of diction she would have surpassed him, 
 if she had not been too eloquent. But she perfumes 
 her violets and rouges her roses. Yet her heart was 
 
 * Madame de Stael wrote " a la volee." " Even in her most inspired 
 compositions," says Madame Necker de Saussure, " she had pleasure to be 
 interrupted by those she loved." There are some persons whose whole life 
 is inspiration. Madame de Stael was one of these. She was not of that 
 tribe who labour to be inspired, who darken the room and lock the door, 
 and entreat you not to disturb them. It was a part of her character to 
 care little about her works once printed. They had done their office, they 
 had relieveil her mind, and the mind had passed onward to new ideas.
 
 so i.AKK ij;man', and its associations. 
 
 womanly, wliilo licr intellect was masculine, and the 
 heart dietatetl while the intellect adorned. She could 
 not have reasoned, if you had silenced in her the 
 atVections. The charm and the error of her writings 
 liave the same cause. She took for convictions what 
 were hut feelings. She built up a ])hilosophy in emo- 
 tion. Few ])ersons felt more deeply the melancholy 
 of life. It was enough to sadden that yearning heart 
 — the thought so often on her lips, " Jamais je n'ai 
 etc aimee comme j'aime." But, on the other hand, 
 her susceptibility consoled while it wounded hei'. 
 Like all poets she had a profound sense of the com- 
 mon luxury of being. She felt the truth that the 
 pleasures are greater than the pains of Hfe, and 
 approved the sentiment of Home Tooke when he 
 said to Erskine, " If you had but obtained for me ten 
 years of hfe in a dungeon with my books, and a pen 
 and ink, I should have thanked you." None but the 
 sensitive feel what a glorious possession existence is. 
 The religion which was a part of her very nature, 
 contributed to render to this existence a diviner 
 charm. How tender and how characteristic that 
 thought of hers, that if any happiness chanced to 
 her after her father's death, " it was to his mediation 
 she owed it : " as if he were livinc; ! — To her he was 
 living in heaven ! Peace to her beautiful memory ! 
 Her genius is without a superior in her own sex ; 
 and if it be ever exceeded, it must be by one more 
 or less than woman. 
 
 The drive homeward from Coppet to Geneva is 
 far more picturesque than that from Ferney to 
 Coppet. As you approach Geneva, villa upon villa 
 rises cheerfully on the landscape ; and you feel a cer- 
 tain thrill as you pass the house inhalnted by Marie 
 Louise after the fall of Napoleon. These excursions 
 in the neighbourhood of Geneva spread to a wider 
 circle the associations of the Lake ; — they are of 
 Leman. And if the exiles of the earth resort to that 
 serene vicinity, hers is the smile that wins them.
 
 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 87 
 
 She received the persecuted and the weary — they 
 repaid the benefit in glory. 
 
 It was a warm, clear, and sunny day, on which I 
 commenced the voyage of the Lake. Looking behind, 
 I gazed on the roofs and spires of Greneva, and forgot 
 the present in the past. What to me was its little 
 community of watchmakers, and its little colony of 
 English? I saw Charles of Savoy at its gates — I 
 heard the voice of Berthelier invoking Liberty, and 
 summoning to arms. The struggle past — the scaffold 
 rose and the patriot became the martyr. His blood 
 was not spilt in vain. Religion became the resur- 
 rection of Freedom. The town is silent — it is under 
 excommunication. Suddenly a murmur is heard — it 
 rises — it gathers — the people are awake — they sweep 
 the streets — the images are broken : Farel is preach- 
 ing to the council ! Yet a little while, and the stern 
 soul of Calvin is at work within those walls. The 
 loftiest of the reformers, and the one whose influence 
 has been the most wide and lasting, is the earliest 
 also of the great tribe of the persecuted which the 
 City of the Lake receives within her arms. The 
 benefits he repaid — behold them around ! Wherever 
 property is secure, wherever thought is free, where- 
 ever the ancient learning is revived, wherever the 
 ancient spirit has been caught, you trace the work of 
 the reformation, and the inflexible, inquisitive, un- 
 conquerable soul of Calvin ! He foresaw not, it is 
 true, nor designed, the effects he has produced. The 
 same sternness of purpose, the same rigidity of con- 
 science that led him to reform, urged him to per- 
 secute. The exile of Bolsec, and the martyrdom of 
 Servede, rest darkly upon his name. But the bless- 
 ings we owe to the first inquirers compensate their 
 errors. Had Calvin not lived, there would have 
 been not one but a thousand Servedes ! The spirit 
 of inquiry redeems itself as it advances ; once loosed, 
 it will not stop at the limit to which its early dis- 
 ciples would restrain it. Born with them, it does
 
 88 LAKE LHMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 not grow \v\\]i tlieir growtli, it survives tlieir death — 
 it l»ut coininences wliere tliey conclude. In one cen- 
 tury, tlie Hanies are for tlie person, in another lor 
 tlie work ; in tlie tliiid, work and person are alike 
 sacred. The same town that condemned Le Cvntrat 
 ISociiil to the conflagration, now boasts, in the memory 
 of Rousseau, its most recognized title-deed of renown. 
 
 I turned from Geneva ; and the villa of Byron, 
 and the scarce-seen cottage of Shelley glided by. Of 
 all landscape scenery, that of lakes pleases me the 
 most. It has the movement without the monotonv 
 of the ocean. But in point of scenic attraction, I 
 cannot compare Leman with Como or the Lago Mag- 
 giore. If ever, as I hope my age may, it is mine to 
 " find out the peaceful hermitage," it shall be amidst 
 the pines of Como, with its waves of liquid sunshine, 
 antl its endless variety of shade and colour, as near to 
 the scenes and waterfalls of Pliny's delicious fountain 
 as I can buy or build a tenement. There is not 
 enough of splendour in the Swiss climate. It does 
 not give that serene sense of existence — that passive 
 luxiny of enjoyment — that paradise of the air and 
 sun, which belong to Italy. 
 
 The baidvs of Leman, as seen from the middle of 
 the water, lose much of their effect owing to the 
 great breadth of the lake ; while the height of the 
 Alps beyond is diminished by their distance from the 
 eye. Nearness is necessary to the sublime. A nar- 
 row stream, with Mont Blanc alone towering by its 
 side, would be the grandest spectacle in the world. 
 But the o])])ression, the awe, and the undefinable 
 sense of danger which belong to the sublime in natural 
 objects, are lost when the objects are removed from 
 our immediate vicinity. There is something of same- 
 ness too in the greater part of the voyage across the 
 lake, mdess you wind near the coast. The banks 
 themselves often vary, but the mountains in the back- 
 ground invest the whole with one common character. 
 To see the lake to the greatest advantage, avoid, —
 
 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 89 
 
 oh, avoid the steam- vessel, and creep close by either 
 shore. Beyond Oiichy and Lausanne the scenery 
 improves in richness and effect. As the walls of 
 the latter slowly receded from me, the sky itself 
 scarcely equalled the stillness of the water. It lay 
 deep and silent as death, the dark rocks crested with 
 cloud, flinging long and far shadows over the sur- 
 face. Gazing on Lausanne, I recalled the words 
 of Gribbon ; I had not read the passage for years ; 
 I could not have quoted a syllable of it the day 
 before, and now it rushed upon my mind so accu- 
 rately, that I found little but the dates to alter, when 
 I compared my recollection with the page. " It 
 was," said he, " on the day or rather the night of the 
 27th of June, 1787, between the hours of eleven and 
 twelve, that I wrote the last line of the last page in a 
 summerhouse in my garden. After laying down my 
 pen, I took several turns in a berceau, or covered 
 walk of acacias, which commands a prospect of the 
 country, the lake, and the mountains. The air was 
 temperate, the sky was serene, the silver orb of the 
 moon was reflected from the waves, and all nature 
 was silent." What a picture ! Who does not enter 
 into the feelings of the man who had just completed 
 tbe work that was to render him immortal ? What 
 calm fulness of triumph, of a confidence too stately 
 for vanity, does the description breathe ! I know 
 not which has the more poetry, the conception of the 
 work or the conclusion — the conception amidst the 
 "ruins of the Capitol, while the bareheaded friars 
 were singing vespers in the Temple of Jupiter," or 
 the conclusion in the stillness and solitude of night, 
 amidst the Helvetian Alps. With what tranquil col- 
 lectedness of thought he seems to bask and luxuriate 
 as it were in the sentiment of his own glory ! At 
 such a moment did Gibbon feel that his soul which 
 achieved the glory was yet more imperishable. The 
 artificer is greater than the work. The triumphs we 
 achieve, our conquests of the domain of Time, can but
 
 !•(! LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 feebly flatter our sclf-eRteein, unless we i-eg'ard tliem 
 as the proofs of what we are. For who would 
 submit to deem himself the blind nursery of thoufj^hts 
 to be grafted on other soils, when the clay wliieh 
 nurtured them has crumbled to unproductive atoms? 
 — To consider what Shakspeare thought, while on 
 earth, is a nol)le contemplation ; but it is nobler yet 
 to conjecture what, now, may be the musings, and 
 what the as})irations, of that spirit exalted to a 
 sublimer career of being. It were the wildest mad- 
 ness of human vanity to imagine that God created 
 such spirits only for the earth : like the stars, they 
 shine upon us, but their uses and their destinies are 
 not limited to the office of lamps to a solitary speck 
 in the infinite creation. Such waste of spirit were, 
 indeed, a disproportionate prodigality, wholly alien 
 to the economy and system of the universe ! 
 
 But new objects rise to demand the thought. 
 Opposite are the heights of Meillerie ; seen from the 
 water, they present little to distinguish them from 
 the neighbouring rocks. The A-illage lies scattered 
 at the base, with the single spire rising above the roofs. 
 I made the boatmen row towards the shore, and landed 
 somewhere about the old and rugged town or village 
 of i]vian. AV.'ilking thence to Meillerie along the 
 banks of the lake, nothing could be richer than the 
 scene around. The sun was slowly sinking, the waters 
 majestically calm, and a long row of walnut-trees 
 fiingfd the margin ; above, the shore slopes upward, 
 covered with verdure. Proceeding onward, the ascent 
 is yet more thickly wooded, until tlie steep and almost 
 pei'})endicular lieights of Meillerie are before you — 
 here grey and barren, there clothed with tangled and 
 fantastic bushes. At a little distance you may see 
 the village with the spiral steeple rising sharp 
 against the mountain ; winding farther, you may 
 survey on the opposite shore the immortal Clarens : 
 and, wliilely gleaming over the water, the walls of 
 Chillon. As I paused, the waters languidly rippled
 
 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. J»l 
 
 at my feet, and one long rose-clond, the immortalised 
 and consecrated hues of Meillerie transferred from 
 their proper home, faded lingeringly from the steeps 
 of Jura. I confess myself, in some respects, to be 
 rather of Scott's than Byron's opinion as to the merits 
 of the Heloise. Julie and St. Preux are to me, as to 
 Scott, " two tiresome pedants." But they are elo- 
 quent pedants ! The charm of Rousseau is not in 
 the characters he draws, but in the sentiments he 
 ascribes to them. I lose the individuality of the 
 characters — I forget, I dismiss them. I take the sen- 
 timents, and find characters of my own more worthy 
 of them. Meillerie is not to me consecrated by Julie, 
 but by ideal love. It is the Julie of one's own heart, 
 the visions of one's own youth, that one invokes and 
 conjures up in scenes which no criticism, no reason- 
 ing, can divorce from the associations of love. We 
 think not of the idealist, but of the ideal. Rousseau 
 intoxicates us with his own egotism. We are wrapped 
 in ourselves — in our own creations, and not in his; — so 
 at least it was with me. When shall I forget that twi- 
 light by the shores of Meillerie — or that starlit wave 
 which bore me back to the opposite shore ? The wind 
 breathing low from Clarens — Ohillon sleeping in the 
 distance, and all the thoughts and dreams and un- 
 uttered, unutterable memories of the youth and passion 
 for ever gone, busy in my soul. The place was full, 
 not of Rousseau, but that which had inspired him — 
 hallowed not by the priest, but by the god. 
 
 I have not very distinctly marked the time occu- 
 pied by the voyage I describe, but when next I 
 resumed my excursion it was late at noon. 
 
 I had seen at Vevay the tomb of Ludlow the regi- 
 cide. A stern contrast to the Bosquets (now, alas ! 
 potato-grounds) of Julie ! And from the water^ the 
 old town of Yevay seemed to me to have something 
 in its aspect grateful to the grim shade of the King- 
 slayer. Yet even that memory has associations 
 worthy of the tenderness of feeling which invests
 
 92 LAKE LFMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 
 
 tlie place; aiid one of tlie most iR'aiitiful instances of 
 woman's alfection is tlie iaitlifiil valour with which 
 liis wife shared the danp^ers and vicissitudes of the 
 rej)ul)lican's chequered life. His monument is built 
 by her. And though, in a time when all the nice dis- 
 tinctions of justice on either side were swept away, 
 the zeal of Ludlow wrote itself in hlood that it had 
 been more just to spare, the whole- annals of that 
 mi_<j;hty war cannot furnish a more self-contemning, 
 unpurchasalile, and honest heart. His ashes are not 
 the least valuable relics of the shores of Lcman. 
 
 Again ; as you wind a jutting projection of the 
 land, Clarens rises upon you, chiefly noticeable from 
 its look of serene and entire repose. You see the 
 house which Bvron inhabited for some little time, 
 and which has nothing remarkable in its appearance. 
 This, perhaps, is the most striking part of the voyage. 
 Dark shadows from the Alps, at the right, fell over 
 the wave ; but to the left, towards Clarens, all was 
 bright and sunny, and beautifully still. Looking 
 back, the lake was one sheet of molten gold — wide 
 and vast it slept in its glory ; the shore on the riglit 
 indistinct from its very brightness — that to the left, 
 marked and stern from its very shadow. 
 
 Chillon, which is long, white, and, till closely ap- 
 proached, more like a modern than an ancient build- 
 ing, is backed by mountains covered with verdure. 
 You survey now the end of the lake ; a long ridge 
 of the greenest foliage, from amidst which the fre- 
 cjuent poplar rises, tall and picturesque, the spire of 
 the grove. And now, nearing Villeneuve, you sail 
 by the little isle hallowed by Byron — 
 
 " A little isle, 
 Which in my very face did smile, 
 
 The only one in view ; 
 A small green isle, it seem'd no more, 
 Sc;arce Ijroader than my dungeon floor, 
 IJut in it there were three tall trees," &c.* 
 
 * ' Prisonor of Chillon,' line 341, sq.
 
 LAKE LEMAN, AND ITS ASSOCIATIONS. 98 
 
 The trees were still there, young and flourishing- ; 
 by their side a solitary shed. Yilleneuve itself, 
 backed by mountains, has a venerable air, as if vin- 
 dicating the antiquity it boasts. 
 
 I landed with regret, even though the pilgrimage 
 to Chillon was before me. And still I lingered by 
 the wave — and still gazed along its soft expanse. 
 Perhaps, in the vanity common to so many, who 
 possess themselves in thought of a shadowy and 
 unreal future, I may have dreamed, as I paused and 
 gazed, that from among the lessor names which Leman 
 retains and blends with those more lofty and august, 
 she may not disdainfully reject that of one who felt 
 at least the devotion of the pilgrim, if he caught not 
 an inspiration from the shrine. 
 
 VOL. II. H
 
 94 TIIK TRUE ORDF.AL OF LOVR. 
 
 THE TRT'E OIJDKAL OF LOVE. 
 
 CIIA I'TIM^ T. 
 
 Never were two persons more passionately attached 
 to each otlier tlian Adolphe and Celeste ! Tlieir love 
 was a proverb. Of course it was an unhajipy attach- 
 ment — nobody loves heartily, unless peo]de take pains 
 to prevent it. Tlie spirit of contradiction is prodi- 
 giously strong' in its effects. 
 
 Adolphe was rich and noble — Celeste was noble 
 and poor. Their families were at variance ; the 
 fainilv of Adolphe was exceedingly ambitious, and 
 that of Celeste exceedingly proud. Had the fathers 
 been tlie best friends in the world, they would not 
 have assented to the loves of tlieir children : Adolphe's 
 father, because he desired a rich match for his son ; 
 Celeste's, because he was too proud to be under an 
 obligation, and he was sufficiently a man of the world 
 to know that you are to be considered obliged when 
 a ricli nobleman marries your daughter without a 
 dower. Celeste's father would have fain married her 
 to a wealthy parvenu of whose riches he could have 
 availed himself without lowering his own sense of 
 dignity ; for it was a maxim in the beau monde of that 
 day, that wdiere a noble took the money of a roturier 
 he did not receive, he conferred an obligation. The 
 larger the sums he took, the greater the obligation 
 he conferred. No sooner, therefore, was the dawning 
 attachment of the lovers discovered, than their rela- 
 tions felt it their duty to be amazingly displeased. 
 There cannot be a doubt that you have an absolute 
 right to the eyes, nerves, and hearts of your children. 
 They have no business to be happy, unless it be 
 exactly in the way most agreeable to yourself. 
 These self-evident truths were not, however, irre-
 
 THE TRUE ORDEAL OF LOVE. 95 
 
 sistible for Adolplie and Celeste, Although the latter 
 was locked np, and the former was watched, they 
 contrived often to corres]3ond, and sometimes to see 
 each other. Their love was no passing caprice — 
 despite all difficulties, all obstacles, all dangers, it 
 was more intense than ever at the end of a year. 
 Celeste had gallantly refused two young merchants, 
 handsome and ardent, and a very old banker who 
 would have left her a widow in a year. Adolphe — 
 the gay and handsome Adolphe — had renounced every 
 flirtation and conquest ; all women had palled in his 
 eyes since he had seen Celeste. But though their 
 passion was strengthened by time, time had failed 
 to increase their hopes of union — they began to doubt 
 and to despair. The rose fled from Celeste's cheek 
 — she pined away, her lip had lost its smile, her 
 form shrunk from its roundness, tears stood con- 
 stantly in her eyes, and she sighed so that it went 
 to the hearts of all the servants in the house. In 
 fine, she fell ill ; — poor girl, she was dying for love. 
 The more violent passion of Adolphe produced also 
 its disorder. His pulse burned with fever, his lan- 
 guage was often incoherent — his great-grandfather 
 had been mad — Adolphe promised fairly to take 
 after his ancestor. 
 
 Alarmed, but not softened, the father of our lover 
 spoke to him earnestly. "Eenounce this ill-placed 
 love. Idleness is the parent of this youthful folly. 
 I will devote half my fortune to purchase you that 
 situation at Court you have so often coveted as the 
 height of your ambition. My son, you are young, 
 bold, and aspiring ; your fortunes, your fame will 
 be secured. I willingly make you this sacrifice, 
 provided you abandon Celeste." 
 
 Adolphe wrung the hand of his father. " Impos- 
 sible ! " he murmured : " one look from her is worth 
 all the dreams of ambition." So saying, he left the 
 room. 
 
 At length, finding they could not live together, 
 
 H 2
 
 96 Tin; TRTK ORDKAL OF LUVE. 
 
 our lovers formed flic desperate desig-n — not to live 
 divided ; — in sliort, tliey resolved upon snieide. I wish 
 I had heen aide to obtain leave to jniMish the letters 
 whieh ])assed between them on this melaneholy sub- 
 ject. I never read any so simple and so touching; : 
 it' you had seen them you would have thoup:ht it the 
 plainest projmsition in the world, that persons, with 
 any real affection for each other, ou^-ht never to be 
 unprovided with prussic acid, or laudanum at the 
 least ; — who knows but what an accident may sepa- 
 rate them of a sudden ? And to be separated ! — 
 how much pleasanter to be dead ! 
 
 Tlie lovers agreed, then, to poison themselves on 
 the same night. Their last letters were written blis- 
 tered with the tears of the writers. It was eleven 
 o'clock. Adolphe had retired to his chamber — he 
 took up the poison— he looked at it wistfully. " To- 
 morrow," said he, musingly — " to-morrow " — and he 
 extracted the cork — " to-morrow — it smells very dis- 
 arrreealdy — to-morrow I shall be at rest. This heart" 
 — he shook the phial — "how it froths! — this heart 
 will have ceased to beat — and our cruel parents will 
 not forbid us a common grave." So saying, he 
 siii-hcd heavily, and, muttering the name of Celeste, 
 gulped down the fatal draught. 
 
 Meanwhile, the father and mother of Adolphe 
 were still at supper. The old butler, who had wiped 
 his eyes when Adolphe had left the room, fidgeted 
 to and fro, with the air of a man who has something 
 on his mind. As his master was very hungry, and 
 his mistress very sleepy, the good old man was heeded 
 by neither. At length, when the other attendants 
 had withdrawn, the old mnn linm-red behind. 
 
 " That is quite riglit — that will do — shut the door 
 after you." 
 
 " Sir — yes, sir . Did you hem." 
 
 "Did I what?" 
 
 " My young master, sir — yes, sir." 
 
 " Your yoimg master ? Well "
 
 THE TRUE ORDEAL OF LOVE. 97 
 
 " Alas ! sir, I fear he is not quite right. Did 
 you observe how he looked when he left the room ? " 
 
 " Ma foi ! — I was engaged with the chicken." 
 
 " And you, madam, he kissed your hand very 
 affectionately." 
 
 " Ah, yes (drowsily) ; he has an excellent heart, 
 le cher enfant ! " 
 
 " And, madam, I don't like to say anything — hut 
 — but — my young master has been muttering very 
 odd things to himself for the last two or three days, 
 and all this morning he has been poisoning the dogs, 
 by way, he said, of experiment." 
 
 " Poison ! " said the mother, thoroughly awakened 
 — " has he got any poison ?" 
 
 " Ah, yes, madam, his pockets full." 
 
 "Heavens!" cried the father, "this must not be 
 — if he should in despair — he is a very odd boy. 
 His great-grandfather died mad. I will instantly go 
 to his room." 
 
 " And I too," cried the mother. 
 
 Tlie good couple hurried to Adolphe's chamber ; 
 they heard a groan as they opened the door ; they 
 found their son stretched on the bed, pale and hag- 
 gard ; on the table was a phial, labelled " poison ; " 
 the phial was empty. 
 
 " My son, my son ! — you have not been so wicked 
 — ^you have not — speak — speak ! " 
 
 " Oh ! I suffer tortures ! — Oh ! oh ! I am dying. 
 Leave me ! Celeste also has taken poison — we could 
 not live together. — Cruel parents — we mock you, and 
 die ! " 
 
 "Recover — recover, my son, and Celeste shall be 
 yours," cried the mother, half in hysterics. 
 
 The father was already gone for a surgeon. The 
 surgeon lived near to Celeste, and while he was 
 hastily preparing his antidotes, his visitor had the 
 charity to run to the house of Celeste's father, and 
 hastily apprise him of the intelligence he had learned. 
 The p(jor old gentleman liobbled off to his daughter's
 
 98 THE TIU'K ORDEAI. oF F.OVE. 
 
 room. Luckily lio found his wife with her; she liad 
 been j^ivin": the petite good advice, and tliat is a very 
 prohx liabit. Celeste was inipationtly awaitinp^ her 
 departure ; she was dyinic:; to he dead ! In rushed her 
 fatlier — " Child, child', here's news, indeed ! Are you 
 alive. Celeste — have you poisoned yourself? That 
 
 young reprobate is already " 
 
 " Ah-eady ! " cried Celeste, clasi»ing her hands — 
 " Already !— he awaits me, then. All, this appoint- 
 ment, atleast, I will not break!" She sprang to her 
 bedside, and seized a phial from under the pillow ; 
 but the father was in time —he snatched it from her 
 hand, and his daughter fell into fits so violent, that 
 they threatened to be no less fatal than the poison. 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 "Whatever the exaggerations of our lovers, they 
 loved really, fervently, disinterestedly, and with all 
 their hearts. Not one in ten thousand loves is so 
 strong, or promises to be so lasting. 
 
 Adolphe did not die — the antidotes were given in 
 time — he recovered. The illness of Celeste was more 
 dangerous — a delirious fever set in, and it w^as 
 several weeks before her life and reason were re- 
 stored. 
 
 No parents could stand all this : ordinary caprices 
 it is very well to resist, but when young people take 
 to poison and delirious fever — the time for concession 
 has arrived. Besides, such events derange one's es- 
 tablishment and interrupt one's comforts. One is 
 always glad to come to terms when one begins to be 
 aimoyed oneself. The old people then made it up, 
 and the young people married. As the bridegroom 
 and Celeste were convinced that the sole object of 
 life was each other's company, they hastened at once 
 to the sweet solitudes of the country. They had a
 
 THE TRUE ORDEAL OF LOVE. 99 
 
 charming- villa and beautiful gardens. They were 
 both accomplished — clever — amiable — young — and 
 in love. How was it possible thej should be suscept- 
 ible of enniii ? They could never bear to lose sight 
 of each other. 
 
 " Ah, Adolphe — traitor — where hast thou been ? " 
 
 " Merely shooting in the woods, my angel." 
 
 " What, and without me ! Fie ! promise this 
 shall not happen again." 
 
 " Ah, dearest ! too gladly I promise." 
 
 Another time — 
 
 " What, Celeste ! — three hours have I been seek- 
 ing for you ! Where have you hid yourself?" 
 
 " Don't look so angry, my Adolphe ; I was only 
 directing the gardener to build a little arbour for 
 you to read in. I meant it as a surprise." 
 
 " My own Celeste ! but three hours — it is an eter- 
 nity without you ! Promise not to leave me again, 
 without telling me where to find you." 
 
 " My own dearest, dearest Adolphe ! how I love 
 you — may my company ever be as dear to you ! " 
 
 This mode of life is very charming with many for 
 a few days. Adolphe and Celeste loved each other 
 so entirely that it lasted several months. What at 
 first was passion had grown habit, and each blamed 
 the other for want of affection, if he or she ever in- 
 dulged in the novelty of different pursuits. 
 
 As they had nothing to do but to look at those 
 faces they had thought so handsome, so it was now 
 and then difficult not to yawn ; and of late there had 
 been little speeches like the following : 
 
 " Adolphe, my love, you never talk to me — put 
 down that odious book you are always reading." 
 
 " Celeste, my angel, you don't hear me. I am 
 telling you about my travels, and you gape in my 
 face." 
 
 " My dear Adolphe, I am so exceedingly sleepy." 
 
 One morning, as Adolphe woke and turned in 
 his bed, his eyes rested on his wife, who was still
 
 lUU 'J UK TKL'K UUDKAL OK LOVK. 
 
 asleep — " Bless me/' tlioui^lit he, " I never saw this 
 before — let uie look a<:;aiii — yes, certainly, she has 
 a wart on her chin ! " 
 
 Ailoljilie rose and dressed himself — A<lolj)he was 
 g'rave ami meditative. They met at hieaklast — the 
 liride and l>ride_i2,TOom. Celeste was in high spirits, 
 Atl(»l]die was sombre and dejected. 
 
 '* Let us ride to-day," said Celeste. 
 
 " My deal-, T have a headache." 
 
 " Poor child ! well, then, let us read the new 
 poem." 
 
 '' My dear, you speak so loud." 
 
 "I!" and Celeste, gazing reproachfully on 
 Adol})he, perceived, for the first time, something in 
 his eyes that surprised her — slie looked again — 
 " Good heavens ! " said she to herself, " Adolphe 
 certainly squints 1 " 
 
 On the other hand, Adolphe murmured, " The 
 wart has decidedly grown since the morning ! " 
 
 It is impossible to say what an effect this fatal 
 discovery had upon Adolphe. He thonght of it 
 incessantly. He had nothing else to complain of — 
 but then warts on the chin are certainly not becom- 
 ing. Celeste's beauty had improved greatly since her 
 marriage. Everybody else saw the improvement. 
 Adolphe saw nothing but the wart on her chin. 
 Her complexion was more brilliant, her form more 
 rounded, her walk more majestic ; but what is all 
 this when one has a wart on the chin ! The wart 
 seemed to grow bigger and bigger every day — to 
 Adolphe's eyes it threatened speedily to absorb the 
 whole of the face. Nay, he expected, in due time, 
 to see his beautiful Celeste all wart ! He smothered 
 his pain as well as he could, because he was natu- 
 rally well-bred and delicate ; and no woman likes 
 to be told of the few little blemishes to which she 
 herself is blind. He smothered his pain, but he 
 began to think it would be just as well to have sepa- 
 rate apartments.
 
 THE TRUE ORDEAL OF LOVE. 101 
 
 Meanwhile, strange to say, Adolphe's squint grew 
 daily more decided and pronounced. " He certainly 
 did not squint before we married," thought Celeste ; 
 "it is very unpleasant — it makes one so fidgety to be 
 stared at by a person who sees two w^ays ; and 
 Adolphe has unfortunately a habit of staring. I 
 think I might venture to hint, delicately and kindly 
 — the habit can't yet be incurable." 
 
 As wives are always the first in the emulation of 
 conjugal fault-finding, Celeste resolved to hazard the 
 hint — on the first favourable opportunity. 
 
 " Well, my Celeste, I have brought my dog to see 
 you," said Adolphe one morning. 
 
 " Ah ! down, down ! Pray turn him out ; see 
 the mark of his paws. I can't bear dogs, Adolphe." 
 
 " Poor thing ! " said Adolphe, caressing his insulted 
 favourite. 
 
 " Was that to me or to the dog ?" asked Celeste. 
 
 " Oh ! to him, to be sure." 
 
 " I beg your pardon, my dear, but I thought you 
 looked at me. Indeed, Adolphe, if the truth may 
 be said, you have lately contracted a bad habit — you 
 are getting quite a cast in your eye." 
 
 "Madam!" said Adolphe, prodigiously offended, 
 and hurrying to the glass. 
 
 "Don't be angry, my love; I would not have 
 mentioned it if it did not get worse every day ; it is 
 yet to be cured I am sure : just put a wafer on the 
 tip of your nose, and you will soon see straight." 
 
 " A wafer on the tip of my nose ! Much better 
 put one at the tip of your chin. Celeste." 
 
 " My chin !" cried Celeste, running in her turn to 
 the glass ; " what do you mean, sir ? " 
 
 " Only that you have a very large wart there, 
 which it would be more agreeable to conceal." 
 
 "Sir!" 
 
 " Madam ! " 
 
 " A wart on my chin — monster!" 
 
 " A cast in my eye — fool ! "
 
 1U2 THE TUUK OUDKAL OF LOVE. 
 
 "^'os! Il(»\v coiilil I ever love ii man wlio 
 
 squinted!" 
 
 " Or 1 a woman witli .a wart on lier cliin !"' 
 " Sir, I shall not condescend to notice your insults. 
 To a distorted eyesio-lit everytliinf!; seems deformed." 
 " Mad;nn, 1 desj)ise your insinuations ; but since 
 you deny the evidence of your own «^lass, sufler me 
 to send for a physician. Trust to him for the cure 
 of that wart : Faith can remove mountains." 
 
 "Yes, send for a physician ; he will say whether 
 you squint or not — poor Adolphe, I am not angry, — 
 no, I pity so melancholy a defect." 
 
 Celeste burst into V^ars. Adolphe, in a rage, 
 seized his hat, mounted his horse, and M^ent himself 
 for the doctor. 
 
 The doctor was a philosopher as well as a physi- 
 cian — he took his pony, and ambled back with 
 Adolphe. By the way he extracted from Adolphe 
 his whole history, for"^ men in a passion are easily 
 made garrulous.' " The perfidious woman ! " said 
 Adolphe, " would you believe it ? — we braved every- 
 thing for each other — never were tw^o persons so 
 much in love — nay, we attempted suicide rather than 
 endure a longer separation. I renounced the most 
 brilhant mari'iages for her sake — too happy that she 
 was mine wnthout a dower — and now she declares I 
 squint. And, oh, she has such a wart on her chin !" 
 The doctor could not very well see whether 
 Adolphe squinted, for Adolphe had drawn his hat 
 over his eyes ; besides, the doctor prudently thought 
 it best to attend to one malady at a time. 
 
 " As to the w^art, sir," said he, " it is not difficult 
 
 to cure." 
 
 " But if my wife will not confess that she has it, 
 she will never consent to be cured ! I would not 
 mind if she would but own it. the vanity of 
 women ! " 
 
 " It must have been after some absence that this 
 little defect was perceived by you "
 
 THE TRUE ORDEAL OF LOVE. 103 
 
 " After absence ! — we have not been a day sepa- 
 rated since we married." 
 
 " 0-ho," said the doctor, sinking into a reverie : 
 — I have said he was a philosopher — but it did not 
 require much philosophy to know that persons who 
 would have died for each other a few months ago, 
 were not alienated only by a wart on the chin or a 
 cast in the eye. 
 
 They arrived at Adolphe's villa — they entered 
 the saloon. Celeste no longer wept ; she had put on 
 her most becoming cap, and had the air of an 
 insulted but uncomplaining wife ! 
 
 " Confess to the wart, Celeste, and I'll forgive 
 all," said Adolphe. 
 
 " Nay, why so obstinate as to the cast of the eye ? 
 I shall not admire you less, though others may, if 
 you will not be so vain as to disown it." 
 
 " Enough, madam — doctor, regard that lady ; — is 
 not the wart monstrous — can it be cured ? " 
 
 " Nay," cried Celeste, sobbing, " look rather at 
 my poor husband's squint. His eyes were so fine 
 before we married ! " 
 
 The doctor put on his spectacles ; he regarded 
 first one and then the other. 
 
 " Sir," said he, deliberately, "this lady has certainly 
 a pimple on the left of her chin considerably smaller 
 than a pin's head. And, madam, the pupil of your 
 husband's right eye is, like that of nine persons out 
 of ten, the hundredth part of an inch nearer to his 
 nose than the pupil of the left. This is the case, as it 
 appears to me, seeing you both for the first time. 
 But I do not wonder, that you, sir, think the pimple 
 so enormous ; and you, madam, the eye so distorted, 
 — since you see each other every day ! " 
 
 The pair were struck by a secret and simultaneous 
 conviction ; — wdien an express arrived, breathless, to 
 summon Adolphe to his father, who was taken sud- 
 denly ill. At the end of three months Adolphe 
 returned. Celeste's wart had entirely vanished ; and
 
 104 'IIIK THIH: OKDKAL OF LOVK. 
 
 Celeste foiiiid her husband's eves were more beautiful 
 
 ft/ 
 
 than ever. 
 
 Tauirht by ex]>erience, they learned tlicii tliat 
 warts rapidly f^row upon chins, ;ind squints readily 
 settle upon eyes, that are too constiintly seen ; and 
 that it is easy for two persons to die joyfully together 
 when lovers, but pi-odigiously difficult, without eco- 
 nomising: the presence, to live comfortably together 
 when married.
 
 THE WANT OF SYMPATHY. 105 
 
 ON THE WANT OF SYMPATHY. 
 
 The cherished dream of the young is to meet with 
 a wholly congenial spirit — an echo of the heart — a 
 counterpart of self. Who ever lived that did not 
 hope to find the phantom, and who ever lived that 
 found it ? It is the least rational and yet the most 
 stubborn of all our delusions. That which makes 
 up the moral nature of one human being, — its tastes, 
 dispositions, sentiments, objects, aspirations, — is infi- 
 nitely multiplied and complex ; formed from a variety 
 of early circumstances, of imperfect memories, of in- 
 distinct associations, of constitutional peculiarities, of 
 things and thoughts appropriate only to itself, and 
 which were never known but partially to others. It 
 is a truism which every one will acknowledge, that 
 no two persons were ever wholly alike ; and yet 
 every one in youth recoils from the necessary de- 
 duction, that, therefore, he can never find a coun- 
 terpart of himself. And so we go on, desiring, 
 craving, seeking sympathy to the last ! It is a 
 melancholy instance, too, of the perversity of human 
 wishes, that they who exact sympathy the most are, 
 of all, the least likely to obtain it. For instance, 
 the yearning for sympathy seems inherent in the 
 temperament of the poet. Exactly as he finds his 
 finer and more subtle ideas or feelings uncompre- 
 hended by the crowd, he sighs for the Imagined 
 One to whom he can pour them forth, or who can 
 rather understand them best in silence — by an in- 
 stinct — by a magnetism — by all that invisible and 
 electric harmony of two souls, which we understand 
 by the word " Sympathy," in its fullest and divinest
 
 ion THE WANT OF SYMrATIlV. 
 
 sense. Yet in ])r()]i()rtioii evidently to tlie rareness 
 of tliis poetic natinv, is tlie inij)n)l)iil)ility of finding 
 a likeness to it. And if tlie ])oet succeed at last, if 
 he do find another being equally sensitive — equally 
 Miiyward — equally acute and subtle — instead of sym- 
 pathising with him, it demands only sympathy for 
 itself. Tiic one most resembling a poet would be a 
 poetess. And a poetess is, of all, the last who could 
 long symjiathise with a poet. Two persons linked 
 together, equally sc'lf-al)s(^rbed, susceptible, and exact- 
 ing ! — Mepliist()]>hiles himself could not devise an 
 union more unhappy and more ill-assorted ! Some one 
 has observed, that those wdio are most calculated to 
 bear with genius, to be indulgent to its eccentricities 
 and its infirmities, to foresee and forestall its wishes, 
 to honour it with the charity and the reverence of 
 love, are usually without genius themselves, and of 
 an intellect com])aratively mediocre and humble. It 
 is the touching anecdote of the wife of a man of 
 genius, that she exclaimed on her death-bed, " Ah, 
 my poor friend, when I am no more, who will under- 
 stand thee ?" Yet this woman, who felt she did com- 
 prehend the nature with which her life had been 
 linked, w^as of no correspondent genius. The bio- 
 graphy w^hich inmiortalises her tenderness is silent 
 upon her talents. In fact, there is no real sympathy 
 between the great man and another ; but that which 
 supplies its place is the reverent aflection of admira- 
 tion. And I doubt whether the propensity to 
 venerate persons be a common faculty of the highest 
 order of mind. Such men know indeed veneration, 
 their souls are imbued with it ; but it is not for 
 mortals, over wdiom they feel their siqieriority, it 
 is for that which is abstract or spiritual — for G-lory 
 or for Virtue, for Wisdom, for Nature, or for God. 
 Even in tlie greatest men around them, their sight, 
 unha]>pily too acute, penetrates to the foibles; they 
 measure their fellow-mortals by the standard ot their 
 Ideal. They are not blinded by the dazzle of genius,
 
 THE WANT OF SYMPATHY. 107 
 
 for genius is a thing to them household and famihar. 
 The angels compassionate our frailties, they do not 
 revere our powers. And they who, yet on earth, 
 approach the most to the higher order of spirits he- 
 hold their brethren from a height ; they may stoop 
 from their empyreal air to cherish and to pity, but 
 where they pay the homage of reverence they look 
 not below nor around them but above. 
 
 It is in a lower class of intellect, yet one not un- 
 elevated as compared with the multitude, that the prin- 
 ciple of admiration is most frequent and pervading ; 
 an intellect that seeks a monitor, a protector, a stand- 
 ard, or a guide ; one that can appreciate greatness, 
 but has no measure within whereby to gauge its 
 proportions. Thus we observe in biography, that 
 the friendship between great men is rarely intimate 
 or permanent : it is a Boswell that most appreciates 
 a Johnson. Genius has no brother, no co-mate ; the 
 love it inspires is that of a pupil or a son. Hence, 
 unconscious of the reasons, but by that fine intuition 
 into nature, which surpasses all philosophy, the poets 
 usually demand devotion, as the most necessary attri- 
 bute in their ideals of love ; they ask in their mistress 
 a being, not of lofty intellect, nor of brilliant genius, 
 but engrossed, absorbed in them ; — a Medora for the 
 Conrad. It was well to paint that Medora in a 
 savage island, — to exclude her from the world. In 
 civilized life, poor creature ! caps and bonnets — an 
 opera-box, and Madame Carson, would soon have 
 shared her heart with her Corsair ! Yet this species 
 of love, tender and unearthly though it be, is not 
 sympath}^. Conrad could not have confided in 
 Medora. She was the mistress of his heart, not, in 
 the beautiful Arabian phrase, " the keeper of his 
 soul." It is the inferior natures^ then, that appre- 
 ciate, reverence, and even comprehend genius the 
 most, and yet how much is there that to inferior 
 natures it can never reveal ! How can it pour forth
 
 108 THE WANT OF SYMPATHY. 
 
 all lliat liinniiii;' t'lcijiK-iicc oi' pasyioii and iiieinorv 
 MJiicli ofti'ii \vc'i<;]is u])<^n it like a Inirdeii, to one 
 wlio will listen to it indeed Avitli rapt ears, bnl wlio 
 will lon^r, ns Boswell loiififed, for ^Tr. tSomebody to 
 be ])resent t<> bear liow finely it can lalk ? 
 
 ^'et most men bavc brief passaf;'es in life wlien they 
 fancy tliey liave attained tlieir object; when tbey cry 
 " Knreka ! " — wlien tbey ])elieve tbat their connterpart, 
 the wraith of their spiiit, is before them ! Two persons 
 in love with each other, bow congenial they appear ! In 
 that beantiful pliancy, that unconscious system of self- 
 sacrifice which make the character of love in its eailier 
 stages, each nature seems blended and circumfused 
 in each, — they are not two natures, they are one ! 
 Seen by that enchanting moonlight of delicious pas- 
 sion — all that is harsh or dissonant is mellowed 
 down : the irregularities, the angles, sleep in shadow; 
 all that we behold is in harmony with ourselves. 
 Then is our slightest thouglit peneti'ated, our faintest 
 desire forestalled, our sufferings of mind, or of frame, 
 liow delicately are they consoled ! Then even sorrow 
 and sickness have their charm, — they bring us closer 
 under the healing wrings of our Guardian Spirit. 
 And, fools that we are, we imagine this sympathy is 
 to endure for ever. But time — there is the divider ! 
 — by little and little, we grow apart from each other. 
 The daylight of the world creeps in, the moon has 
 vanished, and we see clearly all the jarring lines and 
 sharp corners hidden at first from our survey. 
 
 My lost, my buried, my unlbrgotten ! Thou 
 whom I knew in the first fresh years of life — thou 
 who wert snatched from me before one bud of the 
 springtime of youth was blighted — thou, over whose 
 grave, yet a boy, I wept aw\ay Via If the softness of 
 my soul, — now that I know the eternal workings of 
 the world, and the destiny of all human ties, is there 
 no comfort in the thought that custom never didled 
 the music of thy voice, never stole the magic from
 
 WANT OF SYMPATHY. 109 
 
 thine eyes ? As thine image stood before me at the 
 gates of Morning, so before me it will float amidst the 
 shades of Night ; its bloom was not fated to wither 
 down into " the portion of weeds and worn-out faces." 
 All else changes as my life journeys restlessly on. 
 That image is evermore unchanged. Hopes fly me 
 one by one, friends vanish into the ranks of foes — 
 thou art beside me still as I saw thee last. 
 
 Death is the great treasure-house of Love. There, 
 lies buried the real wealth of passion and of youth ; 
 there, the heart, once so prodigal, now grown the 
 miser, turns to contemplate the hoards it has hidden 
 from the world. Henceforth it is but the common 
 and petty coins of affection that it wastes on the uses 
 and things of life. 
 
 The coarser and blunter minds, intent upon com- 
 mon objects, obtain, perhaps, a sufficient sympathy to 
 satisfy them. The man who does nothing but hunt, 
 will find congeniality enough wherever there are 
 hounds and huntsmen.* The woman whose soul is 
 in a ball-room, has a host of intimate associates and 
 congenial spirits. It was the man of the world who 
 talked of his numerous friends — it was the sage who 
 replied, sadly, " Friends ! Has the word a plural ? 
 I have never seen but one." 
 
 There are two remedies for the craving after sym- 
 pathy; and the first may be recommended to all lite- 
 rary men as the great means of preserving the moral 
 health. It is this : we should cultivate, besides our 
 more intellectual objects, "some pursuit which we can 
 have in common with the crowd. Some end, whether 
 of pleasure, of business, of politics, that brings us in 
 contact w4th our kind. It is in this that we can 
 readily find a fellowship — in this we can form a vent 
 for our desire of sympathy from others. And thus 
 we learn to feel ourselves not alone. Solitude then 
 becomes to us a relief, and our finer thoughts are the 
 seraphs that watch and haunt it. Our imagination, 
 kept rigidly from the world, is the Eden in wliich 
 
 VOL. II. I
 
 110 WANT t»F SVMJ'ATIIY. 
 
 \vc walk with G<iil. For lia\iii,i;- in llic crowd em- 
 braced tlie crowd's ol)jccts, and iiict witli fellow8lii|) in 
 return, we no longer desire so keenly ;i syni])athy 
 witli that wliich is not common to otliers, and belongs 
 to tlie nobler part of us. And this brings me to tlie 
 second remedy. AVe learn thus to luake our own 
 dreams and thoughts our coni]>anion, our beloved, 
 our Egeria. AVe aecjuire the doctrine of self-depend- 
 ence, — self sufiices to self. In our sleep from the 
 passions of the world, God makes an Eve to us from 
 our own breasts. Yet sometimes it will grieve us to 
 think we shall return to clay, give up the heritage of 
 life, our atoms dissolve and crumble into the ele- 
 ments of new things — with all the most lovely, the 
 most spiritual part of us untold ! What volumes can 
 express one tithe that we have felt. How many 
 bi'illiant thoughts have flashed upon us — how many 
 divinest visions have walked by our side, that would 
 have mocked all our efforts to transfer to the inani- 
 mate page ? To sit coldly down, to copy the fitful 
 and sudden hues of those rainbow and evanescent 
 images varying with every moment ! — no ! we are 
 not all so cased in authorship, Ave are greater than 
 mere machines of terms and periods. The author is 
 inferior to the man ! As the best part of Beauty is 
 that Avhich no picture can express,* so the best part 
 of the poet is that which no words have told. 
 
 Hard is the thought that, for want of sympathy 
 in those around us, our purest motives, our noblest 
 qualities, must be misunderstood. AYe die — none 
 have known us ! and yet all are to declaim on our 
 character — measure at a glance tlie dark abyss of 
 our souls — prate of us as if we were household and 
 hackneved to them from our cradle. One amonc:st 
 the number shall write our biography — the rest shall 
 read, and conceive they know us ever afterwards. 
 We go down to our sons' sons, darkened and dis- 
 
 Bacoii
 
 WANT OF SYMPATHY. 1 1 1 
 
 gnised ; so that, looking on men's colourings of our 
 mind and life, from our repose on the bosom of God, 
 we shall not recognise one feature of the portrait we 
 have left to earth ! * 
 
 * No essay in the present collection needs more than this such excuse 
 as may be conceded to youth. It nppears to have been written when the 
 author was little more than two-and-twenty. The same subject is treated, 
 and it is to be hoped with somewhat sounder judgment, in one of the 
 Essays to be found in ' Caxtoniaua.' 
 
 I 2
 
 112 MIASM ANES, TlIK SEEKKH. 
 
 AIJASMANES, TTTE J^KEKER. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 Ix tlie Vn'oad ])laiiis of Clialdioa, and not the least 
 illustrious of tliose early sa^^es from whom came 
 our first learning of the lights of heaven, the vene- 
 rable Chosphor saw liis age decline into the grave. 
 Upon his death-Led he thus addressed his only son, 
 the young Arasmanes, in whose piety he recognised, 
 even in that gloomy hour, a consolation and a bless- 
 ing ; and for whose growing renown for wisdom and 
 for valour, the faint pulses of expiring life yet beat 
 with paternal pride. 
 
 "Arasmanes," said he, "I am about to impart to 
 thee the only secret which, after devoting eighty years 
 to unravel the many mysteries of knowledge, I con- 
 sider worthy of transmitting to my child. Thou 
 knowest that I have wandered over the distant re- 
 gions of the w^orld, and have experienced, with all 
 the vicissitudes, some of the triumphs, and many of 
 the pleasures, of life. Learn, from my experience, 
 that earth possesses nothing whicli can reward the 
 pursuit, or satisfy the desire. When thou seest the 
 stars shining down upon the waters, thou beholdest an 
 image of the visionary splendours of hope : the light 
 sparkles on the wave ; but it neither warms while it 
 glitters, nor can it, for a single instant, arrest the 
 progress of the stream from tlie dark gulf into which 
 it hastens to merge itself and be lost. It was not till 
 my old age that this conviction grew upon my mind ; 
 and about that time I discovered, from one of the 
 sacred books to which my studies were then ap2:)lied, 
 the secret I am now about to confide to thy ear. 
 Know, my son, that in the extremities of Asia there is
 
 ARASMANES, THE SEEKER. 113 
 
 a garden in which the Creator of the Universe placed 
 the first parents of mankind. In that garden the sun 
 never sets ; nor does the beauty of the seasons wane. 
 There, is neither ambition, nor avarice, nor false 
 hope, nor its child, regret. Tliere, is neither age 
 nor deformity ; diseases are banished from the air ; 
 eternal youth, and the serenity of an unbroken happi- 
 ness, are the prerogative of all things that breathe 
 therein. For a mystic and unknown sin our first 
 parents were banished from this happy clime, and 
 their children scattered over the earth. Superhuman 
 beings are placed at its portals, and clouds and dark- 
 ness veil it from the eyes of ordinary men. But, to 
 the virtuous and to the bold, there is no banishment 
 from the presence of God ; and by them the darkness 
 may be penetrated, the dread guardians softened, and 
 the portals of the divine land be passed. Thither, 
 then, my son — early persuaded that the rest of earth 
 is paved with sorrow and with care — thither, then, 
 bend thy adventurous way. Fain could I have 
 wished that, in my stronger manhood, wdien my 
 limbs could have served my will, I had learned this 
 holy secret, and repaired in search of the ancestral 
 clime. Avail thyself of my knowledge ; and, in the 
 hope of thy happiness, I shall die contented." The 
 pious son pressed the hand of his sire, and promised 
 obedience to his last command. 
 
 " But, oh, my father ! " said he, " how shall I 
 know in what direction to steer my course ? To this 
 land, who shall be my guide, or what my clue ? Can 
 ship, built by mortal hands, anchor at its coast ; or 
 can we say to the camel-driver, ' Thou art approach- 
 ing to the goal ? ' " 
 
 The old man pointed to the east. 
 
 " From the east," said he, " dawns the sun — 
 emblem of the progress of the mind's light ; from the 
 east comes all of science that we know. Born in its 
 sultry regions, seek only to pierce to its extreme ; 
 and, guiding thyself by the stars of heaven ever in
 
 Hi AllASMANES, THE SEEKEU. 
 
 one course, reacli at last the Aden that shall reward 
 thy toils." 
 
 And Cliosphor (lie<l, and was buried with his 
 fathers. 
 
 After a short interval of moiirnin<i;, Arasraancs 
 took leave of his friends; and, turning- his footsteps 
 to tlie east, sought the gates of Paiadise. 
 
 lie travelled far and alone, for several weeks; 
 and the stars were his only guides. By degrees, 
 as he advanced, he found that the existence of Aden 
 was more and more acknowledged. Accustomed 
 from his boyhood to the companionship of sages, it 
 was their abodes that he sought in eac-h town or 
 encampment through which he passed. By them his 
 ardour was confirmed ; for they all agreed in the 
 dim and remote tradition of some beautiful region in 
 the farthest east, from wdiich the existing races of 
 the earth were banished, and which was jealously 
 guarded from profane approach by the wings of celes- 
 tial Spirits. But, if he communicated to any one 
 his daring design, he had the mortification to meet 
 only the smile of derision, or the incredulous ^aze of 
 wonder : by some he was thought a madman, and 
 by others an impostor. So that, at last, he prudently 
 refrained from revealing his intentions, and contented 
 himself with seeking the knowledge, and listening to 
 the conjectures, of others. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 At length the traveller emerged from a mighty 
 forest, through which, for several days, he had 
 tlireaded his w^eary way ; and beautiful beyond 
 thought was the landscape that broke upon his view. 
 A plain covered with the richest verdure lay before 
 him ; througli the trees that, here and there, dark- 
 ened over the emerald sward, were cut alleys, above 
 wliicji hun,u: festoons of many-coloured flowers, whose
 
 AKASMANES, THE SEEKER. 115 
 
 hues Sparkled amidst the glossy foliage, and whose 
 sweets steeped the air as with a bath. A stream, 
 clear as crystal, flowed over golden sands, and, 
 wherever the sward was greenest, gathered itself into 
 delicious fountains, and sent uj)wards its glittering 
 spray, as if to catch the embraces of the sun, whose 
 beams kissed it in delight. 
 
 The wanderer paused in ecstasy ; a sense of luxu- 
 rious rapture, which he had never before experienced, 
 crept into his soul. " Behold ! " murmured he, " my 
 task is already done ; and Aden, the land of happi- 
 ness and of youth, lies before me ! " 
 
 While he thus spake, a sweet voice answered — 
 " Yes, happy stranger ! — thy task is done : this 
 is the land of happiness and of youth ! " 
 
 He turned, and a maiden of dazzling beauty was 
 by his side. " Enjoy the present," said she, " and so 
 wilt thou defy the future. Ere yet the world was, 
 Love brooded over the unformed shell, till from be- 
 neath the shadow of his wings burst forth tlie life 
 of the young creation. Love, then, is the true God, 
 and whoso serveth him he admits into the mysteries 
 of a temple erected before the stars were formed. 
 Behold ! thou enterest now upon the threshold of the 
 temple ; thou art in the land of happiness and youth ! " 
 
 Enchanted with these words, Arasmanes gave 
 himself up to the sweet intoxication they produced 
 upon his soul. He suffered the nymph to lead him 
 deeper into the valley ; and now, from a thousand 
 vistas in the wood, trooped forth beings, some of fan- 
 tastic, some of the most harmonious, shapes. There, 
 were the satyr and the faun, and the youthful Bacchus 
 — mixed with the multiform deities of India, and the 
 wild objects of Egyptian worship ; but more numerous 
 than all were the choral nymphs, that spiritualized the 
 reality, by incorporating the dreams, of beauty ; and, 
 wherever he looked, one laughing Face seemed to 
 peer forth from the glossy leaves, and to shed over all 
 things, as from its own joyous yet tender as})ect, a
 
 1 I'"' AKASMANES, TIIK SKEKKi:. 
 
 tciulerness and a joy. And lie asked liow tliis Bciiif;-, 
 that si'oincd to liave tlie power of multiplying itself 
 ev('i\ where, was ealled? — And its name was Eros. 
 
 For a time the length of which he knew not — for 
 in that land no mea.suiement of time was kept — 
 Arasmanes was fully ])ersuaded that it was Aden to 
 which he had attained, lie felt his youth as if it 
 were something pal])able ; everytliinfj: was new to 
 him ; — even in the shape of the leaves, and the whisper 
 of the odorous airs, he found wherewithal to marvel 
 at and admire. Enamoured of the maiden who liad 
 first addressed him, at her slightest wish (and she 
 was full of all beautiful caprices) he- was ready to 
 explore even the obscurest recess of the valley win'ch 
 now appeared to him unbounded. He never wearied 
 of a single hour. He felt as if weariness were impos- 
 sible ; and, with every instant, he repeated to himself, 
 " In the land of hai)piness and youth I am a dweller." 
 
 Ojie day, as he was conversing with his beloved, 
 and gazing upon her face, he was amazed to behold 
 that, since the last time he had gazed upon it, a 
 wrinkle had i)lanted itself upon the ivory surface of 
 her brow ; and, even while half doubting the evidence 
 of his eyes, new wrinkles seemed slowly to form over 
 the forehead, and the transparent roses of her cheek 
 to wane and fade! He concealed, as well as he 
 could, the mortification and wonder that he expe- 
 rienced at this strange phenomenon ; and, no longer 
 daring to gaze upon a face from which before he had 
 drunk delight as fron^ a fountain, he sought excuses 
 to separate himself from her, and wandered, confused 
 and bewildered with his own thoughts, into the wood. 
 The fauns, and the dryads, and the youthful face of 
 IJacchus, and the laughing aspect of Eros, came 
 atliwart him from time to time ; yet the wonder that 
 had clothed them with fascination was dulled within 
 his breast. Nay, he thought the poor wine-god had 
 a certain vulgaiity in his air, and he felt an angry 
 impatience at the ])cr|)etnal gaiety of Eros.
 
 AIIASMANES, THE SEEKER. 117 
 
 And now, whenever he met his favourite nymph 
 — who was as the queen of the valley — he had the 
 chagrin to perceive that the wrinkles deepened with 
 every time ; youth seemed rapidly to desert her ; and 
 instead of a maiden scarcely escaped from childhood, 
 it seemed to him that he had been wasting his adora- 
 tion upon a superannuated harridan. 
 
 One day he could not resist saying to her, though 
 with some embarrassment — 
 
 " Pray, dearest, is it many years since you have 
 inhabited this valley ? " 
 
 " Oh, indeed, many! " said she, smiling. 
 
 " You are not, then, very young ? " rejoined 
 Arasmanes, ungallantly. 
 
 " What ! " cried the nymph, changing colour — 
 " Do you begin to discover age in my countenance ? 
 Has any wrinkle yet appeared upon my brow ? You 
 are silent. Oh, cruel Fate ! wilt thou not spare me 
 even this lover ? " And the poor nymph burst into 
 tears. 
 
 " Be consoled," said Arasmanes, painfully, " it is 
 true that time begins to creep upon 3^our charms ; 
 but though my love may pass, my friendship shall be 
 eternal." 
 
 Scarcely had he uttered these words, when the 
 nymph, rising, fixed upon him a long, sorrowful look, 
 and then, with a loud cry, vanished from his sight. 
 Thick darkness, as a veil, fell over the plains ; the 
 Novelty of life, with its attendant, Poetry, was gone 
 from the wanderer's path for ever. 
 
 A sudden sleep crept over his senses. He awoke 
 confused and unrefreshed, and a long and gradual 
 ascent, but over mountains green indeed, and watered 
 by many streams gushing from the heights, stretched 
 before him. Of the valley he had mistaken for Aden 
 not a vestige remained. He was once more on the 
 real earth.
 
 IIS AKASMANKS, 'I'liK SKKKKII. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Foil several days, discontented and nnliappy, the 
 youn^- adventnrer pursued liis course, still seeking 
 Dulv tlie East, and still endeavouring t<j console liini- 
 sell" for the sweet delusions of the past by hoping an 
 Aden in the future. 
 
 The evening was still and clear ; the twilight 
 star hroke forth over those giant plains — free from 
 the culture and the homes of men, which yet make 
 the character of the eastern and the earlier world ; a 
 narrow stream, emerging from a fissure in a small 
 rock covered with moss, sparkled forth under the 
 light of the solemn heavens, and flowed far away, 
 till lost amongst a grove of palms. By the source of 
 this stream sat an aged man and a young female. 
 And the old man was pouring into his daughter's 
 ear — for Azraaph lield to Ochtor that holy relation- 
 ship — the first doctrines of the world's wisdom ; those 
 wild hut lofty conjectures by which philoso})hy pene- 
 trated into the nature and attributes of God; and 
 reverently the young maiden listened, and meekly 
 shone down the star of eve upon the dark yet lus- 
 trous beauty of her earnest countenance. 
 
 It was at this moment that a stranger was seen 
 descending from the hills which bordered the mighty 
 plains ; and he, too, worn and tired with long travel, 
 came to the stream to refresh his burning thirst, and 
 lave the dust from his brow. 
 
 He was not at first aware of the presence of the 
 old man and the maiden ; for they were half con- 
 cealed beneath the shadow of the rock from which 
 the stream flowed. But the old mail, who was one 
 of those early hermits with whom wisdom was the 
 child of solitude, and who, weary of a warring and 
 siivage world, had long since retired to a cavern not 
 far from the source of that stream, and dwelt apart 
 with Nature, the memories of a ti-oubled Past, and
 
 AKASMANES, THE SEEKEK. 110 
 
 the contemplation of a mysterious Futm^e, — the old 
 man, I say, accustomed to proffer to tlie few wan- 
 derers that from time to time descended the hills 
 (seeking- the cities of the East) the hospitalities of 
 food and shelter, was the first to break the silence. 
 
 Arasmanes accepted with thankfulness the oifers 
 of the hermit, and that night he became Ochtor's 
 guest. There were many chambers in the cavern, 
 hollowed either by the hand of Nature, or by some 
 early hunters on the hill ; and into one of these the 
 old man, after the Chaldasan had refreshed himself 
 with the simple viands of the hermitage, conducted 
 the wanderer : it was covered with dried and fragrant 
 mosses; and the sleep of Arasmanes was long, and 
 he dreamed many cheerful dreams. 
 
 When he arose the next morning, he found his 
 entertainers were not within the cavern. He looked 
 forth, and beheld them once more by the source of 
 the stream, on which shone the morning sun, and 
 round which fluttered the happy wings of the desert 
 birds. The w^anderer sought his hosts in a spot on 
 which they were accustomed, each morn and eve, to 
 address the Deity. " Thou dost not purpose to leave 
 us soon," said the hermit ; " for he who descends from 
 yon mountains must have traversed a toilsome way, 
 and his limbs will require rest." 
 
 Arasmanes, gazing on the beauty of Azraaph, 
 answered, "In truth, did I not fear that I should 
 disturb thy reverent meditations, the cool of thy 
 plains and the cjuiet of thy cavern, and, more than 
 all, thy converse and kind looks, would persuade me, 
 my father, to remain with thee many days." 
 
 " Behold how the wandering birds give life and 
 merriment to the silent stream ! " said the sage ; 
 " and so to the solitary man are the footsteps of his 
 kind." And Arasmanes sojourned with Ochtor the 
 old man.
 
 120 ai;asmam:s, 'lui': skkkki:. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 *'TiiTP, llien, is tliy ialo," said Oclitoi- ; "and llioii 
 still lielicvest in the visionary Aden of tliy fatlier's 
 dreams. Doubtless sucli a land existed once for our 
 lia})j)ier sires ; or why does tradition preserve it to 
 tlie race that lieliold it not? But tlie sliadow wraps 
 it, and tlie angel guards. Waste not thy life in a 
 pursuit, without a clue, for a goal that thou never 
 niayest attain. Lose not the charm of earth in seek- 
 ing after the joys of Aden. Tairy with us, my son, 
 in these still retreats. This is the real Aden of which 
 thy father si^ake ; for here comes neither passion nor 
 care. The mortifications and the disa})pointments of 
 earth fall not upon the recluse. Behold, ray daughter 
 hath found favour in thine eyes — she loveth thee — 
 she is beautiful and tender of heart. Tarry with us, 
 my son, and forget the lessons that thy sire, weary of 
 a world which he yet never had the courage to quit, 
 extracted from the false wisdom of Discontent." 
 
 " Thou art right, venerable Ochtor," cried Aras- 
 manes with enthusiasm; "give me but thy daughter, 
 and I \\ ill ask for no other Aden than these plains." 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 Thk sun had six times renewed his course, and Aras- 
 manes still dwelt in the cave of Ochtor. In the fair 
 face of Azraaph he discovered no wrii deles — her inno- 
 cent love did not ])all upon him ; the majestic calm 
 of Nature breathed its own tranquillity into his soul, 
 and in the lessons of Ochtor he took a holy delight. 
 He found in his wisdom tliat which at once stilled 
 the passions and inspired the tlioughts. At times, 
 however, and of late more frequently than ever, 
 strong yearnings after the Aden he had so vainly 
 pursued were yet felt. He felt that curse of monotony 
 which is the invariable offsjiring of quiet.
 
 ARASMANES, THE 8EEKER. 121 
 
 At the end of the sixth year, as one morning 
 they stood without the door of the cavern, and their 
 herds fed tranquilly around them, a band of men 
 from the western hills came suddenly in view : they 
 were discovered before they had time to consider 
 whether they .should conceal themselves ; they had 
 no cause, however, for fear — the strangers were de- 
 sirous only of food and rest. 
 
 Foremost of this band was an aged man of majestic 
 mien, and clothed in the richest garments of- the east. 
 Loose flowed his purple robe, and bright shone the 
 jewels on the girdle that clasped his sword. As he 
 advanced to accost Ochtor, ujjon the countenance of 
 each of the old men grew doubt, astonishment, re- 
 cognition, and joy. " My brother ! " burst from the 
 lips of both, and the old chief fell upon Ochtor's bosom 
 and wept aloud. The brothers remained alone the 
 whole day, and at nightfall they parted with many 
 tears ; and Zamielides, the son of the chief (who was 
 with the band), knelt to Ochtor, and Ochtor blessed 
 him. 
 
 Now, when all were gone, and Silence once more 
 slept upon the plains, Ochtor went forth alone, and 
 Azraaph said unto her husband, " My father's mind 
 seems disquieted and sad ; go forth, I pray thee, my 
 beloved, and comfort him ; the dews lie thick upon 
 the grass, and my father is very old." 
 
 By the banks of the stream stood Ochtor, and his 
 arms were folded on his breast ; the wild horses were 
 heard snorting in the distance, and the zebras came 
 to drink at the wave ; and the presence of the beasts 
 made more impressive the solitude of the old man. 
 
 " Why art thou disquieted, my father ? " said 
 Arasmanes. 
 
 " Have I not parted with my near of kin ? " 
 
 " But thou didst never hope to meet them ; and 
 are not thy children left thee ? " 
 
 Ochtor waved his hand with an unwonted im- 
 patience.
 
 • )•) 
 
 AKARMANKS, TIIK SEEKEIJ. 
 
 '' Listen to inc, Arasmaiius. Know that Zaiiiicl 
 aiul 1 were l)r()tliers. ^'(niiif!; and ardent, cacli of" ns 
 as])iicd to rule our kind, and eacli of us imagined lie 
 had the qualities that secure command; but maik, 
 my arm was the stronger in the field, and my brain 
 was the subtler in the council. AVe toiled and 
 schemed, and rose into repute among our tribe, but 
 Envy was busy with our names. Our herds were 
 seized — we were stripjied of our rank — we were de- 
 graded to the level of our slaves. Then, disgusted 
 with my race, I left their cities, and in these vast 
 solitudes 1 forgot ambition in content. But my 
 brother was of more hopeful heart ; with a patient 
 brow he veiled the anger he endured. Lo, he hath 
 Ijeen rewarded ! His liour came — he gathered to- 
 gether his friends in secret — he smote our enemies in 
 the dead of night ; and at morning, behold, he was 
 hailed chieftain of the tribe. This night he rides 
 with liis son to the king of the City of Golden Palaces, 
 whose daughter that son is about to wed. Had I 
 not weakly renounced my tribe— had I not fled hither, 
 that glorious destiny would have been mine ; 1 should 
 have been the monarch of my race, and my daughter 
 have matched with kings. Marvellest thou, now, that 
 I am disquieted, or that my heart is sore within me?" 
 
 And Arasmanes saw that the sage had been 
 .supei'ior to the world, only while he was sickened of 
 the world. 
 
 And Oclitor nourished the discontent he had 
 formed to his dying day ; and, within three months 
 from that night, Arasmanes buried him by the source 
 of the solitary stream. 
 
 t) 
 
 CHAPTEE VI. 
 
 The death of Ochtor, and his previous confession, 
 deeply affected Arasmanes. He woke as from a long 
 sleep. Solitude had lost its spell ; and he perceived
 
 ARASMANES, THE SEEKER. 123 
 
 that inactivity itself may be the parent of remorse. 
 " If," thought he, " so wise, so profonnd a mind as 
 that of Ochtor was thus sensible to the memories of 
 ambition — if, on the verge of death, he thus regretted 
 the solitude in which he had buried his years, and 
 felt, upon the first tidings from the great world, that 
 he had wasted the promise and powers of life, how 
 much more accessible should /be to sucli feelings, in 
 the vigour of manhood, and with the one great object 
 which I swore to my father to pursue, unattained, 
 and scarcely attempted ! Surely it becomes me to 
 lose no longer time in these houseless wastes ; but 
 to rise and gird up my loins, and seek with Azraaph, 
 my wife, for that Aden which we will enter to- 
 gether ! " 
 
 These thoughts soon ripened into resolve ; and 
 not the less so in that, Ochtor being dead, Aras- 
 manes had now no companion for his loftier and 
 more earnest thoughts, Azraaph was beautiful and 
 gentle ; but the moment he began to talk about the 
 stars, she unaffectedly yawned in his face. She was 
 quite contented with the solitude, for she knew of no 
 other world ; and the herds and the streamlet^ and 
 every old bush around the cavern, were society to 
 her ; but her content, as Arasmanes began to dis- 
 cover, was that of ignorance, and not of wisdom. 
 
 Azraaph wept bitterly on leaving the cavern ; 
 but by degrees, as they travelled slowly on, the 
 novelty of what they saw reconciled her to change ; 
 and, except at night, when she was. weary of spirit, 
 she ceased to utter her regrets for the stream and 
 the quiet cave. They travelled eastward for several 
 weeks, and met with no living thing by the way, 
 save a few serpents, and a troop of wild horses. At 
 length, one evening, they found themselves in the 
 suburbs of a splendid city. As they approached 
 the gates they drew back, dazzled with the lustre, 
 for the gates were of burnished gold, which shone 
 bright and glittering as they caught a sunny light
 
 l^i Ai;.\SMANi:s, TIIK SEKKRR. 
 
 ii'oui the lamps of naplillia that hlazcd, row ii|toii 
 row, along the niiglity walls. 
 
 They inquired, as they ])as.sed tlie gates, tlie name 
 of the city ; and they heard, with some surprise, and 
 more joy, tliat it was termed, " The City of Golden 
 Palaces."' 
 
 "Here, then, cried Azraa))h, "we shall he well 
 received ; for tlie son of my father's brother is wedded 
 to the daughter of the king." 
 
 "And here, theii, will he many sages," thought 
 Arasmanes, " who will, doubtless, have some know- 
 ledge of the site of Aden." 
 
 They were much struck, as they proceeded through 
 the streets, with the bustle, and life, and animation, 
 that reigned around, even at that late hour. With 
 the simplicity natural to persons who had lived so 
 long in a desert, they inquired at once for the king's 
 palace. The first time Arasmanes asked the question, 
 it was of a young lord, who, very sumptuously 
 dressed, was treading the streets with great care, lest 
 he should soil the hem of his robe. Tlie young lord 
 looked at him with grave surprise, and passed on. 
 The next person he asked was a rude boor, who was 
 carrying a bundle of wood on his shoulders. The 
 boor laughed in his face; and Arasmanes, indignant 
 at the insult, struck him to the ground. There then 
 came by a judge, and Arasmanes asked him the same 
 question. 
 
 " The king's palace ! " said the judge ; " and wdiat 
 want ye with the king's palace ? " 
 
 " Behold, the daughter of the king is married to 
 my wife's cousin." 
 
 " Thy wife's cousin ! Thou art mad to say it ; 
 yet stay, thou lookest poor, friend " (here the judge 
 frowned terribly). "Thy garments are scanty and 
 worn. I fancy thou hast neither silver nor gold." 
 
 " Thou sayest right," replied Arasmanes ; " I 
 have neither." 
 
 "Ho, ho!" quoth the judge; "he confesses his
 
 ARASMANES, THE SEEKER. 12', 
 
 jo'iiilt ; he owns that he has neither silver nor gold. 
 Here, soldiers, seize this man and woman. Away 
 with them to prison ; and let them be brought up for 
 sentence of death to-morrow. We will then decide 
 whether they shall be hanged or starved. The 
 wretches have, positively, neither silver nor gold ; 
 and, what is worse, they own it ! " 
 
 " Is it possible ! " cried the crowd ; and a shudder 
 of horror crept through the by-standers. "Away 
 with them ! — away with them ! Long life to Judge 
 Kaly, whose eye never sleeps, and wdio preserves us 
 for ever from the poor ! " 
 
 The judge walked on, shedding tears of virtuous 
 delight at the reputation he had acquired. 
 
 Arasmanes and Azraaph were hurried off to 
 prison, where Azraaph cried herself to sleep, and 
 Arasmanes, with folded arms and downcast head, 
 indulged his meditations on the notions of crime 
 that seemed so extraordinary to him and so com- 
 mon to the sons of the City of Golden Palaces. 
 They were disturbed the next morning by loud 
 shouts beneath the windows of the prison. Nothing 
 could equal tlie clamour that they heard; but it 
 seemed the clamour of joy. In fact, that morn- 
 ing the princess who had married Azraaph's cousin 
 had been safely brought to bed of her first child ; 
 and great was the joy and the noise throughout the 
 city. Now, it was the custom of that country, 
 whenever any one of the royal family was joleased 
 to augment the population of the world, for the 
 father of the child to go round to all the prisons 
 in the city, and release the prisoners. How for- 
 tunate for Arasmanes and Azraaph, that the prin- 
 cess had been brought to bed before they were 
 hanged ! 
 
 And, by-and-by, amidst cymbal and psalter, with 
 banners above him and spears aroimd, came the young 
 father to the gaol, in which our unfortunate couple 
 were confined. 
 
 VOL. IT. K
 
 12n AHASMANES, 'IIIK SKKKEIJ. 
 
 "Are there any extraordinary eriiuinals in lliis 
 ])rison?" asked the prince, of tlie liead gaoler; for 
 he was studying, at that time, to be affahle. 
 
 " Only one man, my lord, who was committed last 
 night ; and who ahsohitely confessed in cold blood, 
 and without torture, that he had neither silver nor 
 gold. It is a tliousand pities that such a miscreant 
 should be sufiered to go free ! " 
 
 "Thou art right," said the prince; "and what 
 impudence to confess his guilt ! I should like to see 
 so remarkable a criminal." 
 
 So saying, the prince dismounted, and followed 
 the gaoler to the cell in which Arasmanes and his 
 wife were confined. They recognised their relation 
 at once ; for, in that early age of the world, people 
 in trouble had a w^onderfully quick memory in recol- 
 lecting relatives in power. Azraaph ran to throw 
 herself on the prince's neck (which the guards quickly 
 prevented), and the stately Arasmanes began to utter 
 his manly thanks for the visit. 
 
 " These people are mad," cried the prince, hastily. 
 " Release them ; but let me escape first." So saying, 
 he ran down stairs so fast that he nearly broke his 
 neck ; and then, mounting his horse, pursued his 
 way to tlie other prisons, amidst the shouts of the 
 people. 
 
 Arasmanes and Azraaph were now turned out 
 into the streets. They were exceedingly hungry ; 
 and they went into the first baker's shop they saw, 
 and asked the rites of ho8})itality. 
 
 " Certainly ; but your money first," said the 
 baker. 
 
 Arasmanes, made wise by experience, took care 
 not to reply that he had no money ; " I>ut," said he, 
 " I have left it behind me at my lodging. Give me 
 the bread now, and lo, I will repay thee to-raorroAv." 
 
 " A'ery well," said the baker ; " but that sword of 
 thine has a handsome hilt : leave it with me till thou 
 return with the money."
 
 ARASMANES, THE SEEKER. 127 
 
 So Arasmanes took the bread, and left the sword. 
 
 They were now refreshed, and resolved to hasten 
 from so dangerous a city, when, just as they turned 
 into a narrow street, they were suddenly seized by six 
 soldiers, blindfolded, gagged, and hurried away, whi- 
 ther they knew not. At last they found themselves 
 ascending a flight of stairs. A few moments more, 
 and the bandages were removed from their mouths 
 and eyes, and they saw themselves in a gorgeous 
 chamber, and alone in the presence of the prince, 
 their cousin. 
 
 He embraced them tenderly. " Forgive me," 
 said he, " for appearing to forget you ; but it was as 
 much as my reputation was worth in this city to 
 acknowledge relations who confessed they had neither 
 silver nor gold. By the beard of my grandfather ! how 
 could you be so imprudent ? Do you not know that 
 you are in a country in which the people worship only 
 one deity — the god of the precious metals ? Not to 
 have the precious metals is not to have virtue ; to con- 
 fess it, is to be an atheist. No power could have saved 
 you from death, either by hanging or starvation, if 
 the princess, my wife, had not been luckily brought to 
 bed to-day." 
 
 " What a strange — what a barbarous country ! " 
 said Arasmanes. 
 
 " Barbarous ! " echoed the prince ; " this is the 
 most civilized people in the world, — nay, the whole 
 world acknowledges it. In no country are the people 
 so rich, and, therefore, so happy. For those who have 
 no money it is, indeed, a bad place of residence ; for 
 those who have, it is the land of happiness itself. 
 Yes, it is the true Aden." 
 
 " Aden ! What then, thou, too, hast heard of 
 Aden ? " 
 
 " Surely ! and this is it — the land of freedom — of 
 happiness — of gold ! " cried the prince, with enthu- 
 siasm ; " remain with us and see." 
 
 K 2
 
 128 AHASMANKS, TMK SEEKEH. 
 
 "Without <l()iil>t/' tlioii^^lit Arasmnnes, "tin's 
 coiiiitrv lies in the far East : it lias receive<I me 
 inhos])itaMy at first; luit pcrliaps the danger I 
 escaped was but the tv])e and all<',i;*<)rical truth of the 
 sworded anpd of which tradition hatli spoken." 
 " 15ut," said he, aloud, "T have no gold, and no 
 silver, my i)rince ! " 
 
 " Heed not that," answered the kind Zamielides : 
 "I have enough for all. Vou shall be provided for 
 this very day." 
 
 " But will not the people recognise me as the poor 
 stranger ? " 
 
 The prince laughed for several minutes so loudly 
 that they feared he was going into fits. 
 
 " What manner of man art thou, Arasmanes ? " 
 said he, wlien he Avas composed enough to answer ; 
 " the people of this city never know what a man has 
 been when he is once rich? Appear to-morrow in 
 purple, and they will never dream that they saw thee 
 yesterday in rags." 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The kind Zamielides, then, conducting his cousins into 
 his owni chamber, left them to attire themselves in 
 splendid garments, which he had ordered to be pre- 
 pared for them. He gave them a palace and large 
 warehouses of merchandise. 
 
 " Behold," said he, taking Arasmanes to the top 
 of a miglity toAver which overlooked the sea, — 
 " behold yonder ships that rise like a forest of masts 
 from that spacious harbour ; the six vessels with the 
 green flags are thine. I will teach thee the mysteries 
 of Trade, and thou wilt soon be as wealthy as my- 
 self." 
 
 " And what is Trade, my lord ?" asked Arasmanes.
 
 ARASMANES, THE SEEKER. 129 
 
 " Trade," replied the priDce, *' is the worship that 
 the people of this country pay to their god." 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Arasmanes was universally courted ; so wise, so 
 charming a person had never appeared in the City of 
 Golden Palaces ; and as to the beauty of Azraaph, it 
 was declared the very masterpiece of Nature. In- 
 toxicated with the homage they received, and the 
 splendour in which they lived, their days glided on 
 in a round of luxurious enjoyment. 
 
 " Eight art thou, Zamielides ! " cried Arasmanes 
 as his ships returned with new treasure ; " the City of 
 Grolden Palaces is the true Aden." 
 
 CHAPTEK IX. 
 
 Arasmanes had now been three years in the city ; 
 and you might perceive that a great change had come 
 over his person : the hues of health had folded from 
 his cheeks : his brow was care-worn — his step slow — 
 his lips compressed. He no longer thought that he 
 lived in the true Aden ; and yet for Aden itself 
 he would scarcely have quitted the City of Golden 
 Palaces. Occupied solely with the task of making 
 and spending money, he was consumed with the per- 
 petual fear of losing, and the perpetual anxiety to 
 increase, his stock. He trembled at every darker 
 cloud that swept over the heavens ; he turned pale at 
 every ruder billow that agitated the sea. He lived a 
 life of splendid care : and the pleasures which relieved 
 it were wearisome because of their sameness. He 
 saw but little of his once idolised Azraaph. Her pur- 
 suits divided her from him. In so civihzed a country
 
 1:}U AKASMANES, THE SEEKEH. 
 
 they coiikl not be always to^etlier. If he spoke of 
 liis ships, he wearied her to death ; if slie s|)oke of tlie 
 festivals she had adorned, he was equally tired of 
 the account. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 The court was plunged in n;rief. Zamielides was 
 seized witli a fever. All the wise men attende'd 
 him; Imt he turned his face to the wall and died. 
 Arasmanes mourned for him more sincerely than any 
 one ; for, besides that Arasmanes had great cause to 
 be grateful to him, he knew, also, that if any accident 
 happened to his vessels, he had now no friend willing 
 to supply the loss. This made him more anxious 
 than ever about the safety of his wealth. A year 
 after this event, the new king of the City of Golden 
 Palaces thought fit to go to war. The war lasted 
 four years ; and two millions of men w^ere killed on 
 all sides. The second year Arasmanes was at a 
 s})lendid banquet given at the court. A messenger 
 arrived, panting and breathless. A great battle at 
 sea had been fought. Thirty thousand of the king's 
 subjects had been killed. 
 
 " But who won the battle ? " cried the king. 
 
 " Who but my lord the king ?" 
 
 The air was rent with shouts of joy. 
 
 " One little accident only," continued the herald, 
 " happened the next day. Three of the scattered 
 war-ships of the enemy fell in with the vessels of some 
 of our merchants returning from Ophir, laden with 
 treasure, and, in revenge, they burned and sunk 
 them." 
 
 " Were my ships of the number ? " asked Aras- 
 manes, with faltering tongue. 
 
 " It was of thy ships that I spoke," answered the 
 messenger. 
 
 But nobody thought of Arasmanes, nor of the
 
 ARASMANES, THE SEEKER. 131 
 
 thirty thousand subjects who were killed. The city 
 was out of its wits with joy that the king had won 
 the victory. 
 
 " Alas ! I am a ruined man ! " said Arasmanes, as 
 he sat with ashes on his head. 
 
 " And we can give no more banquets," sighed his 
 wife. 
 
 " And everybody will trample upon us," said 
 Arasmanes. 
 
 " And we must abandon our palace," groaned the 
 tender Azraaph. 
 
 "But one ship remains to me! " cried Arasmanes, 
 starting up ; " it is now in port. I will be its 
 captain. I will sail myself with it to Ophir. I will 
 save my fortunes, or perish in the attempt." 
 
 " And I will accompany thee, my beloved," ex- 
 claimed Azraaph, flinging herself on his neck ; for 
 I cannot bear the pity of the wives whom I have 
 outshone ! " 
 
 The sea was calm, and the wind favourable, when 
 the unfortunate pair entered their last ship ; and, 
 for a whole week, the gossip at court was of the ruin 
 of Arasmanes, and the devotion of his wife. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 They had not been many weeks at sea before an 
 adverse wind set in, which drove them out of their 
 destined course. They were beaten eastward, and, at 
 length, even the oldest and most experienced of the 
 mariners confessed that they had entered seas utterly 
 unknown to them. Worn and wearied, when their 
 water was just out, and their provisions exhausted, 
 they espied land, and, at nightfall, the ship anchored 
 on a green and pleasant shore. The inhabitants, half- 
 naked, and scarcely escaped from the first savage 
 state of nature, ran forth to meet and succour them : 
 by mighty fires the seamen dried their wet garments,
 
 l'->'2. AKASMANHS, TIIK SKKKEI!. 
 
 ;iii<l fni-n^ot tlie li;inlslii])s tlioy li:ul eiidured. Tliey 
 remained several days witli llic liospit^djle Kava^cs, 
 rc) (aired tlieir vessel, and replenished its stores, lint 
 what especially attracted tlie notice of Arasmanes, 
 was tlie siglit of some precious diamonds whicli, set 
 in a rude crown, the cliief of the savages wore on liis 
 head. He learned from signs easy of interpretation, 
 that these diamonds abounded in a certain island in 
 the farthest East ; and that from time to time large 
 fragments of rock in which they were imbedded were 
 cast upon the shore. But when Arasmanes signified 
 his intention to seek this island, the savages, l.'y 
 gestures of horror and dismay, endeavoured to denote 
 the dangers that attended the enterprise, and to dis- 
 suade him from attempting it. Naturally bold, and 
 consumed with his thirst for wealth, these signs made 
 but little impression upon the Chaldaian ; and one 
 fair morning he renewed his voyage. Steering per- 
 petually towards the East, and with favouring winds, 
 they came, on the tenth day, in sight of an enormous 
 rock, wdiich shone far down over the waters with so re- 
 splendent a glory, as to dazzle the eyes of the seamen. 
 Diamond and ruby, emerald and carbuncle, glittered 
 from the dark soil of the rock, and promised to the 
 heart of the humblest mariner the assurance of 
 illimitable wealth. Never was human joy more 
 ecstatic than that of the crew as the ship neared the 
 coast. The sea was, in this place, narrow and con- 
 fined; the op])osite shore was also in view — black, 
 rugged, and herblcss, with pointed rocks, round 
 wliicli the waves sent their white foam on high, 
 guarding its drear ajjproach : little recked they, how- 
 ever, of the opposite shore, as tlieir eyes strained 
 towards '' The Island of Precious Stones." They 
 were in the middle of the strait, when suddenly the 
 waters became agitated and convulsed ; the vessel 
 rocked to and fro ; something glittering appeared 
 beneath the surface ; and at length, they distinctly 
 |)erceived the scales and tail of an enormous serpent.
 
 ARASMANES, THE SEEKER. 133 
 
 Thereupon a sudden horror seized the whole 
 crew ; they recognised the truth of that tradition, 
 known to all seamen, that in the farthest East lived 
 the vast Snake of the Ocean, whose home no vessel 
 ever approached without destruction. All thought of 
 the diamond rock faded from their souls. They fell 
 at once upon their knees, and poured forth un- 
 conscious prayers. But high above all rose the tall 
 form of Arasmanes : little cared he for serpent or 
 tradition. Fame, and fortune, and life, were set upon 
 one cast. " Rouse thee ! " said he, spurning the 
 pilot, "or we drive upon the opposite shore. Be- 
 hold, the island of inexhaustible wealth blazes upon 
 our eyes ! " 
 
 The words had scarce left his lips, when, with 
 a slow and fearful hiss, the serpent of the eastern seas 
 reared his head from the ocean. Dark and huge as 
 the vastest cavern in which ghoul or Afrite ever 
 dwelt was the abyss of his jaws, and the lurid and 
 terrible eyes outshone even the lustre of the diamond 
 rock. 
 
 " I defy thee ! " cried Arasmanes, waving his 
 sword above his head ; when suddenly the ship 
 whirled round and round ; the bold Chaldasan was 
 thrown with violence on the deck ; he felt the waters 
 whirl and blacken over him : and then all sense of life 
 deserted him. 
 
 When he came to himself, Arasmanes was lying 
 on the hot sands of the sliore opposite to the Diamond 
 Isle ; wrecks of the vessel were strewn around him, 
 and here and there the dead bodies of his seamen. 
 But at his feet lay, swollen and distorted, the shape of 
 his beautiful Azraaph, the sea-weeds twisted round 
 her limbs, and the deformed shell-fish crawling over 
 her long hair. And tears crept into the eyes of the 
 Chaldajan, and all his old love for Azraaph returned, 
 and he threw himself down beside her mangled 
 remains, and tore his hair ; the schemes of the later 
 years were swept away from his memory like visions.
 
 134 AIJASMAN'KS, THE SEKKEH. 
 
 and lie rcinembcrecl only tlic lone cavern and his 
 adoring bride. 
 
 Time rolled on, and Azran|ili was buried in the 
 sands ; Arasmanes tore himself from the solitary 
 grave, and, striking into the interior of the coast, 
 sought once more to discover the abodes of men. lie 
 travelled far and beneath burning suns, and at night 
 he surrounded his resting-place Avitli a circle of fire, 
 for the wild beasts and the mighty serpents were 
 abroad : scant and unwholesome was the food he 
 gleaned from the berries and rank roots that now and 
 then were visible in the drear wastes through which 
 he passed ; and in this course of hardship and travail 
 he held commune with his own heart. He felt as 
 if cured for ever of the evil passions. Avarice 
 seemed gone from his breast, and he dreamed that 
 no unholy desire could succeed to its shattered 
 throne. 
 
 One day, afar off in the desert, he descried a glit- 
 tering cavalcade — glittering it was indeed, for the 
 horsemen were clad in armour of brass and steel, and 
 the hot sun reflected the array Hke the march of 
 a river of light. Arasmanes paused, and his heart 
 swelled high within him as he heard through the 
 wide plains the martial notes of the trumpet and the 
 gong, and recognised the glory and pomp of war. 
 
 The cavalcade swept on ; and the chief who rode 
 at the head of the band paused as he surveyed with 
 admiration the noble limbs, and proud stature, and 
 dauntless eye of the Chakh\3an. The chief summoned 
 his interpreters ; and in that age the languages of the 
 East were but slightly dissimilar ; so that the chief 
 of the warriors conversed easily with the adventurer. 
 " Know," said he, " that we are bent upon the most 
 glorious enterprise ever conceived by the sons of 
 men. In the farthest East there is a land of which 
 thy fathers may have informed thee — a land of per- 
 petual happiness and youth, and its name is Aden." 
 Arasmanes started ; he could scarcely believe his cars.
 
 ARASMANES, THE SEEKER. 135 
 
 The warrior continued — " We are of that tribe which 
 lies to the extremities of the East, and this land is 
 therefore a heritage which we, of all the earth, have 
 the right to claim. Several of our youth have at 
 various times attempted to visit it, but supernatural 
 agents have repelled the attempt. Now, therefore, 
 that I have succeeded to the throne of my sires, I have 
 resolved to invade and to conquer it by force of arms. 
 Survey my band. Sawest thou ever, Chaldsean, 
 men of such limbs and stature, of such weapons 
 of offence, and shields of proof? Canst thou con- 
 ceive men more worthy of such a triumph, or more 
 certain to achieve it ? Thou, too, art of proportions 
 beyond the ordinary strength of men — thou art 
 deserving to be one of us. Come, say the word, and 
 the armourers shall clothe thee in steel, and thou shalt 
 ride at my right hand." 
 
 The neighing of the steeds, and the clangour of 
 the music, and the proud voice of the chieftain, all 
 inspired the blood of Arasmanes. He thought not of 
 the impiety of the attempt — he thought only of the 
 glory : the object of his whole life seemed placed 
 within his reach. He grasped at the offer of the 
 warrior ; and the armourer clad him in steel, and the 
 ostrich plume waved over his brow, and he rode at 
 the right hand of the warrior-king. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 The armament was not without a guide ; for, living 
 so near unto the rising of the sun, that which with 
 others was tradition, with them was knowledge ; and 
 many amongst them had travelled to the site of 
 Aden, and looked upon the black cloud that veiled 
 it, and trembled at the sound of the rushing but in- 
 visible wings that hovered over. 
 
 Arasmanes confided to the warrior his whole 
 history ; they swore eternal friendship ; and the army
 
 13(! ai:asmam;s, 'riiio skkkki;. 
 
 looked upon tlie C'lialdjoan as a man wliom God liad 
 sent to their assistance. For, strange to say, not 
 one of tliat army ever seemed to imagine there was 
 aiiglit nnlioly or profane in tlie daring enterprise in 
 whicli lie had enlisted : accustomed to consider blood- 
 shed a virtue, where was the crime of winning the 
 gardens of Paradise by force ? 
 
 Through wastes and deserts the adventurers held 
 their way : and, though their numbers thinned daily 
 by fatigue, and the lack of food, and the breath of 
 the burning winds, they seemed not to relax in their 
 ardour, nor to repine at the calamities they endured. 
 
 CHAPTER XII I. 
 
 Darkness spread solid as a wall! From heaven 
 to earth stretched the ebon Night that was the 
 barrier to the land of Aden. No object gleamed 
 through the impenetrable blackness ; from those sum- 
 mitless^ walls hung no banner; no liuman champion 
 frow^ned before the drear approach : all would have 
 been silence, save that, at times, they heard the solemn 
 rush as of some mighty sea; and they knew that it 
 was the rush of the guardian wings. 
 
 The army halted before the Darkness, mute and 
 awed ; their eyes recoiled from the gloom, and rested 
 u]ion the towering crest and snowy plumage of their 
 chief. And he bade them light the torches of naphtha 
 that they had brought with them, and unsheath their 
 swords; and, at the given sound, horseman and horse 
 dashed on against the walls of Night. For one instant 
 the torches gleamed and sparkled amidst the darkness, 
 and M'ere then- suddenly extinguished ; but through 
 the gloom came one gigantic Hand wielding a sword 
 of flame ; and, wherever it turned, man smote the 
 nearest man — father perished by liis son — and brotlier 
 fell smitten by the death-stroke of his brother ; shrieks 
 and cries, and the trample of affrighted steeds, rang
 
 ARASMANES, THE SEEKER. 137 
 
 through the riven shade — riven only by that mighty 
 sword as it waved from rank to rank, and the gloom 
 receded from its rays. 
 
 CHAPTEK XIV. 
 
 At eve the work was done ; a small remnant of the 
 armament, saved from the general slaughter, lay ex- 
 hausted upon the ground before the veil of Aden. 
 Arasmanes was the last who lingered in the warring 
 gloom ; for, as he struggled to free himself from the 
 rush of the flying and the still heaps of the dead, the 
 darkness had seemed to roll away, and, far into its 
 depths, he caught one glimpse of the wonderful love- 
 liness of Aden. There, over valleys covered with 
 the greenest verdure, and watered by rivers without 
 a wave, basked a purpling and loving sunlight that 
 was peaceful and cloudless, for it was the smile of 
 God. And there, were groups of happy beings scat- 
 tered around, in whose faces was the serenity of 
 unutterable joy ; even at the mere aspect of their 
 happiness, happiness itself was reflected upon the soul 
 of the Chalda3an, despite the dread, the horror, and the 
 desolation of the hour. He stretched out his arms im- 
 ploringly, and the vision faded for ever from his sight. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The king and all the principal chiefs of the army 
 were no more ; and, with one consent, Arasmanes 
 was raised to command. Sorrowful and dejected, he 
 conducted the humbled remnants of the troop back 
 through the deserts to the land they had so rashly 
 left. Thrice on their return they were attacked by 
 hostile tribes, but by the valour and prudence of 
 Arasmanes they escaped the peril. They arrived 
 at their native city to find that the brother of their
 
 138 ARASMANES, TIIF. SEEKEH. 
 
 perished kiiiLi' liad seized tlic reins ot" government. 
 Tlie army, wlio liated liim, declared for the strang-cr- 
 cliief wlio liad led them home. And Arasmanes, 
 liiirried away hy the prospect of power, consented to 
 their will. A battle ensued; the usurper was slain ; 
 and Arasmanes, a new usurper, ascended the throne 
 in his stead. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 TiiK Chaldir'an was no longer j^oung, the hard- 
 shi])s he had undergone in the desert had combined 
 with the anxieties that had preyed upon him during 
 his residence in the City of Golden Palaces to plant 
 upon his brow, and in his heart, the furrows of un- 
 timely age. He was in the possession of all the 
 sources of enjoyment at that period of life when we 
 can no longer enjoy. Ilowbeit, he endeavoured to 
 amuse himself by his divan of justice, from which 
 everyl)ody w^ent away dissatisfied, and by his banquets, 
 at which the courtiers com^^lained of his want of mag- 
 nificence, and the people of his profligate expense. 
 Grown wise by experience, he maintained his crown 
 by flattering his army ; and, surrounded by luxury, 
 felt himself supjiorted by power. 
 
 There came to the court of Arasmanes a strange 
 traveller ; he was a little old man, of plain appearance 
 but great wisdom ; in fact, he was one of the most 
 noted sages of the East. His conversation, though 
 melancholy, had the greatest attraction for Arasmanes, 
 who loved to complain to him of the cares of royalty, 
 and the tediousness of his life. 
 
 " Ah, how much hap])ier are those in humbler 
 station!" said the king ; "how much happier was I in 
 the desert-cave, tending my herds, and listening to 
 the sweet voice of Azraaph! — Would that I could 
 recall those days ! " 
 
 " I can enable thee to do so, great king! " said the
 
 AKASMANES, THE SEEKER. 139 
 
 sage ; " behold this mirror ; gaze on it whenever thou 
 dost desire to recall the past ; and whatever portion of 
 the past thou wouldst summon to thine eyes shall 
 appear before thee." 
 
 CHAPTEK XVII. 
 
 The sage did not deceive Arasmanes. The mirror 
 reflected all the scenes through which the Chaldsean 
 had passed : now he was at the feet of Chosphor, 
 a happy boy — now with elastic hopes entering into 
 the enchanted valley of the Nymph ere yet he learned 
 how her youth could fade — now he was at the source 
 of the little stream", and gazing on the face of Azraaph 
 by the light of the earliest star ; whichever of these 
 scenes he wished to live over again reflected itself 
 vividly in the magic mirror. Surrounded by pomp 
 and luxury in the present, his only solace was in the 
 past. 
 
 " Acknowledge that I was right," said he to the 
 sage : " I was much happier in those days ; else why 
 so comforted to renew them, though only in the cheat 
 of thy mirror ? " 
 
 " Because, great king ! " said the sage, with a 
 bitter smile, " thou seest them without recalling the 
 feelings thou didst experience as well as the scenes : 
 thou gazest on the past with the feelings that pos- 
 sess thee now, and all that then made the prospect 
 clouded is softened away by time. Judge for thyself 
 if I speak truth." So saying, the sage breathed over 
 the mirror, and bade Arasmanes look into it once 
 more. He did so. He beheld the same scenes, but 
 the illusion was gone from them. He was a boy once 
 more ; but restlessness, and anxiety, and a thousand 
 petty cares at his heart : he was again in the cave 
 with Azraaph, but secretly pining at the wearisome 
 monotony of his life : in all those scenes which he 
 now imagined to have been the happiest, he per-
 
 1 I'> AUASMANKS, TIIK SKEKKIJ. 
 
 ceivcd thai Ik' liad not enjoyed \\\fj j>resmf ; lie liad 
 been lookini:: forward to the future, and tlie dream 
 of tlie nnattainahlc Aden was at liis lieart. "Alas ! " 
 said he, dasliin*>; tlie niiirni- into ])ieces, " I was 
 deceived ; and thou hast destroyed for me, O sage, 
 even the pleasure of the past ! " 
 
 CHAPTER XVITT. 
 
 Ahapmaxes had never forgotten the brief glimpse of 
 Aden that he obtained in his impious warfare; and, 
 now that the charm was gone from Memory, the wish 
 yet to reach the unconqnered land i-eturned more 
 powerfully than ever to his mind. He consulted the 
 sage as to its possibility. 
 
 " Thou canst make but one more attempt," 
 answered the wise man ; " and in that I cannot assist 
 thee ; but one who, when I am gone hence, will visit 
 thee, shall lend thee her aid." 
 
 " Cannot the visitor come till thou art gone?" said 
 Arasmanes. 
 
 " No, nor until my deatli," answered the sage. 
 
 This reply threw the mind of Arasmanes into 
 great confusion. It was true that he nowhere found 
 so raucli pleasure as in the company of his friend — it 
 was his only solace ; but then, if he could never visit 
 Aden (the object of his whole life) until that friend 
 were dead ! — the thought w^as full of aflliction to him. 
 lie began to look upon the sage as an enemy, as an 
 obstacle between himself and the possession of his 
 wishes. He inquired every morning into the health 
 of the sage ; it seemed most provokingly strong. At 
 length, out of his wish that his friend might die, 
 grew^ the i-esolve to put his friend to death. One 
 night the sage was found in his bed a corpse; he had 
 been strangled by order of the king.
 
 ARA8MANES; OR, THE SEEKER. 141 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 The very next day, as the king sat in his divan, 
 a great noise was heard without the doors ; and, pre- 
 sently, a hag, dressed in white garments of a foreign 
 fasliion, and of a hideous and revolting countenance, 
 broke away from the crowd and made up to the king : 
 " They would not let me come to thee, because I am 
 homely and aged," said she in a slirill and discordant 
 voice ; " but I have been in a king's court before 
 now " 
 
 " What wantest thou, woman ? " said Arasmanes ; 
 and as he spake he felt a chill creep to his heart. 
 
 " I am that visitor whom the wise man foretold," 
 said she ; " and I would talk to thee alone." 
 
 Arasmanes felt impelled as by some mighty power 
 which he could not resist ; he rose from his throne, 
 the assembly broke up in surprise, and the hag was 
 admitted alone to the royal presence. 
 
 " Thou wouldst re-seek Aden, the land of Hap- 
 piness and Truth ? " said she, with a ghastly smile. 
 
 " Ay," said the king, and his knees knocked 
 together. 
 
 " I will take thee thither." 
 
 " And when ? " 
 
 " To-morrow, if thou wilt ! " and the hag laughed 
 aloud. 
 
 There was something in the manner, the voice, 
 and the appearance of this creature so disgusting to 
 Arasmanes, that he could brook it no longer. Aden 
 itself seemed not desirable with such a companion and 
 iruide. 
 
 Without vouchsafing a reply he hastened from the 
 apartment, and commanded his guards to admit the 
 hag no more to the royal presence. 
 
 The sleep of Arasmanes that night was unusually 
 profound, nor did he awake on the following day 
 
 VOL. II. L
 
 1 12 AKASMANES; 015, THE SEEKER. 
 
 till late at. noon. From tliat lioiir lie felt as if some 
 strange revolution liad taken ])lace in his thoughts. 
 He was no longer desirous of seeking Aden : whether 
 or not the apparition of the hag had given him a dis- 
 taste of Aden itself, certain it was that he felt the 
 desire of his whole life had vanished entirely from his 
 hreast ; and his only wish now was to enjoy, as long 
 and as heartily as he was able, the pleasures that were 
 within his reach. 
 
 " What a fool have I been," said he aloud, " to 
 waste so many years in wishing to leave the earth ! 
 Is it only in mv old age that 1 begin to find how much 
 that is agreeable earth can possess ? " 
 
 " Come, come, come ! " cried a shrill voice ; and 
 Arasmanes, startled, turned round to behold the 
 terrible fiice of the hag. 
 
 " Come ! " said she, stamping her foot ; " I am 
 ready to conduct thee to Aden." 
 
 " Wretch ! " said the king, with quivering lips, 
 " how didst thou l)afHe my guards ? But I will 
 strangle every one of them." 
 
 "Thou hast had enough of strangling," answered 
 the crone, with a malignant glare. " Hast thou not 
 stran^'led thv dearest friend ? " 
 
 " What ! tauntest thou me ? " cried the king ; and 
 he rushed at the hag with his lifted sabre : the blade 
 cut the air : the hag had shunned the blow ; and, at 
 the same moment, coming behind the king, she 
 clasped liim round the body, and fixed her long 
 talons in his breast ; through the purple robe, 
 through the jewelled vest, pierced those vulture-fangs, 
 and Arasmanes shrieked with terror and pain. The 
 guards rushed in at the sound of his cry. 
 
 " Villains ! " said he, as the cold drops broke from 
 his brow, " would you leave me here to be murdered ? 
 Hew down yon hell hag ! " 
 
 " We saw her not enter, king ! " said the chief 
 of the guards, amazed; "but she shall now die the 
 death." Tlie soldiers, with one accord, made at
 
 ARASMANES; OR, THE SEEKER. 113 
 
 the crone, who stood glaring at thern like a hunted 
 tigress. 
 
 '' Fools ! " said she, " know that I laugh alike at 
 stone walls and armed men." 
 
 They heard the voice — they saw not whence it 
 came — the hag had vanished. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The wound which the talons of this horrible visitor 
 had made in the breast of the king refused to heal : it 
 gave him excruciating anguish. The physicians 
 tended him in vain ; in vain, too, did the wise men 
 preach patience and hope to him. What incensed 
 him even more than the pain was the insult he had 
 suffered — that so loathsome a wretch should dare 
 to maim the person of so august a king ! — the 
 thought was not to be borne. But the more pain the 
 king suffered, the more did he endeavour to court 
 pleasure : life never seemed so charming to him as at 
 the moment when it became an agony. His favourite 
 courtiers, who had been accustomed to flatter his 
 former weakness, and to converse with him about the 
 happiness of Aden, and the possibility of entering it, 
 found that even to broach the subject threw their 
 loyal master into a paroxysm of rage. He foamed at 
 the mouth at the name of Aden — he wished, nay, he 
 endeavoured to believe, that there was no such place 
 in the universe. 
 
 CHAPTER XXL 
 
 At length one physician, more sanguine than the rest, 
 assured the king that he was able to heal the wound 
 and dispel the pain. 
 
 " Know, king ! " said he, " that in the stream of 
 Athron, which runneth through the valley of My thra, 
 
 L 2
 
 Ill ARASMANES; OR, THE SKT-KKH. 
 
 tlic'ic is a mystic \ii tiie wliicli can cure all the diseases 
 ofkiii^s, Tliou liast only to enter thy gilded bark, 
 and g-lide down the stream for the space of" twenty 
 roods, scattering thine ofiering- of myrrh and frankin- 
 cense on the waters, in order to be well once more. 
 Let the kintj^ live for ever ! " 
 
 CIIAPTEll XXII. 
 
 It was a dark, deep, and almost waveless stream ; 
 and the courtiers, and the women, and the guards, 
 and the wise men, gathered round the banks ; and 
 the king, leaning on the physician, ascended his 
 gilded bark ; and the physician alone entered the 
 vessel with him. "For," said he, "the god of the 
 stream loves it not to be profaned by the vulgar 
 crowd ; it is only for kings that it possesses its healing 
 virtue." 
 
 So the king reclined in the middle of the vessel, 
 and the physician took the censer reeking with pre- 
 cious odours ; and the bark drifted down the stream, 
 as the crowd wept and prayed upon the shore. 
 
 " Either my eyes deceive me," said the king, 
 faintly, " or the stream seems to expand su]3er- 
 naturally, as into a great sea, and the shores on either 
 side fade into distance." 
 
 " It is so," answered the physician. " And 
 seest thou yon arch of black rocks flung over the 
 tide ? " 
 
 " Ay," answered the king. 
 
 " It is the approach to the land thou hast so often 
 desired to reach : it is the entrance into Aden." 
 
 " Dog ! " cried the king, passionately, " name not 
 to me that hateful word." 
 
 As he spoke, the figure of the false physician 
 shrunk in size ; his robes fell from him, — and the 
 king beheld in his stead the dwarfish shape of the 
 accursed hag.
 
 ARASMANES ; OR, THE SEEKER. 145 
 
 On drifted the vessel ; and the crowd on the 
 banks now beheld the hag seize the king in a close 
 embrace : his sliriek was wafted over the water, 
 wliile the gorgeous vessel with its silken streamers 
 and gilded sides sped rapidly through the black arch 
 of rocks : as the bark vanished, the chasm of the 
 arch closed in, and the rocks, uniting, presented a 
 solid barrier to their gaze. But they shudderirigly 
 heard the ghastly laugh of the hag, piercing through 
 the barrier, as she uttered the one word — " never ! " 
 And from that hour the king was seen no more. 
 
 And this is the true history of Arasmanes, the 
 Chaldsean.
 
 1 1<; ox ILL iii:.\L'ni, 
 
 OX ILL IIKALTII, AND ITS CONSOLATIONS. 
 
 \Vi: do not enough consider our pliysical state as the 
 cause of niucli of our moral — we do not reflect enough 
 upon our outward selves : — What changes have been 
 produced in our minds by some external cause — an 
 accident — an illness! For instance, a general state 
 of physical debility — ill ukalth in the ordinary 
 phrase — is perhaps among the most interesting sub- 
 jects whereon to moralise. It is not, like most topics 
 that are dedicated to philosophy, refining and ab- 
 struse ; it is not a closet thesis — it does not touch one 
 man, and avoid the circle which surrounds him ; — it 
 relates to us all — for ill liealth is a part of Death ; — 
 it is its grand commencement. Sooner or later, for a 
 longer period or a shorter, it is our common doom. 
 Some, indeed, are stricken suddenly, and perceptible 
 disease does not herald the dread comer ; but such 
 exceptions are not to be classed against the rule ; and 
 in this artificial existence, afflicted by the vices of 
 custom— the unknown infirmities of our sires — the 
 various ills that beset all men who think or toil — the 
 straining nerve — the heated air — the overwrought or 
 the stagnant life — the cares of poverty — the luxuries 
 of wealth — the gnawings of our several passions, — 
 the string cracks somewhere, and few of us pass even 
 the first golden gates of Life ere we receive the 
 admonitions of Decay. " Every contingency to every 
 man and every creature doth preach our funeral ser- 
 mon, and calls us to look and see how the old Sexton 
 Time throws up the earth and digs a grave where we 
 must lay our sins, or our sorrows." * 
 
 Life itself is but a long dying, and with every 
 
 * Jeremy Taylor on ' Holy Dying.'
 
 AND ITS CONSOLATIONS. 147 
 
 struggle against disease " we taste the grave aud the 
 solemnities of our own funerals. Every day's neces- 
 sity calls for a reparation of that portion which Death 
 fed on all night when we lay on his lap, and slept in 
 his outer chambers."* 
 
 As the beautiful mind of Tully taught itself to 
 regard the evils of Old Age, by fairly facing its 
 approach, and weighing its sufferings against its con- 
 solations, so, with respect to habitual infirmities, we 
 may the better bear them by recollecting that they 
 are not without their solace. Every one of us must 
 have observed that daring a lengthened illness the 
 mind acquires the habit of making to itself a thou- 
 sand sources of interest — " a thousand images of one 
 that was " — out of that quiet monotony which seems 
 so unvaried to ordinary eyes. We grow usually far 
 more susceptible to commonplace impressions : — As 
 one whose eyes are touched by a fairy spell, a new 
 world opens to us out of the surface of the tritest 
 things. Every day we discover new objects, and 
 grow delighted with our progress. I remember a 
 friend of mine — a man of lively and impetuous ima- 
 gination — who, being afflicted with a disease which 
 demanded the most perfect composure, — not being 
 allowed to read, write, and very rarely to converse, 
 — found an inexhaustible mine of diversion in an old 
 marble chimney-piece, in which the veins, irregularly 
 streaked, furnished forth quaint and broken likenesses 
 to men, animals, trees, &c. He declared that, by 
 degrees, he awoke every morning with an object 
 before him, and his imagination betook itself instantly 
 to its new realm of discovery. This instance of the 
 strange power of the mind, to create for itself an inte- 
 rest in the narrowest circles to which it may be con- 
 fined, may be ludicrous, but is not exaggerated. How 
 many of us have watched for hours, with half-shut 
 eyes, the embers of the restless fire ! — nay, counted 
 the flowers upon the curtains of the sick-bed, and 
 
 * Jeiemy Taylor on ' Holy Dying.'
 
 148 ON ILL HEALTH, 
 
 fbund an interest in tlic task! Tlie mind 1i;»k no 
 native soil ; its affections are not confined to one 
 spot; its dispositions fjisten tliemselves evervwliere, 
 — tliey live, tliey thrive, tliey produce, in wliatsoever 
 rep^ion Chance may cast tliem, howsoever remote from 
 their accustomed realm, (jod made the human heart 
 weak, hilt elastic; it hath a strange jiower of turning 
 jioison into nutriment. Banish us the air of heaven 
 — cripple the step — bind us to the sick couch — cut 
 us off from the cheerful face of man — make us keep 
 house with Danger and with Darkness — we can yet 
 play with our own fancies, and, after the first bitter- 
 ness of the physical thraldom, feel that, despite of it, 
 we are free ! 
 
 It has been my lot to endure frequent visitations 
 of ill health, although my muscular frame is not in- 
 capable of bearing great privation and almost any 
 exertion of mere bodily fatigue. The reason is that 
 I reside principally in London; and it is only of late 
 that I have been able to inure myself to the close air 
 and the want of exercise which belong to the life of 
 cities. However lano-uishinjr in tlie confinement of 
 a metropolis, the moment I left the dull walls, and 
 heard the fresh waving of the trees, I revived, — the 
 nerves grew firm — pain fled me — I asked myself in 
 wonder for my ailments ! My bodily state was, then, 
 voluntary and self-incurred, for nothing bound or 
 binds me to cities : I follow no calling, I am inde- 
 pendent of men, sufficiently affluent in means, and, 
 from my youth upward, I have taught myself the 
 power to live alone. Why not then consult health 
 as the greatest of earthly goods? But is health the 
 greatest of earthly goods ? Is the body to l)e our 
 main care ? Are we to be the minions of self ? Are 
 we to make any corj^oreal advantage the chief end — 
 
 " Et propter vitam vivendi perdere causas?" 
 
 I confess that I see not how men can arrogate to 
 themselves the catholic boast of Immortal Hopes —
 
 AND ITS CONSOLATIONS. 149 
 
 how they can utter the old truths of the nothingness 
 of life, of the superiority of mental over physical 
 delights, of the paramount influence of the soul and 
 the soul's objects — and yet speak of health as our 
 greatest blessing, and the workman's charge of filling 
 up the crannies of this fast mouldering clay as the 
 most necessary of human objects. Assuredly health 
 is a great blessing, and its care is not to be despised ; 
 but there are duties far more sacred, — obligations 
 before which the body is as nought. For it is not 
 necessary to live, but it is necessary to live nobly ! 
 And of this truth we are not without the support 
 of high examples. Who can read the great poet 
 " who sung of heaven," and forget that his acts 
 walked level with the lofty eminence of his genius, 
 that he paid " no homage to the sun," that even the 
 blessing of light itself was a luxury, willingly to be 
 abandoned ; but the defence of the great riglits of 
 earth, the fulfilment of the solemn trust of nations, 
 the vindication of ages yet to come, was a necessity, 
 and not to be avoided — and wherefore ? because it 
 was a duty ! Are there not duties too to us, though 
 upon a narrower scale, which require no less generous 
 a devotion ? Are there not objects which are more 
 important than the ease and welfare of the body ? 
 Is our first great charge that of being a nurse to our- 
 selves ? No : every one of us who writes, toils, or 
 actively serves the state, forms to himself, if he know 
 anything of public virtue, interests which are not 
 to be renounced for the purchase of a calmer pulse, 
 and a few years added to the feeble extreme of life. 
 Many of us have neither fortune, nor power, nor 
 extrinsic ofierino-s to sacrifice to mankind ; but all of 
 US — the proud, the humble, the rich, the poor — have 
 one possession at our command ; — we may sacrifice 
 ourselves ! It is from these reasons that, at the time 
 I refer to, I put aside the care for health ; — a good 
 earnestly indeed to be coveted, but which, if obtained 
 only by a life remote from man, inactive, useless.
 
 lOU UN ILL iij;al'iii, 
 
 se'lf-revolviiig", nuiy be too dearly houj^lit : and gaziii<^ 
 on the evil wliieli I imagined (though eiToneously) 
 I could nut cure, I endeavoured to reconcile myself 
 to its necessity. 
 
 And first it seems to me that, when the nerves 
 are somewliat weakened, the senses of symj^atliy are 
 more keen — we are less negligent of our kind : — that 
 impetuous and reckless buoyancy of spirit which 
 mostly accom})anies a hardy and iron frame is not 
 made to enter into the infirmities of otliers. How 
 can it sympathise with what it has never known ? 
 We seldom find men of great animal health and 
 power possessed of much delicacy of mind ; their 
 humanity and kindness proceed from an overflow of 
 spirits — their more genial virtues are often but skin- 
 deep, and the result of good-humour. The sus- 
 ceptible frame of women causes each more kindly 
 and generous feeling to vila-ate more powerfully on 
 their hearts, and thus also that which in our harsher 
 sex sharpens the nerve, often softens the affection. 
 And this is really the cause of that increased ten- 
 dency to pity, to charity, to friendship, which comes 
 on with the decline of life, and to which Bolingbroke 
 has so touchingly alluded. There is an excitement 
 in the consciousness of the glorious possession of un- 
 shaken heal til and matured strenii-th which hurries us 
 on the road of that selfish enjoyment, which we are 
 proud of our privilege to command. The passions of 
 the soul are often winged by our animal capacities, 
 and are fed from the same sources that keep the 
 ideating of the heart strong, and the step haughty 
 upon the earth. Thus, wdien the frame declines, and 
 the race of the strong can be run no more, the Mind 
 falls gently back upon itself^ — it releases its garments 
 liom the grasp of the Passions which have lost their 
 charm — intellectual objects become more precious, 
 and, no longer suflicing to be a world to ourselves, 
 we contract the soft habit of leaning our affection 
 u}»(jn otliers ; the ties round our heart are felt with a
 
 AND ITS CONSOLATIONS. 151 
 
 more close endearment, and every little tenderness 
 we receive from the love of those about us teaches us 
 the value of love. And this is therefore among the 
 consolations of ill health, that we are more susceptible 
 to all the kindlier emotions, and that we drink a 
 deeper and a sweeter pleasure from the attachment 
 of our friends. If, too, we become, as we gradually 
 slacken in the desire of external pursuits, more de- 
 voted to intellectual objects, new sources of delight 
 are thus bestowed upon us. Books become more elo- 
 quent of language, and their aspect grows welcome 
 as the face of some dear consoler. Perhaps no epi- 
 cure of the world's coarse allurement knows that 
 degree of deep and serene enjoyment with which, 
 shut up in our tranquil chambers, we surround our- 
 selves with the wisdom, the poetry, the romance of 
 past ages, and are made free by the Sibyl of the 
 world's knowledge, to the Elysium of departed souls. 
 The pain, or the fever, that from time to time reminds 
 us of our clay, brings not perhaps more frequent and 
 embarrassing interruptions, than the restlessness and 
 eager passion which belong to the flush of health. 
 Contented to repose — the repose becomes more pro- 
 digal of dreams. 
 
 And there is another circumstance usually attend- 
 ant on ill health. We live less for the world — we 
 do not extend the circle of friendship into the wide 
 and distracting orbit of common acquaintance; we 
 are thus less subject to ungenial interruptions — to 
 vulgar humiliations — to the wear and tear of mind — 
 the harassment and the vanity, — that torture those 
 who seek after the " gallery of painted pictures/' and 
 " the talk where no love is." The gawd and the 
 ostentation shrink into their true colours before the 
 eye which has been taught to look within. And the 
 pulses that have been calmed by pain, keep, without 
 much effort, to the even tenor of philosophy. Thus 
 ill health may save us from many disquietudes and 
 errors, from frequent mortification, and " the walking
 
 102 ON iLi. iii:.\i;rii, 
 
 after tlie vain shadow." Plato retired to bis cave to 
 lie wise ; sickness is often the moral cave, with its 
 quiet, its darkness, and its solitude. 
 
 I may add also, that he who has been taug'ht tlie 
 precariousness of life acijuires a knowledge of its 
 value. lie teaches himself to regard Death with a 
 tranquil eye, and habit gifts him with a fortitude 
 mightier than the philosophy of the Porch. As the 
 lamb is shorn, so the wind is temj)ered. Nor is the 
 calm without moments of mere animal ecstacy un- 
 known to the rude health, which, having never 
 waned from its vigour, is unconscious of the treasure 
 it inherits. AVhat rapture in the first steps to re- 
 covery — in the buoyant intervals of release ! When 
 the wise simplicity of Hesiod would express the over- 
 powering joy of a bridegroom, in the flush of con- 
 quest hastening to the first embraces of his bride, he 
 can compare him only to one escaped from some 
 painfnl disease, or from the chains of a dungeon. 
 The release of pain is the excess of transport. With 
 what gratitude we feel the first return of health — the 
 first budding forth of the new spring that has dawned 
 within us ! Or, if our disease admit not that blessed 
 regeneration, still it has its intervals and reprieves : 
 moments, when the Mind springs up as the lark to 
 heaven, singing and rejoicing as it bathes its plumage 
 in the intoxicating air. So that our state may be of 
 habitual tianquillity, and yet not insensible to plea- 
 sures which have no parallel in the turmoil of more 
 envied lives. But I hold that the great counter- 
 balancing gift which the infirmity of the body, if 
 rightly moralised upon, has the privilege to confer, 
 is, that the mind, left free to contemplation, naturally 
 prefers the liigh and the immortal to the sensual and 
 the low. As astronomy took its rise among the 
 Chaldtean shepherds, whose constant leisure upon 
 their vast and level plains enabled them to elevate 
 their attention undivided to the heavenlv bodies, — so 
 the time left to us for contemplation in our hours of
 
 AND ITS CONSOLATIONS. 153 
 
 sickness, and our necessary disengagement from the 
 tilings of earth, tend to direct our thoughts to the 
 stars, and guide us half unconsciously to the Science 
 of Heaven. 
 
 Thus while, as I have said, our affections become 
 more gentle, our souls also become more noble, and 
 our desires more pure. We learn to think that 
 " earth is an hosjDital, not an inn — a place to die, 
 not live in." Our existence becomes a great pre- 
 paration for death, and the monitor within us is 
 constant, but with a sweet and a cheering voice. 
 
 Such are the thoughts with which in the hour of 
 sickness I taught myself to regard what with the 
 vulgar is the greatest of human calamities ! It may 
 be some consolation to those who have suffered more 
 bitterly than I have done, to feel that, by calling in 
 the powers of the mind, there may be good ends and 
 cheerful hopes wrought out from the wasting of the 
 body ; and that it is only the darkness — unconsidered 
 and unexplored — which shapes the spectre, and 
 appals us with the fear.
 
 154 ox SATIF/I'V. 
 
 ON SATIKTY. 
 
 MouAT-iSTS arc wrong wlicn they preacli indiscrimi- 
 nately against Satiety and denounce tlie sated. There 
 is a species of satiety wliich is productive of wisdom. 
 When Pleasure palls, Philosophy begins. I doubt 
 whether men ever thoroughly attain to knowledge of 
 the world, until they have gone through its attrac- 
 tions and allurements. Experience is not acquired 
 by the spectator of life, but by its actor. It was not 
 by contemplating the fortunes of others, but by the 
 remembrance of his own, that the wisest of mortals 
 felt that " All is vanity." A true and practical 
 philosophy, not of books alone, but of mankind, is ac- 
 (|uired by the passions as well as by the reason. The 
 Temple of the Science is approached by the garden 
 as well as by the desert ; and a healing spirit is dis- 
 tilled from the rose-leaves which withered in our hand. 
 A certain sentiment of satiety, of the vanity of 
 human pleasures, of the labor ineptiarum, of the 
 nothingness of trite and vulgar occupations, is often 
 the best preparation to that sober yet elevated view 
 of the ends of life, wliich is Philosophy. As many 
 have blessed the bed of sickness on which they had 
 leisure to contemplate their past existence, and to 
 form an improved chart of the future voyage — so 
 there is a sickness of the soul, when exhaustion itself 
 is salutary, and out of the languor and the ttedium 
 we extract the seeds of the moral regeneration. 
 Much of w^hat is most indulgent in florals — much of 
 what is most tender and profound in Poetry, have 
 come from a sated spirit. The disappointments of 
 an enthusiastic and fervent heart have great teach- 
 ing in their pathos. As the first converts to the
 
 ON SATIETY. 155 
 
 Gospel were among the unfortunate and the erring 
 — so the men who have known most the fallacies of 
 our human nature are, perhaps, those the most in- 
 clined to foster the aspirations of the spiritual. To 
 the one Faust who found a comrade in the Fiend, 
 there are a thousand who are visited by the Angel. 
 
 The more civihzed, the more refined, becomes the 
 period in which we are cast, the more are we subject 
 to satiety — 
 
 " That -weariness of all 
 
 We meet, or feel, or hear, or see." 
 
 The even road of existence, the routine of no- 
 things, the smooth and silken indolence, which are 
 destined to those among us who, wealtliy and well- 
 born, have no occupation in life but the effort to live 
 at ease, produce on the subject the same royalty of 
 discontent that was once the attribute of a king. In 
 a free and a prosperous country, all who are rich 
 and idle are as kings. We have the same splendid 
 monotony and unvarying spectacle of repeated pa- 
 geants of which the victims of a court complain. 
 All polite society has become a court, and we pass our 
 lives, like Madame de Maintenon, in seeking to amuse 
 those who cannot be amused ; or, like Louis XI Y., 
 in seeking to be amused by those who cannot amuse 
 us. Satiety is, therefore, the common and catholic 
 curse of the idle portion of a highly civilized commu- 
 nity. And the inequalities of life are fittingly ad- 
 justed. For those who are excluded from pleasure 
 in the one extreme, there are those who are in- 
 capable of pleasure in the other. The fogs gather 
 dull and cheerless over the base of the mountain, but 
 the air at the summit exhausts and withers. 
 
 Yet the poor have their satiety no less than the 
 wealthy — the satiety of toil and the conviction of its 
 hopelessness. " Picture to yourself," wrote a me- 
 chanic once to me, " a man, sensible that he is made 
 for something better than to labour and to die, cursed
 
 !")(; ON SAIIKI'V. 
 
 witli a desire of knowle(]f^e, wliilc ocoiipied only with 
 the task ti> live; dnulpiiiifj!; <>n iVoiii year to year to 
 render himself above tlie necessity of dnido-erv ; to 
 feel his soul out of the cliitehes of want ; to enable 
 liiin to indul<:>-e at ease in the luxury of becoming 
 better and wiser; — picture to yourself such a man, 
 with such an ambition, finding every effort in vain, 
 seeing that the utmost lie can do is to provide for 
 the day, and so from day to day to live battling 
 against the morrow. With what heart can he give 
 himself up at night to unproductive tasks? Scarcely 
 is he lost for a moment, amidst the wonders of know- 
 ledge for the first time presented to liim, ere the 
 voice of liis children disturbs and brings him back 
 to the world — the debt unpaid — the bill dishonoured 
 — the demands upon the Saturday's wages. Oh, sir, 
 in such moments, none can feel how great is our 
 disgust at life, how jaded and how w^eary we feel ; — 
 we recoil alike from amusement and knowledge — we 
 sicken at the doom to which we are compelled — 
 we are as weary of the sun as the idlest rich man in 
 the land — we share his prerogative of satiety, and 
 long for the rest in the green bed where our fore- 
 fathers sleep, released for ever from the tooth of 
 unrelenting cares." 
 
 The writer of this was a poet — let me hope that 
 there are not many of his order condemned with 
 him to a spirit out of harmony with its lot. Yet, as 
 knowledge widens its circle, the nmnber will in- 
 crease;, and if our social system is to remain always 
 the same, I doubt w^liether the desire of knowledge, 
 which is the desire of leisure, will be a blessing to 
 those who are everlastingly condemned to toil. 
 
 But the satiety of the rich has its cure in what 
 is the very curse of the poor. Their satiety is from 
 indolence, and its cure is action. Satiety with them 
 is chiefly the offspring of a restless imagination and 
 a stagnant intellect. Their minds are employed on 
 trifles^ in wdiich their feelings cease to take an in-
 
 ON SATIETY. 157 
 
 terest. It is not the frivolous who feel satiety, it is 
 a better order of spirits fated to have no other occu- 
 pation than frivolities. The French memoir-writers, 
 who evince so much talent wasted away in a life of 
 trifles, present the most melancholy pictures we 
 possess of satiety and of the more gloomy wisdom of 
 apathy in which it sometimes ends. The flowers of 
 the heart run to seed. Madame D'Epinay has ex- 
 pressed this briefly and beautifully: — "Le cceur se 
 blase, les ressorts se brisent, et Ton finit, je crois, par 
 n'etre plus sensible a rien." 
 
 That fearful prostration of the mind, that torpor 
 of the affections, that utter hopeless indifference to 
 all things — 
 
 " Full little can he tell who hath not tried 
 
 What hell it is!" 
 
 To rise and see through the long day no object that 
 can interest, no pleasure that can amuse — with a heart 
 perpetually craving for excitement to pass mechanic- 
 ally through the round of unexcitable occupations — 
 to make an enemy of Time — to count the moments of 
 his march — to be his captive in the prison-house — to 
 foresee no deliverer but death — to fulfil the taskwork 
 assigned to us with as little of self-will and emotion 
 as an automaton wound up for the hour — to live in 
 the bustling world as the soul lives in a dream, its 
 volition annulled, and the forms that pass unsum- 
 moned before its eye, fulfilling no recognised pur- 
 pose, and bequeathing no distinct reminiscence ; — the 
 deep and crushing melancholy of such a state let no 
 happier being venture to despise. 
 
 It is usually after some sudden pause in the 
 passions that we are thus afflicted. The winds drop, 
 and the leaf they whirled aloft rots upon the ground. 
 It is the dread close of disappointed love, or of baffled 
 ambition. Who has ever analysed the anguish of 
 love when it discovers the worthlessness of its object, 
 and retreats gloomily into itself, without enlarging 
 
 VOL. II. M
 
 158 ON SATiirrv. 
 
 on the weariness tlial succeeds to the first outburst of 
 grief? So with ambition — the retirement of a states- 
 man before his time is perliaps the worst punislnnent 
 that his enemies could inllict on liim. " Damien's 
 bed of steel" had tortures less lingering tlian many a 
 hero has found on his bed of laurels witliered; the 
 gloomy exile of Swift, fretting out his heart, " as a 
 rat in a cage ;" the spectre of Olivares — the petulance 
 of Napoleon wrestling with liis gaoler upon a fasliion 
 in tea-cups; — what mournful parodies of the dignity 
 of human honours ! Between the past glory and the 
 posthumous renown, how awful an interlude ! The 
 unwilling rest to a long-continued excitement is the 
 most desolate kind of solitude. 
 
 But happy they on whom the curse of satiety 
 falls early, and before the heart has exhausted its 
 resources ; when we can yet contend against the 
 lethargy ere it becomes a habit, and allow satiety to 
 extend only to the trifles of life, and not to its great 
 objects ; when we are wearied only of the lighter 
 pleasures, and can turn to the more grave pursuits ; 
 and the discontent of the imagination is the spur to 
 the intellect. Satiety is the heritage of the heart, 
 not of the reason : and the reason properly invoked 
 possesses in itself the genii to dissolve the charm and 
 awake the sleeper. P'or he alone, who thoroughly 
 convinces himself that he has duties to perform — 
 that his centre of being is in the world and not in 
 himself — can conquer that most absorbing variety 
 of egotism which indulges in the weariness of life. 
 The objects confined to self having lost all interest, 
 he may yet find new and inexhaustible objects in 
 the relations that he holds to others. Duty has 
 pleasures Avhich know no satiety. The weariness 
 thus known and thus removed begets the philo- 
 sophy I referred to in the commencement of these 
 remarks. For wisdom is the true phoenix, and 
 never rises but from the ashes of a former existence 
 of the mind. Tlien perhaps, too, as we learn a
 
 ON SATIETY. 159 
 
 proper estimate of the pleasures of" tliis life, we learn 
 also from those yearnings of our inward soul, never 
 satisfied below, a fresh evidence of our ultimate 
 destinies : a consolation which preacher and poet 
 have often deduced from our disappointments — con- 
 tending that our perpetual desire for something 
 unattainable here, betokens and prophesies a pos- 
 session in the objects of a hereafter — so that life 
 itself is but one expectation of eternity. As birds, 
 born in a cage from which they had never known 
 release, would still flutter against the bars, and, in 
 the instinct of their unconquered nature, long for the 
 untried and pathless air which they behold through 
 their narrow grating ; — so, pent in our cage of clay, 
 the diviner instinct is not dead within us ; at times 
 we sicken with indistinct and undefinable apprehen- 
 sions of a more noble birthright — and the soul feels 
 stirringly that its wings, which it does but bruise in 
 its dungeon-tenement, were designed by the Creator, 
 who shapes all things to their uses, for the enjoy- 
 ment of the royalties of heaven. 
 
 M
 
 inO rilAIROLAS. 
 
 CH AIROLAS. 
 
 CHAPTEK I. 
 
 OxcK upon a time there existed a kiiig-dora called 
 Paida, stretching to the west of that wide tract of 
 land known to certain ancient travellers by the name 
 of Callipaga. The heirs apparent to the throne of this 
 kingdom were submitted to a very singular ordeal. 
 At the extremity of the empire was a chain of moun- 
 tains, separating Paida from an immense region, 
 the chart of which no geographer had ever drawn. 
 Various and contradictory were all the accounts of 
 this region, from the eldest to the latest time. Ac- 
 cording to some it was the haunt of robbers and 
 demons ; every valley was beset with danger ; the 
 fruits of every tree were poisonous ; and evil spirits 
 lurlced in every path, sometimes to fascinate, and 
 sometimes to terrify, the inexperienced traveller to 
 his destruction. Others, on the contrary, asserted 
 that no land on earth equalled the beauty and the 
 tj'easures of this mystic region. The pin-est air cir- 
 culated over the divinest landscapes; the inhabitants 
 were beneficent genii ; and the life they led was that 
 of happiness without alloy, and excitement without 
 satiety. At the age of twenty the heir to the throne 
 was ordained, by immemorial custom, to penetrate 
 alone into this debated and enigmatical realm. It 
 was supposed to require three years to traverse the 
 whole of it, nor was it until this grand tour for 
 the royalty of Paida was completed, that the adven- 
 turer was permitted to return home and aspire to the 
 heritage of the crown. It happened, however, that a 
 considerable proportion of these travellers never again 
 re-entered their native land — detained, according to 
 some, by the beautiful fairies of the unknown region ;
 
 CHAIROLAS. 1(J1 
 
 or, according to others, sacrificed by its fiends. One 
 might imagine that those princes who were fortunate 
 enough to return, travellers too respectable to be 
 addicted to gratuitous invention, would have been 
 enabled by their testimony to reconcile the various re- 
 ports of the country into which they had penetrated. 
 But after their return the austere habits of royalty 
 compelled them to discretion and reserve ; and the 
 hints which had escaped them from time to time, 
 when conversing with their more confidential cour- 
 tiers, so far from elucidating, confirmed the mystery ; 
 for each of the princes had evidently met with a 
 different fortune : with one the reminiscences be- 
 queathed by his journey seemed brilliant and de- 
 lightful ; while, perhaps, with his successor, the 
 unknown region was never alluded to without a 
 shudder or a sigh. Thus the only persons who could 
 have reconciled conflicting rumours were exactly 
 those who the most kept alive the debate ; and the 
 empire was still divided into two parties, who, ac- 
 cording to the bias of their several dispositions, re- 
 presented the neighbouring territory as an Elysium 
 or a Tartarus. 
 
 The present monarch had of course undergone 
 the customary ordeal. Naturally bold and cheerful, 
 he had commenced his eventful journey with eager- 
 ness and hope, and had returned to Paida an altered 
 and melancholy man. He swayed his people with 
 great ability and success, he entered into all the 
 occupations of his rank, and did not reject its plea- 
 sures and its pomps; but it was evident that his 
 heart was not with his pursuits. He was a prey to 
 some secret regret ; but, whether he sighed to regain 
 the land he had left, or was saddened by the adven- 
 tures he had known in it, was a matter of doubt and 
 curiosity even to his queen. Several years of his 
 wedded life were passed without promise of an heir, 
 and the eyes of the people were already turned to the 
 eldest nephew of the sovereign, when it was formally
 
 102 CllAllUi|>AS. 
 
 auiKuiiiced to the court that the (jueeu had been gra- 
 ciously pleased to become in the Ihniily-way. 
 
 In di'e process of time a son made his aj)pearance. 
 He was declared a prodigy of beauty, and there was 
 something remarkably regal in the impatience of his 
 cries. Nothing could exceed the joy of the court, 
 unless it was the grief of the king's eldest nephew. 
 Tlie king himself, indeed, was perhaps also an excep- 
 tion tu the general rapture ; he looked wistfully on 
 the crimson cheeks of his first-born, and muttered to 
 himself, '' These boys are a great subject of anxiety." 
 
 " And of pride," said a small sweet voice that 
 came from the cradle. 
 
 The kin£r was startled — for even in Paida a king's 
 son does not speak as soon as he is born : he looked 
 again at the little prince's face — it w^as not from him 
 that the voice came, his royal highness had just fallen 
 asleep. 
 
 " Dost thou not behold me, king ? " said the 
 voice again. 
 
 And now the monarch beheld upon the pillow a 
 small creature scarcely taller than a needle, but 
 whose shape was modelled in the most beautiful 
 proportions of manhood. 
 
 " Know," continued the apparition, while the 
 king remained silent with consternation, " that I am 
 the good Genius of the new-born ; each mortal hath 
 at his birth liis guardian spirit, though the Genius be 
 rarely visible. I bring to thy son the three richest 
 gifts that can be bestowed upon man ; but, alas ! they 
 are difficult to preserve — teach him to guard them as 
 his most precious treasure." 
 
 The Genius vanished. The king recovered from 
 his amaze, and, expecting to find some jewels of 
 enormous value, hastily removed the coverlid, and 
 saw by the side of his child an eagle's feather, a 
 pigeon's feather, and a little tuft of the down of 
 a swan.
 
 CHAIROLAS. 163 
 
 CHAPTER 11. 
 
 The prince grew up strong, handsome, and graceful; 
 he evinced the most amiable dispositions ; he had 
 much of that tender and romantic enthusiasm which 
 we call Sentiment, and which serves to render the 
 virtues so lovely ; he had an intuitive admiration for 
 all that is daring and noble ; and his ambition would, 
 perhaps, have led him into dangerous excesses were 
 it not curbed, or purified, by a singular disinterested- 
 ness and benevolence of disposition, which rendered 
 him fearful to injure and anxious to serve those 
 with whom he came into contact. The union of 
 such qualities was calculated to conduct him to glory, 
 but to render him scrupulous as to its means ; his 
 desire to elevate himself was strong, but it was 
 blended with a stronger wish to promote the welfare 
 of others. Princes of this nature were not common 
 in Paida, and the people looked with the most san- 
 guine hopes to the prospect of his reign. He had, 
 however, some little drawbacks to the effect of his 
 good qualities. His susceptibilities made him too 
 easv with his friends, and somewhat too bashful with 
 strangers ; with the one he found it difficult to refuse 
 anvthino', with the other he was too keenlv alive to 
 ridicule and the fear of shame. But the first was a 
 failing very easily forgiven at a court, and the second 
 was one that a court would, in all probability, cor- 
 rect. The king took considerable pains with the 
 prince's education, his talents were great, and he 
 easily mastered whatever he undertook ; but at each 
 proof of the sweetness of his disposition, or the keen- 
 ness of his abilities, the good king seemed to feel 
 rather alarm than gratification. "Alas!" he would 
 mutter to himself, "that fatal region — that perilous 
 ordeal ! " and then turn hastily away. 
 
 These words fed the prince's curiosity without 
 much exciting his fear. The journey presented no-
 
 101 CllAIHoLAS. 
 
 tliinp; terrible to liis luiiid, for the courtiers, according 
 to their wont, deemed it disloyal to report to him any 
 but tlie most flatterinp;- accounts of the land he was to 
 visit ; and he attributed the broken expressions of 
 his fatlier ]>artly to tlie melancholy of his constitu- 
 tion, and partly to the over-acuteness of paternal 
 anxiety. F(n' tiie rest, it was a pleasant thing to 
 get rid of his tutors and the formalities of a court ; 
 and with him, as with all the young, hope was an 
 element in which fear could not breathe. He longed 
 for his twentieth year, and forgot to enjoy the plea- 
 sures of boyhood in his anticipation of the excitements 
 of youth. 
 
 CHAPTEK III. 
 
 The fatal time arrived ; the Prince Cliairolas had 
 taken leave of his weeping mother — embraced his 
 friends — and was receiving the last injunctions of his 
 father, while his horses impatiently snorted at the gates 
 of the palace. 
 
 *' My son," said the king, with more than his 
 usual gravity, " from the journey you are about to 
 make you are nearly sure of returning a wiser man, 
 but you may not return a better one. The three 
 charms which you have always worn about your 
 person you must be careful to preserve." Here the 
 king for the first time acquainted the wondering 
 prince Avith the visit to his infant pillow, and re2)eated 
 the words of the guardian spirit. Cliairolas had 
 always felt a lively curiosity to know why, from his 
 infancy, he had been coiii]>(Hf'd to wear about his 
 royal person three things so apparently worthless as 
 an eagle's feather, a ])igeon's feather, and the tuft of 
 a swan's down, and still more why sucli seeming trifles 
 had been gorgeously set in jewels. The secret now 
 made known to him elevated his selt-esteem ; he was 
 evidently, then, a favourite with the superior powers, 
 and marked from his birth fo]' no ordinary destinies.
 
 CHATROLAS. 165 
 
 " Alas! " concluded the king, " had I received such 
 
 talismans, perhaps " he broke off abruptly, once 
 
 more embraced his son, and hastened to shroud his 
 meditations in the interior of his palace. 
 
 Meanwhile the prince set out upon his journey. 
 The sound of the wind-instruments upon which his 
 guards played cheerily, the caracoles of his favourite 
 charger, the excitement of the fresh air, the sense of 
 liberty, and the hope of adventure — all conspired to 
 elevate his spirits. He forgot father, mother, and 
 home. Never was journey undertaken under gayer 
 presentiments, or by a more joyous mind. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 At length the ^^rince arrived at the spot where his 
 attendants were to quit him. It was the entrance 
 of a narrow defile through precipitous and lofty 
 mountains. Wild trees of luxuriant foliage grew 
 thickly along the path. It seemed a j^rimasval vale, 
 desolate even in its beauty, as though man had never 
 trodden it before. The prince paused for a moment, 
 his friends and followers gathered round him with 
 their adieus, and tears, and wishes, but still Hope 
 animated and inspired him ; he waved his hand gaily, 
 spurred his steed, and the trees soon concealed his 
 form from the gaze of his retinue. 
 
 He proceeded for some time with slowness and 
 difficulty, so entangled was the soil by its matted herb- 
 age, so obstructed was the path by the interlaced and 
 sweeping boughs. At length, towards evening, the 
 ground became more ojDen ; and, descending a gentle 
 hill, a green and lovely plain spread itself before him. 
 It was intersected by rivulets, and variegated with 
 every species of plant and tree ; it was a garden in 
 which Nature seemed to have shown how well she 
 can dispense with Art. The prince would have been 
 very much enchanted if he had not begun to be very
 
 U)0 CHAlIiOLAS. 
 
 hungry ; and, for tlie first time, he recollected that it 
 was possiljle to he starved, lie looked round anxiously, 
 hut vainly, for some sign of haljitation, and tlien he 
 regarded the trees to see if they hore fruit ; hut, alas ! 
 it was the spring of the year, and he could oidy con- 
 sole himself with ohserving that the ahundance of 
 the hlossoms promised plenty of fruit for the autumn, 
 — a long time for a prince to wait for his dinner ! 
 
 He still, however, continued to proceed, when 
 suddenly he came upon a heaten track, evidently 
 made hy art. His horse neighed as its hoofs rang 
 upon the hardened soil, and, breaking of itself into 
 a c{uicker pace, soon came to a wide arcade overhung 
 with roses. " This must conduct to some mansion," 
 thought Chairolas. 
 
 But night came on, and still the prince was in the 
 arcade ; the stars, peeping through, here and there 
 served to guide his course, until at length lights, 
 more earthly and more hrilliant, hroke upon him. 
 The arcade ceased, and Chairolas found himself at 
 the gates of a mighty city, over whose terraces, rising 
 one above the other, the moon shone hright and still. 
 
 " Who is there ? " asked a voice at the gate. 
 
 " Chairolas, Prince of Paida ! " answered the 
 traveller. 
 
 The gates opened instantly. " Princes are ever 
 welcome at the city of Chrysaor," said the same voice. 
 
 And as Chairolas entered, he saw himself instantly 
 surrounded by a group of both sexes richly attired, 
 and bending to the earth with Eastern adoration, 
 while, as with a single voice, they shouted out, " Wel- 
 come to the Prince of Paida ! " 
 
 A few minutes more, and Chairolas was in the 
 magnificent chamljer of a magnificent house, seated 
 before a board replete with tlie rarest viands and the 
 choicest wines. 
 
 " All this is delightful," thought the prince, as he 
 finished his supper ; " but I see nothing of either 
 I'airies or fiends."
 
 CHAIROLAS. 167 
 
 His soliloquy was interrupted by the master of 
 the mansion, who came to conduct the prince to his 
 couch. Scarcely was his head upon his pillow ere he 
 fell asleep, — a sure sign that he was a stranger at Chry- 
 saor, where the prevalent disease was the want of rest. 
 
 The next day, almost before Chairolas was dressed, 
 his lodging was besieged by all the courtiers of the 
 city. He found that, though his dialect was a little 
 different from theirs, the language itself was much the 
 same ; for, perhaps, there is no court in the universe 
 where a 23rince is not tolerably well understood. The 
 servile adulation which Chairolas had experienced in 
 Paida was not nearly so dehghtful as the polished 
 admiration he received from the courtiers of Chrysaor, 
 While they preserved that tone of equality without 
 which all society is but the interchange of ceremonies, 
 they evinced, by a thousand nameless attentions, their 
 respect for his good qualities, which they seemed to 
 penetrate as by an instinct. The gaiety, the anima- 
 tion, the grace of those he saw, perfectly intoxicated 
 the prince. He was immediately involved in a round 
 of engagements. It was impossible that he should 
 ever be alone. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 As the confusion of first impressions wore off, 
 Chairolas remarked a singular peculiarity in the man- 
 ners of his new friends. They were the greatest 
 laughers he had ever met. Not that they laughed 
 loudly, but that they laughed constantly. This habit 
 was not attended with any real merriment or hap- 
 piness. Many of the saddest persons laughed the 
 most. It was also remarkable that the jDrincipal 
 objects of these cachinnatory ebullitions w^ere pre- 
 cisely such as Chairolas had been taught to consider 
 the most serious, and the farthest removed from ludi- 
 crous associations. They never laughed at anything
 
 1G8 CIIAIROLAS. 
 
 wittv or lininorous, at ;i comedy or a joke. But if 
 one ol" their Irieiids beeame poor, tlieii liow tliey 
 laii^lied at his ])ovcrty ! It" a child ]»roke tlie heart of 
 a father, or a wife laii away from lici- liiisb;iiid, or a 
 parent lord cheated at i>lay, or luiiied liis tradesmen, 
 tlien tliey had no connnand over their muscles. In a 
 word, mistoitune or vice made a ])rincipal ol)jectof tliis 
 epidemical affection. But not the only object, they 
 lau^-lied at anytliinf:; tliat diflered from tlieir f^^eneral 
 habits. If a virg'in blushed — if a sage talked wisdom 
 — if a man did anything uncommon, no matter wliat, 
 they were instantly seized with this jovial convulsion. 
 Tliey laughed at generosity — they laughed at senti- 
 ment — they laughed at patriotism — and, though affect- 
 ing to be exceedingly pious, they laughed with parti- 
 cular pleasure at any extraordinary show of religion. 
 
 Chairolas was extremely puzzled ; for he saw that, 
 if they laughed at what was bad, they laughed also at 
 what was good : it seemed as if they had no other 
 mode of condemning or apj^lauding. But what per- 
 plexed him yet more was a strange transformation to 
 which this people were sulject. Their faces were apt 
 to turn, even in a single night, into enormous rhodo- 
 deiidrons;* and it was very common to see a himian 
 figure walking about as gaily as possible with a flower 
 upon its sjioulders instead of a face. 
 
 Kesolved to eidighten himself as to this peculiarity 
 of custom, Chairolas one day took aside a courtier who 
 appeared to him the most intelligent of his friends. 
 Grinaldibus Hassan Sneeraskin (so was the courtier 
 termed) laughed longer than ever when he heard the 
 perplexity of the prince. 
 
 '• Know," said he, as soon as he had composed 
 himself, " that there are two penal codes in this city. 
 For one set of persons, whom you and I never see 
 except in the streets, — persons who hew the wood 
 
 * It is to be presumed that Chrysaor was the original nursery of the 
 rhrKlodendron ; thoufrh, in Fairyland, any flower is privilofced to ^ow, 
 without permission from the naturalist.
 
 CHAIROLAS. 109 
 
 and draw the water — persons who work for the other 
 classes, — we have punishments, such as hanging, and 
 flogging, and shutting up in prisons, and Heaven 
 knows what ; — punishments, in short, that are con- 
 tained in the ninety-nine volumes of the Hatchet and 
 Rope Pandects. But, for the other set, with whom 
 you mix every day, — the very best society, in short, 
 — we have another code, which punishes only by 
 laughter. And you have no notion how severe the 
 punishment is considered. It is thus that we keep 
 our social system in order, and laugh folly and error 
 out of countenance." 
 
 " An admirable — a most gentle code ! " cried the 
 prince. " But," he added, after a moment's reflection, 
 " I see you sometimes laughing at that which to me 
 seems entitled to reverence, while you show the most 
 courteous respect to things which seem to me the fit 
 objects of ridicule," 
 
 " Prince, you do not yet understand us : we never 
 laugh at people who do exactly like the rest of us. 
 We only laugh at singularity ; because with us sin- 
 gularity is crime." 
 
 " Singularity — even in wisdom or virtue ? " 
 
 "In wisdom or virtue? of course. Nothing so 
 singular as such singularity ; therefore nothing so 
 criminal." 
 
 " But those persons with rhododendrons instead of 
 faces ? " 
 
 " Are the worst of our criminals. If we continue 
 to laugh at persons for a certain time, and the laugh- 
 ter fail to correct their vicious propensities, their faces 
 undergo the transformation you have witnessed, no 
 matter how handsome they were before." 
 
 "This is indeed laughing people out of counte- 
 nance," said Chairolas, amazed. " What an affliction ! " 
 
 " Indeed it is. Take care," added Grinaldibus Has- 
 san Sneeraskin, with paternal unction, — " take care 
 that you never do anything to deserve a laugh — the 
 torture is inexpressible — the transformation is awful ! "
 
 170 ("IIAIROLAS. 
 
 CIIAPTKK VI. 
 
 This conversation tlirew Cliairolas into a profound 
 reverie. The cliann of tlie societv was invaded; it 
 now admitted restraint and fear. If ever lie should 
 be laughed at ? if ever he should become a rhododen- 
 dron ? — terrible thought! lie remembered various 
 instances he had hitherto but little oljserved, in which 
 he more than suspected that he had already been un- 
 consciously aillicted with symptoms of this greatest 
 of all calamities. His reason allowed the justice of 
 his apprehension ; for he could not flatter himself 
 that in all respects he was exactly like the courtiers 
 of Chrysaor. 
 
 That night he went to a splendid entertainment 
 given by the prime minister. Conscious of great 
 personal attractions, and magnificently attired, he 
 felt, at his first entrance into the gorgeous halls, 
 the flush of youthful and elated vanity. It was his 
 custom to wear upon his breast one of his most 
 splendid ornaments. It was the tuft of the fairy 
 swan's down set in brilliants of great price. Some- 
 thing there was in this ornament which shed a kind 
 of chann over his whole person. It gave a more 
 interesting dignity to his mien, a loftier aspect to his 
 Vjrow, a deeper and a softer expression to his eyes. 
 So potent is the gift of a Good Genius, as all our 
 science upon such subjects assures us. 
 
 Still, as Cliairolas passed through the rooms, he 
 perceived, Avith a thrill of terror, that a smile ill sup- 
 pressed met him at every side ; and when he turned 
 his head to look back, he perceived that the fatal 
 smile had expanded into a laugli. All his com- 
 placency vanished ; terror and shame possessed him. 
 Yes, he was certainly laughed at ! He felt his face 
 itching already — certainly the leaves were sprouting! 
 
 He hastened to escape from the crowded rooms — 
 passed into the lighted and voluptuous gardens — and
 
 CHAIROLAS. 171 
 
 seated himself in a retired and sequestered alcove. 
 Here he was surprised by the beautiful Mikra, a 
 lady to whom he had been paying assiduous court, 
 and who appeared to take a lively interest in his 
 affairs. 
 
 " Prince Chairolas here ! " cried the lady, seating 
 herself by his side ; " alone too, and sad ! How is 
 this ? " 
 
 " Alas ! " answered the prince, despondingly, 
 " I feel* that I am regarded as a criminal : how can 
 I hope for your love ! In a word — dreadful con- 
 fession ! — I am certainly laughed at. I shall assuredly 
 blossom in a week or two. Light of my eyes ! deign 
 to compassionate my affliction, and instruct my igno- 
 rance. Acquaint me with the crime I have com- 
 mitted." 
 
 " Prince," said the gentle Mikra, much moved by 
 her lover's dejection, " do not speak thus. Perhaps 
 I ought to have spared you this pain. But delicacy 
 restrained me — " 
 
 " Speak ! — speak in mercy ! " 
 
 " Well then — but pardon me — that swan's down 
 tuft, it is charming, beautiful, it becomes you exceed- 
 ingly ! But at Chrysaor nobody wears swan's down 
 tufts, — you understand." 
 
 " And it is for this, then, that I may be rhodo- 
 dendronised ! " exclaimed Chairolas. 
 
 " Indeed, I fear so." 
 
 *' Away treacherous gift ! " exclaimed the prince ; 
 and he tore off the fairy ornament. He dashed it to 
 the ground, and left the alcove. The fair Mikra 
 stayed behind to pick up the diamonds : the swan's 
 down itself had vanished, or, at least, it was invisible 
 to the fine lady of Chrysaor.
 
 172 CIIAIUOLAS. 
 
 CllArTKK VII. 
 
 With tlie loss of Iiis swan's down Prince Cliairolas 
 recovered his self-coniplaconcy. No one lauglied at 
 liini in future. He was relieved from the fear of 
 (.'lllorescence. For a while he was happy. But 
 months glided away, and tlie prince grew tired of his 
 sojourn at Chrysaor. The sight of the same eternal 
 faces and the same eternal rhododendrons, the sound 
 of the same eternal laughter, wearied him to death. 
 He resolved to jnirsue his travels. Accordingly, he 
 quarrelled with Mikra, took leave of his friends, and, 
 mounting his favourile steed, departed from the walls 
 of Chrysaor. He took the precaution, this time, of 
 hiring some attendants at Chrysaor, who carried with 
 them provisions. A single one of the many jewels he 
 bore about him would have more than sufficed to pur- 
 chase the service of half Clnysaor. 
 
 Although he had derived so little advantage from 
 one of tlie fairy gifts, he naturally thought he might 
 be more fortunate with the rest. The pigeon's feather 
 was appropriate enough to travelling (for we may 
 suppose that it was a carrier-pigeon); accordingly he 
 placed it, set in emeralds, amidst the plumage of his 
 ca]"). He spent some few days in rambling about, 
 until he found he had entered a country unknown 
 even to his guides. The landscape was more flat and 
 less luxuriant than that which had hitherto cheered 
 his way, the sun was less brilliant, and the sky seemed 
 nearer to the earth. 
 
 While gazing around him, he became suddenly 
 aware of the presence of a stranger, who, stationed 
 right before his horse, stretched forth his hand and 
 thus accosted him : — 
 
 " tlirice-noble and generous traveller ! save 
 me from starvation. Heaven smiles upon one to 
 whom it has given the inestimable treasure of a 
 pigeon's feather. May Heaven continue to lavish
 
 CHAIROLAS. 173 
 
 its blessings wpon thee, — meanwhile spare me a 
 trifle ! " 
 
 The charitable Chairolas ordered his }3iirse-bearer 
 to relieve the wants of the stranger, and then in- 
 quired the name of the country they had entered. 
 He was informed that it was termed Apatia ; and 
 that its inhabitants were singularly cordial to tra- 
 vellers, "Especially," added the mendicant, "if they 
 possess that rarest of earthly gifts — the feather of a 
 pigeon." 
 
 " Well," thought Chairolas, " my good genius 
 evidently intends to make up for his mistake about 
 the swan's down : doubtless the pigeon's feather will 
 be exceedingly serviceable ! " 
 
 He desired the mendicant to guide him to the 
 nearest city of Apatia, which, fortunately, happened 
 to be the metropolis. 
 
 On entering the streets, Chairolas was struck with 
 the exceeding bustle and animation of the inhabitants ; 
 far from the indolent luxury of Chrysaor, everything 
 breathed of activity, enterprise, and toil. 
 
 The place resembled a fortified town ; the houses 
 were built of ponderous stone, a drawbridge to each ; 
 the windows were barred with iron ; a sentinel 
 guarded every jDortico. 
 
 " Is there a foreign invasion without the walls ? " 
 asked the prince. 
 
 "No," answered the mendicant; " but here every 
 man guards against his neighbour ; take care of your- 
 self, noble sir : " so saying, the grateful Apatian picked 
 the prince's pockets of his loose coin (luckily it was 
 not in his pockets that he kept his jewels), and dis- 
 appeared amidst the crowd. 
 
 CHAPTEK VIII. 
 
 The prince found himself no less courted in the 
 capital of Apatia than he had been in Chrysaor. But 
 
 VOL. II. N
 
 174 CIIAIROLAP. 
 
 society tlierc was much less clianniii^. lie amused 
 himself by ^oiu^ out in the streets incognito, and 
 watching the manners of the inhahitants. He found 
 them addicted to the most singular pursuits. One 
 game consisted in setting up a straw and sliooting 
 arrows at it hlindf«»ld. If you missed tlie mark, you 
 paid dearly ; if you hit it, you made a fortune. Many 
 persons ruined themselves at this game. 
 
 Another amusement consisted in giving certain 
 persons, trained for the ]nir])ose, and dressed in long 
 gowns, a quantity of gold, in return for which they 
 threw dirt at you. The game was played thus: — 
 You found one of these gownsmen — gave him the 
 required quantity of gold — and then stood to be 
 pelted at in a large tennis-court ; your adversary did 
 the same: if the gownsman employed against, you 
 dirtied you more than your gownsman dirtied your 
 antagonist, you were stripped naked and turned adrift 
 in the streets ; but if your antagonist was the most 
 bespattered, you won your game, and received back 
 half the gold you had given to your gownsman. 
 This was a most popular diversion. They had various 
 other amusements, all of the same kind, in which the 
 chief entertainment was the certainty of loss. 
 
 For the rest, the common occupation was quarrel- 
 ling with each other, buying and selling, picking 
 pockets, and making long speeches about liberty and 
 glory ! 
 
 Chairolas found that the pigeon's feather was 
 everywhere a passport to favour. But in a short time 
 this produced its annoyances. His room was besieged 
 by applications for charity. In vain he resisted. No 
 man with a pigeon's feather, he was assured, ever 
 refused assistance to the poor. All the ladies in the 
 city were in love with him ; all the courtiers were his 
 friends ; they adored and they plundered him ; and 
 the reason of the adoration and the plunder was the 
 pigeon's feather. 
 
 One day he found his favourite friend with his
 
 CHAIROLAS. 175 
 
 favourite fair one — a fair one so favoured, that lie had 
 actually proposed and had actually been accepted. 
 Their familiarity and their treachery were evident. 
 Chairolas drew his sabre, and would certainly have 
 slain them both, if the lady's screams had not brought 
 the king's guards into the room. They took all three 
 before the judge. He heard the case gravely, and 
 sentenced Chairolas to forego the lady and pay the 
 costs of the sentence. 
 
 " Base foreigner that you are ! " he said, gravely, 
 " and unmindful of your honour. Have you not 
 trusted your friend and believed in her you loved? 
 Have you not suffered them to be often together? 
 If you had been an honourable man, you would know 
 that you must always watch a woman and suspect a 
 friend.— Go ! " 
 
 As Chairolas was retiring, half-choked with rage 
 and shame, the lady seized him by the arm. "Ah ! " 
 she whispered, " I should never have deceived you 
 but for the pigeon's feather." 
 
 Chairolas threw himself on his bed, and, exhausted 
 by grief, fell fast asleep. When he woke the next 
 morning, he found that his attendants had disappeared 
 with the bulk of his jewels : they left behind them a 
 scroll containing these words — " A man with so fine 
 a pigeon's feather will never hang us for stealing." 
 
 Chairolas flung the feather out of the window. 
 The wind blew it away in an instant. An hour 
 afterwards he had mounted his steed and was already 
 beyond the walls of the capital of Apatia. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 At nightfall the prince found himself at the gates of 
 a lofty castle. Wearied and worn out, he blew the 
 horn suspended at the portals, and demanded food and 
 shelter for the night. No voice answered, but the 
 gates opened of their own accord. Chairolas left his 
 
 N 2
 
 17<J rilAlROLAS. 
 
 courser to feed at will on the herbage, aii<l entered 
 the castle : he passed through several magnificent 
 chambers without meeting a soul till he came to 
 a small pavilion. The walls were curiously covered 
 with violets and rose-leaves wrought in mosaic ; the 
 lights streamed from jewels of a ruby glow, set in 
 lotos-leaves. The whole spot breathed of enchant- 
 ment ; in fact, Chaii-olas had at length reached an en- 
 chanted castle. 
 
 Upon a coucii in an alcove reclined a female form, 
 covered with a veil studded with silver stars, but of a 
 texture sufficiently transparent to permit Chairolas to 
 perceive how singularly beautiful were the proportions 
 beneath. The prince ap]")roached with a soft step. 
 
 " Pardon me," he said, with a hesitating voice, " I 
 fear that I disturb your repose." The figure made no 
 reply ; and after a pause, Chairolas, unable to resist the 
 desire to see the face of the sleeper, lifted the veil. 
 
 Never had so beautiful a countenance broke even 
 upon his dreams. The first bloom of youth shed its 
 softest hues over the cheek ; the lips just parted in 
 a smile which sufficed to call forth a thousand dimples. 
 The face only wanted for the com])letion of its charm 
 that the eyes should open and light it up with soul ; 
 but the lids were closed in a slumljcr so profound, 
 that, but for the colours of the cheek and the regular 
 and ambrosial breathing of the lips, you might have 
 imao;ined tliat the slumber was of death. Beside 
 this fair creature lay a casket, on which the prince 
 read these words engraved — " He only who can un- 
 lock this casket can awaken the sleeper ; and he who 
 finds the heart may claim the hand." 
 
 Chairolas, transported with joy and hope, seized 
 the casket — the kev was in the lock. AVith tremblinc: 
 hands he sought to turn it in the hasp — it remained 
 immovable — it resisted his most strenuous efforts. 
 Nothing could be more slight than the casket — more 
 minute than the key ; )jut all the strength of Chairolas 
 was insufficient to open the lock.
 
 CHAIROLAS. 177 
 
 Chairolas was in despair. He remained for days 
 — for weeks — in the enchanted chamber. He neither 
 ate nor slept during all that time. But such was the 
 magic of the place that he never once felt hunger nor 
 fatigue. Gazing upon that divine form, he for the 
 first time experienced the rapture and intoxication of 
 real love. He spent his days and nights in seeking 
 to unclose the casket ; sometimes in his rage he dashed 
 it to tlie ground — he trampled upon it — he sought to 
 break what he could not open — in vain. 
 
 One day while thus employed, he heard the horn 
 wind without the castle gates ; then steps echoed along 
 the halls, and presently a stranger entered the en- 
 chanted pavilion. The new-comer was neither old 
 nor young, neither handsome nor ugly. He ap- 
 proached the alcove despite the menacing looks of the 
 jealous prince. He gazed upon the sleeper ; and, as 
 he gazed, a low music breathed throughout the 
 chamber. Surprised and awed, Chairolas let the 
 casket fall from his hands. The intruder took it from 
 the ground, read the inscription, and applied his hand 
 to the key ; — it turned not ; — Chairolas laughed 
 aloud ; — the stranger sighed, and drew forth from his 
 breast a little tuft of swan's down — he laid it upon 
 the casket — again turned the key — the casket opened 
 at once, and within lay a small golden heart. At 
 that instant a voice broke from the heart. " Thou 
 hast found the charm," it said ; and, at the same time, 
 the virgin woke, and, as she bent her eyes upon the 
 last comer, she said, with unutterable tenderness, 
 "It is of thee, then, that I have so long dreamed." 
 The stranger fell at her feet. And Chairolas, un- 
 able to witness his rival's happiness, fled from the 
 pavilion. 
 
 " Accursed that I am ! " he groaned aloud. " If I 
 had not cast away the fairy gift, slie would have been 
 mme !
 
 178 I llAlllUl.AS. 
 
 ClIArTKK X. 
 
 Ft)ii several days the uiifbrtiinate i)riiice wandered 
 tliroiig-li llie woods and wastes, supporting liimself on 
 wild 1 terries, and venting, in sighs and ]»rokeii 
 exclamations, his grief and rage. At lengtli he came 
 to the shores of a wide and glassy sea, — I tasking in 
 the softest hues of an Oriental morn in the early 
 smnnier. Its waves crisped over golden sands with 
 a delicious and heavenly music ; the air was scented 
 with uns})eakable fragrance, wafted from trees pe- 
 culiar to the clime, and Itearing at the same time 
 the Ijlossom and the fruit. At a slight distance 
 from the sliore was an island which seemed one gar- 
 den — the fabled bowers of the Hesperides. Studded 
 it was with ivory palaces, dehcious fountains, and 
 streams that M^ound amidst groves of asphodel and 
 amaranth. And everywhere throughout the island 
 wandered groups whose faces the prince could dis- 
 tinctly see, and those faces were made beautiful by 
 peace unruffled ;ind happiness unalloyed. Laughter 
 — how different from that of Clirysaor ! — was wafted 
 to his ear, and the boughs of the trees, as they waved 
 to the fragrant wind, gave forth melodies more ex- 
 quisite than ever woke from the lutes of Lydia or the 
 harps of Lesbos. 
 
 Wearied and exhausted the prince gazed upon the 
 Happy Isle, and longed to be a partaker of its bliss, 
 when, turning his eyes a little to the right, he saw, 
 from a winding in the shore on which he stood, a 
 vessel, witli silken streamers, seemingly about to part 
 for the o])posite isle. Several persons of either sex 
 were crowding into the vessel, and already waving 
 their hands to the groups upon the island. Chairolas 
 hastened to the spot. He pushed impatiently through 
 the crowd ; he was about to enter the vessel, when a 
 venerable old man stopped and accosted him. 
 
 " Stranger, wouldst thou go to the Happy Isle ? "
 
 CHAIKOLAS. 179 
 
 " Yes ! Quick — quick, let me pass ! " 
 
 " Stranger, whoever would enter the vessel must 
 comply first with the conditions and pay the pas- 
 sage." 
 
 " I have some jewels left still," said Chairolas, 
 haughtily. " I will pay the amount ten times over." 
 
 " We require neither jewels nor money," returned 
 the old man, gravely. " What you must produce is 
 the feather of a pigeon." 
 
 Chairolas shrunk back aghast. " But," said he, 
 " I have no longer a pigeon's feather ! " 
 
 The old man gazed at him with horror. The pas- 
 sengers set up a loud cry — "He has no pigeon's 
 feather ! " They pushed him back, the vessel parted, 
 and Chairolas was left upon the strand. 
 
 CHAPTEE XI. 
 
 Cursing his visits to Chrysaor and Apatia, which 
 had cost him so dear and given him so little in return, 
 Chairolas tore himself from the sea-shore and renewed 
 his travels. 
 
 Towards the noon of the following day he entered 
 a valley covered with immense sunflowers and p)op- 
 pies. Anything so gaudy he had never before be- 
 held. Here and there were rocks, evidently not made 
 by nature ; — mounds raised by collections of various 
 rubbish, ornamented with artificial ruins and temples. 
 Sometimes he passed through grottoes formed by bits 
 of coloured glass and shells, intended to imitate spars 
 and even jewels. The only birds that inhabited the 
 boughs were parrots and mock-birds. They made a 
 most discordant din ; but they meant it for imitations 
 of nightingales and larks. The flare of the poppies 
 and the noise of the birds were at first intolerable, 
 but by degrees the wanderer became used to them, 
 and at length found them charming. 
 
 " How delightful this is ! " said he, flinging him-
 
 180 ClIAinoLAS. 
 
 self uinlcM- :i yow-trcc, wliicli was triiumcd into the 
 shape of a jia^oda. " l>o cliei'ifiil — so gay ! A Iter all, 
 I am as well otVhereas I eoiilil haveheeii in thella])]»y 
 Isle. Nay, 1 ihiiik there is a j:;roater air of comfort 
 ill the sighl ot" these warm similowers than in those 
 eternal amaranths; and certainly, the music of the 
 parrots is exceedinii-ly lively ! " 
 
 While thus soliloquisino- the prince saw an old 
 bahoon walk leisurely up to him. The creature su})- 
 ported itself upon a golden-headed staff. It wore a 
 long wig ;ind a three-cornered hat. It had a large 
 star of coloured glass on its breast; and an apron of 
 sky-blue round its middle. 
 
 As the baboon a})proaclied, Chairolas was much 
 struck bv its countenance ; the features were siiiffu- 
 larly intelligent and astute, and seemed even more so 
 from a large pair of spectacles, which gave the animal 
 a learned look about the eyes. 
 
 " Prince ! " said the baboon, " I am well acquainted 
 with your adventures, and I think I can be of service 
 to you in your present circumstances." 
 
 " Can you give me the lady I saw in the en- 
 chanted castle ? " 
 
 "No ! " answered the baboon. " But a man who 
 has seen so much of the world knows that after a 
 little time one lady is not better than another." 
 
 " Can you then admit me to the Happy Isle ? " 
 
 "No! but you said rightly just now that you 
 were as well off in this agreeable valley." 
 
 '• Can you give me back my tuft of swan's down 
 and my pigeon's feather ? " 
 
 ^ '* No ! but I can imitate them so exactly that the 
 imitations will be equally useful. Meanwhile, come 
 and dine with me." 
 
 Chairolas followed the baboon into a cave, where 
 he was sumptuously served by pea-green monkeys to 
 dishes of barbecued squirrels. 
 
 After dinner the l)aboon and the ])rince renewed 
 their conversation. From his host, Chairolas learned
 
 CHAIROLAS. 181 
 
 that the regions called " the unknown " by the people 
 of Paida were of unlimited extent, inhabited by 
 various nations : that no two of his predecessors had 
 ever met with the same adventures, though most of 
 them had visited both Chrysaor and Apatia. The 
 baboon declared he had been of use to them all. He 
 was, indeed, an animal of exceeding age and ex- 
 perience, and had a perfect recollection of the cities 
 before the deluge. 
 
 He made, out of the silky hair of a white fox, a 
 most excellent imitation of the lost tuft of swan's 
 down ; and from the breast of a vulture he plucked 
 a feather which any one at a distance might mistake 
 for a pigeon's. 
 
 Chairolas received them with delight. 
 
 " And now, j)rince," said the baboon, " observe, 
 that, while you may show these as openly as you 
 please, it will be prudent to conceal the eagle's feather 
 that you have yet left. No inconvenience results 
 from jDarading the false, — much danger from ex- 
 hibiting the true. Take this little box of adamant, 
 lock uj) the eagle's feather in it, and, whenever you 
 meditate any scheme or exjDloit, open it and consult 
 the feather. In future you will find that it has a 
 voice, and can answer when you speak to it." 
 
 Chairolas stayed some days in the baboon's valley, 
 and then once more renewed his travels. What was 
 his surprise to find himself, on the second day of his 
 excursion, in the same defile as that which had con- 
 ducted him from his paternal realms ! He computed, 
 for the first time, the months he had spent in his 
 wanderings, and found that the three years were just 
 accomplished. In less than an hour the prince was 
 at the mouth of the defile, where a numerous caval- 
 cade had been for some days assembled to welcome 
 his return, and conduct him home.
 
 182 CIIAIIiULAS. 
 
 CHAPTEU xir. 
 
 The young prince was welcomed in Paida witli tlie 
 greatest entliiisiasm. Every one found liini jirodigi- 
 ouslv ini]>i-()vcd. lie appeared in public with the 
 false swan's down and the false pigeon's feather. 
 They became him even better than the true ones, and 
 indeed he had taken care to have them set in much 
 more magnificent jewels. But the prince was a prey 
 to one violent and master passion — Ambition. This 
 had always been a part of his character ; but pre- 
 vious to his travels it had been guided by generous 
 and patriotic impulses. It was so no longer. He 
 spent whole days in conversing with the eagle's 
 feather, though the feather indeed never said but 
 one word, which was — " War." 
 
 At that time a neighbouring people had chosen 
 five persons instead of two to inspect the treasury 
 accounts. Chairolas affected to be horror-struck with 
 the innovation. He declared it boded no good to 
 Paida ; he declaimed against it night and day. At 
 last, he so inflamed the people, that, despite the re- 
 luctance of the king, war was declared. An old 
 general of great renown headed the army. Chairolas 
 was appointed second in command. They had scarcely 
 reached the confines of the enemy's country when 
 Chairolas became no less unhappy than before. 
 "Second in command! why not first?" He con- 
 sulted his demon feather. It said " First." It 
 spoke no other word. The old general was slow in 
 his movements ; he pretended that it was unwise to 
 risk a battle at so great a distance from the capital ; 
 Imt in reality, he hoped that the appearance of his 
 army would awe the enemy into replacing the two 
 treasurers, and so secure the object of the war without 
 l)loodshed. Chairolas jienetrated this design, so con- 
 trary to his projects. He wrote home to his father, 
 to accuse the general of taking bribes from the
 
 CHAIROLAS. 183 
 
 enemy. The old king readily believed one whom a 
 good Genius had so richly endowed. The general 
 was recalled and beheaded. Chairolas succeeded to 
 the command. He hastened to march to the capital, 
 which he took and pillaged ; but, instead of replacing 
 the two treasurers, he appointed one chief — himself; 
 and twenty subordinate treasurers — his officers. 
 
 Never was prince so popular as Chairolas on his 
 return from his victories. He was intoxicated by the 
 sweetness of power and the desire of yet greater 
 glory. He longed to reign himself — he sighed to 
 think his father was so healthy. He shut himself 
 up in his room and talked to his feather : its word 
 now was " King." Shortly afterw^ards Chairolas 
 (who was the idol of the soldiers) seized the palace, 
 issued a proclamation that his father was in his 
 dotage, and had abdicated the throne in his fiivour. 
 The king was removed to a distant wing of the 
 palace, and a day or two afterwards found dead in 
 his bed. Chairolas commanded the Court to wear 
 mourning for three months, and everybody compas- 
 sionated his grief. 
 
 From that time Chairolas^ now the monarch of 
 Paida, gave himself up to his ruling passion. He 
 extended his fame from east to west — he was called 
 the Great Chairolas. But his subjects became tired 
 of war ; their lands were ravaged — their treasury 
 exhausted — new taxes were raised for new conquests, 
 — and at length Chairolas was no longer called the 
 " Great," but the " Tyrant." 
 
 CHAPTEK XIII. 
 
 As Chairolas advanced in years, he left off wearing 
 the false swan's down and the false pigeon's feather. 
 He had long ceased to lock up his eagle-plume ; he 
 carried it constantly in his helmet, that it might
 
 184 CIIAIHULAS. 
 
 wliisj^er ^vith case iiitc^ liis car. He liad ceased tu 
 be popular with any class the moment he abandoned 
 the presents of tlie baboon. I5y degrees a report 
 spread throiigli the nation that the kin^!^ was be- 
 friended by an evil spirit, and Ihal the eagle's plume 
 was a talisman which secured to the possessor — while 
 it rendered him grasping, cruel, and avaricious — 
 pros}K'rity, power, and lame. A cons[)iracy was 
 formed to rob the king of his life and talisman at 
 once. At tlie head of tlie conspiracy was the kirjg's 
 lieir, Belmanes. They took their measures so well, 
 that they succeeded in seizing the palace. They 
 penetrated into the chamber of the Great Chairolas, 
 — they i)aused at the threshold on hearing his voice, — 
 he was addressing the fatal talisman. 
 
 " The ordeal," he said, " through which I passed 
 robbed me of thy companions ; but no ordeal could 
 rob me of thee. I rule my people with a rod of iron ; 
 I have spread my conquests to the farthest regions 
 to which the banner of Paida was ever wafted. I 
 am still dissatisfied — what more can I desire ?" 
 
 " Death ! " cried the conspirators ; and the king 
 fell pierced to the heart. Behnanes seized the eagle's 
 plume : it crumbled into dust in his grasp. 
 
 After the death of Chairolas, the following sen- 
 tences were wi'itten in gold letters before the gates 
 of the great academy of Paida by a priest who pre- 
 tended to be inspired : — 
 
 " The ridicule of common men aspires to be the 
 leveller of genius." 
 
 " To renounce a virtue, because it has made thee 
 suffer from fraud, is to play the robber to thyself." 
 
 " Wouldst thou imitate the properties of the swan 
 and the pigeon, borrow from the fox and the vulture. 
 But no man can wear the imitations all his life : when 
 he abandons them, he is undone." 
 
 " If thou hast three virtues, and losest two, the 
 third, by itself, may become a vice. There is no 
 blessing to the world like Ambition joined to Sym-
 
 CHAIROLAS. 185 
 
 PATHY and Benevolence ; no scourge to the world 
 like Ambition divorced from them." 
 
 " The choicest gifts of the most benevolent genii 
 are impotent, unless accompanied by a charm against 
 experience." 
 
 " The charm against experience is woven by two 
 spirits — Patience and Self-esteem." 
 
 On these sentences nine sects of philosophy were 
 founded. Each construed them differently ; each 
 produced ten thousand volumes in support of its in- 
 terpretation ; and no man was ever made better or 
 wiser by the sentences, the sects, and the volumes.
 
 18G IXFIDELTTY IX LOVE. 
 
 ON INFIDELITY IN LOVE. 
 
 To the vulgar there is but one infideHty — that whicli, 
 in woman at least, can never be expiated nor forgiven. 
 They know not the thousand shades in which change 
 disguises itself — they trace not the fearful progress 
 of the alienation of the heart. But to those wlio 
 truly and deeply love, there is an infidelity witli 
 which the person has no share. Like ingratitude, 
 it is punished by no laws. We are powerless to 
 avenge ourselves. 
 
 When two persons are united by affection, and 
 the love of tlie one survives that of the othci", who 
 can measure the anguish of the unfortunate who 
 watches the extinction of a light which notliing can 
 reillumine ! It mostly happens, too, that the first 
 discovery is sudden. There is a deep trustfulness 
 in a loving heart ; it is blind to the gradual decrease 
 of sympathy — its divine charity attributes the absent 
 eye, the chilling word, to a thousand causes, save the 
 true one ; care — illness — some worldly trouble — some 
 engrossing thought ; and (poor fool that it is !) en- 
 deavours by additional tenderness to compensate for 
 the pain that is not of its own causing. Alas, the 
 time has come when it can no longer compen- 
 sate ! It hath ceased to be the all-in-all to its 
 cruel partner. Custom has bred contempt — and in- 
 difference gathers round the place in which we had 
 garnered up our soul. At length the appalling light 
 breaks upon us. We discover we are no longer 
 loved. And what remedy have we? None! Our
 
 INFIDELITY IN LOVE. 187 
 
 first, our natural feeling is resentment. We are 
 conscious of treachery ; this ungrateful heart that 
 has fallen from us, how have we jorized and treasured 
 it — how have we sought to shield it from every 
 arrow — how have we pleased ourselves, in solitude 
 and in absence, with yearning thoughts of its faith 
 and beauty ! — now it is ours no more ! Then we 
 break into wild reproaches — we become exacting — ■ 
 we watch every look — we gauge every action — we 
 are unfortunate — we weary — we offend. These our 
 agonies — our impetuous bursts of passion — our ironical 
 and bitter taunts, to which we half expect, as hereto- 
 fore, to hear the soft word that turneth away wrath 
 — these only expedite the fatal hour ; they are new 
 crimes in us ; the very proofs of our bitter love are 
 treasured and repeated as reasons why we should be 
 loved no more : — as if without a throe, without a 
 murmur, w^e could resign ourselves to so great a loss. 
 Sometimes we stand in silence, and with a full heart, 
 gazing upon those hard cold eyes which never again 
 can lavish tenderness upon us. And our silence is 
 dumb — its eloquence is gone. We are no longer 
 understood. We long to die in order to be avenged. 
 We half pray for some great misfortune, some agonis- 
 ing illness, that it may bring back to us our soother 
 and our nurse. We say, " In affliction or in sickness 
 the old affection will repent its desertion and return." 
 We are mistaken. We are shelterless — the roof has 
 been taken from our heads — we are exposed to any 
 and every storm. Then comes a sharp and dread 
 sentiment of loneliness and insecurity. We are left 
 — weak children — in the dark. We are bereft more 
 irrevocably than by death ; for will even the Here- 
 after, that unites the happy dead who die lovingly, 
 restore the love that has perished ere life be dim ? 
 
 What shall we do? We have accustomed our- 
 selves to love and to be loved. Can we turn to new 
 ties, and seek in another that which is extinct in 
 one? How often is such a resource in vain! Have
 
 188 INFIDELITY IN' LOVR. 
 
 we not given to this — the treacherous and the false 
 friend — tlie l)est years of our life — the youth of our 
 hearts — the flower of our alVeetions? l)id we not 
 yield up the harvest? — how little is there left for 
 another to glean ! This makes the crime of the moral 
 infidelity. The one who takes away from us his or 
 her love, makes us despond of the love of others. 
 We have no longer, perhaps, the youth and the at- 
 tractions to engage affection. Once we might have 
 chosen out of the world — now the time is past. Who 
 shall love us in our sear and yellow leaf, as we might 
 liave been loved in the season of our bloom ? " Give 
 me, then, back," said the wife whom her lord pro- 
 posed to put away, " Give me, then, back that which 
 I brought to you." And the man answered, in his 
 vulgar coarseness of soul, " Your fortune shall return 
 to you." " I thought not of fortune," said the wife ; 
 " give me Ijack my real wealth — give me back my 
 beauty and my youth — give me back the virginity 
 of soul — give me back the cheerful mind, and the 
 heart that had never been disappointed." 
 
 Yes ; it is of these that the unfaithful rob us, 
 when they cast us back upon the world, and tell 
 us with a bitter mockery to form new ties. In pro- 
 portion to the time that we have been faithful — in 
 proportion to the feelings we have sacrificed — in pro- 
 portion to the wealth of soul — of affection, of devotion, 
 that we have consumed — are we shut out from the 
 possibility of atonement elsewhere. But this is not 
 all — the other occupations of the world are suddenly 
 made stale and barren to us ! the daily avocations 
 of life — the common pleasures — the social diversions 
 so tame in themselves, had their charm when we 
 could share, and talk over, them with another. It 
 was sym]»athy wliicli made them sweet — the sym- 
 pathy withdrawn they are nothing to us — worse than 
 nothing. The talk has become the tinkling cymbal, 
 and society the gallery of pictures. Ambition, toil, 
 the great aims of life — even these abruptly cease to
 
 INFIDELITY IN LOVE. 189 
 
 excite. What, in tlie first place, made labour grate- 
 ful and smoothed the sharp pathways of ambition ? 
 Was it not the hope that their rewards would be 
 reflected upon another self? Now there is no otlier 
 self! And, in the second place, doe? it not require 
 a certain calmness and freedom of mind for great 
 efforts ? Persuaded of the possession of what most 
 we value, we can look abroad with cheerfulness and 
 hope ; — the consciousness of a treasure inexhaustible 
 by external failures, makes us speculative and bold. 
 Now, all things are coloured by our despondency ; 
 our self-esteem — that necessary incentive to glory — 
 is humbled and abased. Our pride has received a 
 jarring and bitter shock. We no longer feel that 
 we are equal to stern exertion. We wonder at what 
 we have dared before. And therefore it is, that, 
 when Othello believes himself betrayed, the occupa- 
 tions of his whole life suddenly become burthensome 
 and abhorred. 
 
 " Farewell," he saith, 
 
 " Farewell the tranquil mind ! farewell content !" 
 
 And then, as the necessary but imconscious link in 
 the chain of thought, he continues at once — 
 
 " Farewell the plumed troop, and the big wars, 
 That make ambition virtue ! oh, farewell ! 
 Farewell the neighing steed, and the shrill trump, 
 The spirit-stirring drum, the ear-piercing fife, 
 The royal banner and all quality, 
 Pride, pomp, and circumstance of glorious war ! 
 Farewell ! — Othello's occupation 's gone." 
 
 But there is another and a more permanent result 
 from this bitter treason. Our trustfulness in human 
 nature is diminished. We are no longer the credu- 
 lous enthusiasts of good. The pillars of the moral 
 world seem shaken. We believe, we hope, no more 
 from the faith of others. If the one whom we so 
 worshipped, and so served — who knew us in our best 
 years — to whom we have rendered countless, daily 
 
 VOL. II. o
 
 190 L\l"ll)i:iJ'IV IX LOVK. 
 
 offerings — wliom we jmt in our lieart of hearts — 
 agaiiist wliom if a world liinted, we had l)raved a 
 world — if this one has deserted us, who then shall be 
 f\iithful ? 
 
 2\.\ leugtli we begin to reconcile ourselves to the 
 worst; gradually we gatlier the moss of our feelingg 
 from this lioai-t which has become to us as stone. 
 Our pride hardens down into indifference. Ceasing 
 to be loved, we cease to love. Seasons may roll 
 away, all other feelings ebb and flow. Ambition 
 may change into apathy — generosity into avarice 
 — we may forget the enmities of years — we may 
 make friends of foes ; but the love we have lost 
 is never renewed. On that dread vacuum of the 
 breast the temple and the garden rise no more : — 
 that feeling, be it hatred, be it scorn, be it indiffer- 
 ence, which replaces love, endures to the last. And, 
 altered for ever to the one — how many of us are 
 altered for ever to the world ; — neither so cheerful, 
 nor so kind, nor so active in good, nor so incredulous 
 of evil as we were before ! The deluge of Passion 
 has rolled back — the earth is green again. But we 
 are in a new world. And the new world is the 
 sepulchre of the old.
 
 FI-HO-'J'l. 191 
 
 FI-HO-TI; 
 
 OB, 
 
 THE PLEASURES OF REPUTATION. 
 
 A CHINESE TALE, 
 
 Fi-Ho-Ti was considered a young man of talents ; 
 he led a pleasant life in Pekin. In the prime of 
 youth, of a highly respectable family, and enjoying 
 a most agreeable competence, he was exceedingly 
 popular among the gentlemen whom he entertained 
 at his board, and the ladies who thought he might 
 propose. Although the Chinese are not generally 
 sociable, Fi-ho-ti had ventured to set the fashion 
 of giving entertainments, in which ceremony was 
 banished for mirth. All the pleasures of life were 
 at his command, and he enjoyed them too thoroughly 
 ever to hazard the loss of them by excess. No man 
 in Pekin when waking was so energetically awake, 
 when sleeping so tranquilly asleep. 
 
 In an evil hour it happened that Fi-ho-ti dis- 
 covered that he possessed genius. A philosopher, — 
 who, being also his uncle, had the double right 
 of philosophy and relationship, to say everything 
 unpleasant to him, — took it into his head to be very 
 indignant at the happy life which Fi-ho-ti so peace- 
 fully enjoyed. 
 
 Accordingly, one beautiful morning he visited 
 our young Chin-Epicurean. He found him in his 
 summer-house, stretched on luxurious cushions, quaff- 
 ing tea the most delicious in cups of porcelain the 
 most exquisite, reading a Chinese novel, and en- 
 
 2
 
 192 ri-iKt-Ti. 
 
 livoniiic^ tlio study, fioiu lime to time, by a liglit 
 conversation with a young lady wlio liad come to 
 visit liim. 
 
 Our pliilosoplicr was naturally shocked at so 
 pleasant a view of human lite, for, thouf^li it is the 
 ohvidus (hity of Philosophy to reconcile us to tlie 
 l^ains of existence, she is very indignant if we con- 
 sole ourselves with its pleasures. 
 
 Our sage was a man very much disliked and very 
 much respected. Fi-ho-ti rose from his cusliions, a 
 little ashamed of being detected in so agreeable an 
 indolence, and reminded for the first time of the 
 maxims of Chinese morality, which hold it highly 
 improper for a gentleman to be seen with a lady. 
 Tlic novel fell from his hand; and the young lady, 
 frightened at the long beard and the long nails of 
 the philosopher, would have run away if her feet 
 would have allowed her : as it was, she summoned 
 her attendants, and hastened to complain to her 
 friends of the manner in which the pleasantest tetes-a- 
 tetes can be spoilt, when yonng men are so unfortunate 
 as to liave philosophers for uncles. 
 
 The mandarin, — for Fi-ho-ti's visitor enjoyed no 
 less a dignity, and was entitled to wear a blue globe 
 in his cap,* — seeing the coast clear, hemmed three 
 times, and thus commenced his avuncular admoni- 
 tions, 
 
 " Are you not ashamed, young man, of the 
 life that you lead ? — are you not ashamed to be so 
 indolent and so happy? You possess talents; you 
 are in the prime of youth, you have already at- 
 tained the rank of Keu-jin ;f — are you deaf to the 
 noble voice of ambition ? Your country calls upon " 
 you for exertion, — seek to distinguish your name, — 
 recollect the example of Confucius, — give yourself 
 up to study, — be wise and be great." 
 
 * Tlic distinction of mandarins of the third and fourth order, 
 t A coUcf^iato i^radc, wliich renders those wlio attain it eligible to 
 oflices of state.
 
 ri-HO-TL 15J3 
 
 Much more to this effect spoke tlie mandarin, for 
 he loved to hear himself talk ; and, like all men pri- 
 vileged t© give advice, he fancied that he was wonder- 
 fully eloquent. In this instance his vanity did not 
 deceive him ; for it was the vanity of another that 
 he addressed. Fi-ho-ti was moved ; he felt he had 
 been very foolish to be happy so long. Visions of 
 disquietude and fame floated before him : he listened 
 with attention to the exhortations of the philosopher ; 
 he resolved to distinguish himself, and to be wise. 
 
 The mandarin was charmed with the success of 
 his visit ,• it was a great triumph to disturb so much 
 enjoyment. He went home, and commenced a tract 
 upon the progressive advance of philosophy. 
 
 Every one knows that in China learning alone 
 is the passport to the offices of state : what rank and 
 fortune are in other countries, learning is in the 
 Celestial Empire. Fi-ho-ti surrendered himself to 
 Knowledge. He retired to a solitary cavern, near 
 upon Kai-fon-gu; he filled his retreat with books 
 and instruments of science ; he renounced all social 
 intercourse ; the herbs of the plain and the water of 
 the spring sufficed the tastes hitherto accustomed to 
 the most delicious viands of Pekin. Forgetful of 
 love and of pleasure, he consigned three of the fairest 
 years of his existence to uninterrupted labour. He 
 instructed himself — he imagined he was capable of 
 instructing others. 
 
 Fired with increasing ambition, our student re- 
 turned to Pekin. He composed a work, whicli, 
 though light and witty enough to charm the gay, 
 was the origin of a new school of philosophy. It 
 was at once bold and polished ; and the oldest man- 
 darin or the youngest beauty of Pekin could equally 
 appreciate and enjoy it. In one word, Fi-ho-ti's book 
 became the rage, — Fi-ho-ti was the author of his day. 
 
 Delighted by the novelty of literary applause, 
 our young student more than ever resigned himself 
 to literary pursuits. He wrote again, and again
 
 194 FI-IIO-TI. 
 
 succeeded; — all tlie world declaicd that Fi-hu-ti 
 liad estaMI^lied liis reputation, and he obtained the 
 dazzUng (hstinction of Bin-sze. 
 
 Was Fi-lio-ti the happier for his reputation ? You 
 shall judge. 
 
 He went to call upon liis uncle. The philosopher 
 received him with a frigid embarrassment. He 
 talked c^f the weather and the emperor, — the last 
 pagoda and the new fashion in teacups : he said not 
 a word about his nephew's books. Fi-ho-ti Avas 
 piqued ; he introduced the subject of his own accord. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the philosopher, drily, " I under- 
 stand you have written something that pleases the 
 women ; no doubt you will grow solid as your judg- 
 ment increases. But, to return to the teacups " 
 
 Fi-ho-ti was chagrined : he had lost the affection 
 of his learned uncle for ever ; for he w^as now con- 
 sidered to be more learned than his uncle himself. 
 It is one of the earliest mortifications which await the 
 man who achieves success, to find his most cynical 
 disparagers in those whom his youth was trained to 
 admire, as if it were reasonable to expect that they to 
 whom you have looked up w^ould cheerfully consent 
 to look up to you. " Alas ! " thought Fi-ho-ti, as he 
 re-entered his palanquin, " the uncle I so revere loves 
 me no longer. This is a misfortune ! — " A mis- 
 fortune ; perhaps, but it w\as the effect of Reputation'. 
 
 The heart of Fi-ho-ti was naturally kind and 
 genial ; thougji tlie thirst of pleasure was cooled in 
 his veins, he still cherished the social desires of friend- 
 ship. He summoned once more around him the com- 
 rades of his youth ; he fancied they, at least, would 
 be delighted to find their friend not unworthy of 
 their affection. He received them with open arms ; 
 — they returned his greeting with shyness, and an 
 awkw^ard affectation of sympathy ; — their conversa- 
 tion no longer flowed freely — they were afraid of 
 committing themselves before so clever a man ; — they 
 felt they w^ere no longer with an equal, and yet
 
 FI-HO-TI. 195 
 
 tliey refused to acknowledge a superior. Fi-ho-ti 
 perceived, with indescribable grief, that a wall liad 
 grown up between himself and the companions of 
 past years ; their pursuits, their feelings, were no 
 longer the same. They were not proud of his suc- 
 cess — they w^ere jealous ; the friends of his youth 
 were the critics of his manhood. 
 
 '' This, too, is a misfortune," thought Fi-ho-ti, as 
 he threw himself at night upon his couch. Very 
 likely : — it was the effect of Reputation ! 
 
 " But if the old friends are no more, I will gain 
 new," thought the student, " Men of the same pur- 
 suits will have the same sympathies. I aspire to be 
 a sage : I will court the friendship of sages." 
 
 This was a notable idea of Fi-ho-ti's. He sur- 
 rounded himself with the authors, the wits, and the 
 wise men of Pekin. They ate his dinners, — they 
 made him read their manuscripts — (and a bad hand- 
 writing in Chinese is no trifle !) — they told him he 
 w^as a wonderful genius, — and they abused him anony- 
 mously every week in the Pekin journals ; for China, 
 by the way, is perhaps the only despotism in the 
 world in which the press is entirely free. The heart 
 of Fi-ho-ti yearned after friendship — friendship was 
 a plant little cultivated by the literati of China ; they 
 were all too much engrossed with themselves to 
 dream of affection for another. They had no talk 
 — no thought — no feeling — except that which ex- 
 pressed love for their own books, and hatred for the 
 books of their contemporaries. 
 
 One dav Fi-ho-ti had the misfortune to break his 
 leg. The most intimate of his acquaintance among 
 the literati found him stretched on his couch, having 
 just undergone the operation of setting. 
 
 " Ah ! " said the author, " how very unlucky — 
 how very unfortunate ! " 
 
 " You are extremely obliging," said Fi-ho-ti, 
 touched by his visitor's evident emotion. 
 
 " Yes, it is particularly unlucky that your acci-
 
 1% Fl-llo-'ll. 
 
 dent slioiild occur just iit tliis nioniont : lor I wanted 
 to consult you about this passage in my new book 
 before it is jMiblished to-morrow ! " 
 
 The broken leg of his friend seemed to the autlior 
 only as an interruption to the pleasure of reading his 
 own works. 
 
 But, above all, Fi-ho-ti found it impossible to 
 trust men who gave the worst possible character of 
 each other. If you belie\eil the literati themselves, so 
 envious, malignant, worthless, unprincipled a set of 
 men as the literati of Pekin never had been created ! 
 Every new acquaintance he made told him an anec- 
 dote of an old acquaintance which made his hair 
 stand on end. Fi-ho-ti began to be alarmed. He 
 contracted more and more the circle of his society ; 
 and resolved to renounce the notion of friendship 
 among men of similar pursuits. 
 
 Even in the remotest provinces of the Celestial 
 Empire the writings of Fi-ho-ti were greatly ap- 
 proved. The gentlemen quoted him at their tea, and 
 the ladies wondered whether he was good-looking; 
 but this applause — this interest that he inspired — 
 never reached tlie ears of Fi-ho-ti. He beheld not 
 the smiles he called forth by his wit, nor the tears 
 he excited by his pathos : — all tliat he saw of the 
 effects of his reputation was in the abuse he received 
 in the Pekin journals ; he there read, every week 
 and every month, that he was a creature to be, in 
 all ways, despised. One journal declared that he 
 was stu})id, a second that he was wicked, a third 
 that he was hump-backed, and a fourth, more ma- 
 lignant than the rest, that he was poor. Other 
 journals, indeed, did not so much abuse as misre- 
 present him. He found his doctrines twisted into 
 all manner of shapes. He could not defend them 
 — for it IS not dignified to reply to all the Pekin 
 journals ; but he was assured by his flatterers that 
 truth would ultimately prevail, and posterity do him 
 justice, "Alas!" thought Fi-ho-ti, "am 1 to be
 
 FI-HO-TI. 107 
 
 deemed a culprit all my life, in order that I may be 
 acquitted after death? Is there no justice for me 
 until I am past the power of malice ? Surely this is 
 a misfortune ! " Yery likely : — it was the necessary 
 consequence of Reputation ! 
 
 Fi-ho-ti now began to perceive that the desire of 
 fame was a chimtera. He was yet credulous enough 
 to follow another chima3ra, equally fallacious. He 
 said to himself — " It was poor and vain in me to 
 desire to shine. Let me raise my heart to a more 
 noble ambition ; — let me desire only to instruct." 
 
 Fraught with this lofty notion, Fi-ho-ti now con- 
 ceived a more solid and a graver habit of mind : he 
 became rigidly conscientious in the composition of 
 his works. He no longer desired to write what was 
 brilliant, but to discover what was true. He erased, 
 without mercy, the most lively images — the most 
 sparkling aphorisms — if even a doubt of their moral 
 utility crossed his mind. He wasted two additional 
 years of the short summer of youth : he gave the 
 fruits of his labour to the world in a book of the most 
 elaborate research, the only object of which was to 
 enlighten his countrymen. "This, at least, they 
 cannot abuse," thought he, when he finished the last 
 line. Ah ! how much was he mistaken ! 
 
 Doubtless, in other countries the public are re- 
 markably grateful to any author for correcting their 
 prejudices and combating their foibles ; but in China, 
 attack one orthodox error, prove to the people that 
 you wish to elevate and improve them, and renounce 
 all happiness, all tranquillity, for the rest of your 
 life! 
 
 Fi-ho-ti's book was received with the most frigid 
 neglect by the philosophers, — Firstly, because the 
 Pekin philosophers are visionaries, and it did not 
 build a system upon visions, — and secondly, because 
 of Fi-ho-ti himself they were exceedingly jealous. 
 But from his old friends, the journalists of Pekin — 
 Fo ! — with what invective, what calumny, w^hat
 
 VJS FI-Iin-TI. 
 
 abuse it was liDiiuured ! llu had sought to he the 
 friend of liis race, — he was stig'inatised as tlie direst 
 of its enemies. He was accused ot" all manner of 
 secret desio^ns ; the ])ainted slippers of tlie mandarins 
 were in ilaiiLTcr; and he hail evidently intended to 
 niulHe all the l>ells of the f^rand Pag-oda ! Alas! let 
 no man wish to be a saint unless he is i)i'epared to be 
 a martyr. 
 
 "Is this injustice?" cried Fi-ho-ti to his flatterers. 
 "No," said they, with one voice; "No, Fi-ho-ti, — 
 it is Kepdtatiox !" 
 
 Xliorougldy disgusted with his ambition, Fi-ho-ti 
 now resolved to resign himself once more to pleasure. 
 Again he heard music, and again he feasted and 
 made love. In vain ! — the zest, the appetite was 
 gone. The sterner pursuits he had cultivated of late 
 years had rendered his mind incapable of apjn-eciating 
 the luxuries of frivolity. He had opened a gulf 
 l)etween himself and his youth ; — his heart could be 
 young no more. 
 
 " One faithful breast shall console me for all," 
 thouglit he. " Yang-y-se is beautiful and smiles upon 
 me ; I will woo and win her." 
 
 Fi-ho-ti surrendered his whole soul to the new 
 passion he had conceived. Yang-y-se listened to him 
 favourablv. He could not comi)lain of crueltv : he 
 fancied himself beloved. With the ardour which 
 belonged to his early character, he devoted alike 
 his genius and his fortune to this amiable being ; 
 pleased to think that by the one he could celebrate 
 her charms, and by the other forestall her caprices. 
 For some weeks he enjoyed a dream of delight : he 
 woke from it too soon. A rival beauty was willing 
 to attach to herself the wealthy and generous Fi-ho-ti. 
 " Why," said she, one day, " why do you throw 
 yourself away upjon Y"ang-y-se ? Do you fancy she 
 loves you ? You are mistaken : she has no heart ; 
 it is only her vanity that makes her willing to admit 
 vou as her slave." Fi-ho-ti was incredulous and in-
 
 FI-HO-TI. 109 
 
 dignant. " Read this letter," said the rival beauty. 
 " Yang*-y-se wrote it to me hut the other day." 
 
 Fi-ho-ti read as follows : — 
 
 " We had a charming supper with the gay author 
 last night, and wished much for you. You need not 
 rally me on my affection for him ; I do not love him, 
 but I am pleased to command his attentions : in a 
 word, my vanity is flattered with the notion of chain- 
 ing to myself one of the most distinguished persons in 
 Pekin. But love — ah ! that is quite another thing." 
 
 Fi-ho-ti's eyes were now thoroughly opened. He 
 recalled a thousand little instances which had proved 
 that Yang-y-se had been only in love with his cele- 
 brity. 
 
 He saw at once the great curse of distinction. Be 
 renowned, and resign the hope to be loved for your- 
 self! As you are hated not for your faults but your 
 success, so are you loved not for your merits but their 
 fame. A man Mdio has reputation is like a tower 
 whose height is estimated by the length of its shadow. 
 The sensitive and high-wrought mind of Fi-ho-ti 
 now gave way to a gloomy despondency. Being 
 himself misinterpreted, calumniated, and traduced ; 
 and feeling that none loved him but through vanity, 
 that he stood alone with his enemies in the world, 
 he became the prey to misanthropy, and gnawed by 
 perpetual suspicion. He distrusted the smiles of 
 others. The faces of men seemed to him as masks ; 
 he felt everywhere the presence of deceit. Yet 
 these feelings had made no part of his early character, 
 which was naturally frank, joyous, and confiding. 
 Was the change a misfortune ? Possibly ; but it 
 was the effect of Reputation ! 
 
 About this time, too, Fi-ho-ti began to feel the 
 effects of the severe study he had undergone. His 
 health gave way ; his nerves were shattered ; he was 
 in that terrible revolution in which the Mind — that 
 vindictive labourer — wreaks its ire upon the enfeebled
 
 200 FI-IIO-TI. 
 
 taskmaster, tlie Body. lie walked llic gliost of liis 
 tbrincr self. 
 
 One day lie was standin<:; pensively beside one of 
 tlie streams that intersect the gsirdens of ]*ekin, and, 
 gazini^ ujx)!! the waters, he muttered his hitter 
 reveries. "All!" thou<^ht he, "why was I ever 
 discontented with happiness? I was young, rich, 
 cheerful ; and life to me was a perpetual holiday : 
 my friends caressed me, my mistress loved me for 
 myself. No one hated, or maligned, or envied me. 
 Like yon leaf u])on the w-ater, my soul danced mer- 
 rily over the billows of existence. But courage, my 
 heart ! I have at least done some good ; benevolence 
 must experience gratitude — young Psi-ching, for in- 
 stance ! I have the pleasure of thinking that he 
 must love me; I have made his fortune; I have 
 brought him from obscurity into repute : for it has 
 been my character as yet never to be jealous of 
 others ! " 
 
 Psi-ching was a young poet, who had been secre- 
 tary to Fi-ho-ti. The student had discovered genius 
 and insatiable ambition in the young man ; he had 
 directed and advised his |)ursuits ; he had raised him 
 into fortune and notice ; he had enabled him to marry 
 the mistress he loved. Psi-ching vowed to him ever- 
 lasting gratitude. 
 
 AVhile Fi-ho-ti w\as thus consoling himself with 
 tlie idea of Psi-ching's affection, it so happened that 
 Psi-ching, and one of the philosophers of the day 
 whom the ])ublic voice esteemed second to Fi-ho-ti, 
 ]jassed along the banks of the river. A tree hid 
 Fi-ho-ti from their sight ; they were earnestly con- 
 versing, and Fi-ho-ti heard his own name more than 
 once repeated. 
 
 "Yes," said Psi-ching, "poor Fi-ho-ti cannot live 
 much longer ; his health is broken ; you will lose a 
 formidable rival when he is dead." 
 
 The philosopher smiled. " Why, it will certainly
 
 FI-HO-TI. 201 
 
 be a stone out of my way. You are constantly with 
 him, I think ?" 
 
 " I am. He is a charming person ; but the real 
 fact is, that, seeing he cannot Hve much longer, I am 
 keeping a journal of his last days : in a word, I shall 
 write the history of my distinguished friend. I think 
 it will take much, and have a prodigious sale." 
 
 The talkers passed on. 
 
 Fi-ho-ti did not die so soon as was expected, and 
 Psi-cliing never published the journal from which he 
 anticipated so much profit. But Fi-ho-ti ceased to 
 be remarkable for the kindness of his heart and the 
 philanthropy of his views. He was rather known 
 for the sourness of his temper and the bitterness of 
 his satire. 
 
 . By degrees he rose to an eminence which, despite 
 his detractors, the public acknowledged sufficiently to 
 ensure the honours that the sovereigns of China are 
 accustomed to bestow upon superior intellect and learn- 
 ing. On the accession of a new emperor, Fi-ho-ti was 
 commanded to ask any favour that he desired. The 
 office of Tsung-tuh (or viceroy) of the rich province 
 of Che-kiang was just vacant. The courtiers waited 
 breathless to hear in what well-chosen delicacies of 
 expression so acknowledged a master of language 
 would combine a confession of his demerits with a 
 request for the dignified office which his merits en- 
 titled him to claim. The emperor smiled benignly 
 — the Yiceroyalty of Che-kiang was the post he 
 secretly intended for Fi-ho-ti. " Son of heaven, and 
 lord of a myriad of years," said the favourite, "suffer 
 then thy servant to retire into one of the monas- 
 teries of Kai-fon-gu, and — to change his name ! " 
 
 The last hope of peace that was left to Fi-ho-ti 
 was to escape from — his Reputation.
 
 202 'inK KNowiJ-.ncK uf ttte woTiT.n 
 
 THE KN()AVLKI)(}K OK TlTi'] WORLD IN 
 MEN AND I50()KS. 
 
 Royalty and its syml)ols were abolislied in France. 
 A showman of wild beasts possessed an immense 
 Bengal tiger (the jn-ide of his collection), commonly 
 called the Royal Tujer. What did our showman 
 do ? — Why, he knew the world, and he changed the 
 name of the beast from the T'lgre Royal to the Tigre 
 National ! Horace AValpole was particularly charmed 
 with this anecdote, for he knew the world as well as 
 the showman did. It is exactly these little things — 
 the happy turn of a phrase — a well-timed pleasantry 
 (which no unobservant man ever thinks of), that, 
 while seeming humour, are in reality wisdom. There 
 are changes in the vein of wit as in everything 
 else. Sir William Temple tells us that on the return 
 of Charles II. none were more out of fashion than 
 the old Earl of Norwich, who was esteemed the great- 
 est wit of the time of Charles I. But it is clear 
 that the Earl of Norwich must have wanted know- 
 ledge of the world ; he did not feel, as by an instinct, 
 like the showman, how to vary an epithet — he stuck 
 to tlie last to his tigre royal ! 
 
 This knowledge of the world baffles our calcula- 
 tions — it does not always require experience. Some 
 men take to it intuitively ; their first step in life 
 exhibits the same profound mastery over the minds 
 of their contemporaries — the same subtle considera- 
 tion — the same felicitous address, that distinguish the 
 close of their career. Congreve had written his come- 
 dies at twenty-five ; and Farquhar, the Fielding of 
 the Drama, died young. In any numerous family you 
 will find some one child who construes the characters
 
 IN MEN AND BOOKS. 203 
 
 of the household and knows how they should be dealt 
 with better than the grown-up people do. 
 
 Minds early accustomed to solitude usually make 
 the keenest observers of the world, and chiefly for 
 this reason — when few objects are presented to our 
 contemplation, we seize them — we ruminate over 
 them — we think, again and again, uj)on all the 
 features they present to our examination f and we 
 thus master the knowledge of mankind, as Eugene 
 Aram mastered that of book-learning — by study- 
 ing five lines at a time, and ceasing not from our 
 labour till those are thoroughly acquired. A boy, 
 whose attention has not been distracted by a multi- 
 plicity of objects — who, living greatly alone, is obliged 
 therefore to think, not as a task, but as a diversion, 
 emerges at last into the world — a shy man, but a 
 deep observer. Accustomed to reflection, he is not 
 dazzled by novelty ; while it strikes his eye, it occu- 
 pies his mind. Hence, if he sit down to describe 
 what he sees, he describes it justly at once, and at 
 first ; and more vividly, perhaps, than he might in 
 after-life, because it is newer to him. Perhaps, too, 
 the moral eye resembles the physical — by custom 
 familiarises itself with delusion, and inverts mechanic- 
 ally the objects presented to it, till the deceit becomes 
 more natural than nature itself. 
 
 There are men who say they know the world, 
 because they know its vices. Could we admit this 
 claim, what sage would rival an ofiScer at Bow Street, 
 or the turnkey at Newgate ? Theirs would indeed be 
 knowledge of the world, if the world were inhabited 
 only by rogues. But pretenders of this sort are as 
 bad judges of our minds as a physician would be of 
 our bodies if he had never seen any but those in a 
 diseased state. Such a man would fancy health itself 
 a disease ! We generally find, indeed, that men are 
 governed by their iveaknesses, not their vices, and 
 those weaknesses are often the most amiable part 
 about them. The wavering Jaffier betrays his friend 
 through a weakness. He was too weak as man to
 
 201 'I'lIK KX()W[,Enr,E OF 'I'lIK WORI.l) 
 
 defend liis lioiiour riuiu tlie Ciijoleiies (»!' a woman. 
 A similar weakness has caused many a crime worse 
 tlian .lalHer's. Yet, if tlie cliaracter of such a crimi- 
 nal be fairly dissected, the only point in that charac- 
 ter which could induce a respectahle jury to recom- 
 mend the criminal to mercy would he the weakness 
 which caused the crime. It is the knowledp;e of tliese 
 weaknesses that serves a man hetter in the imder- 
 standing' and con(|uest of his species, than a know- 
 ledge of the vices to which they lead — it is better 
 to seize the one cause than ponder over the thousand 
 effects. It is the former knowledge Avhieh I chiefly 
 call the knowledge of the world. It is this which 
 immortalised Moliere in the drama, and distinguishes 
 Talleyrand in action. 
 
 It has been asked whether the same "worldly 
 wisdom which we admire in a writer would have 
 made him ecpially successful in action, ha<l occa- 
 sion brought him prominently forward? Certainly 
 not, as a necessary consequence. Swift was the most 
 sensible writer of his day, and one of the least sensible 
 politicians, in the selfish sense — the only sense in 
 which he knew^ it — of the word. How is tliis dif- 
 ference between the man and the writer to be ac- 
 counted for? Because, in the writer, the infirmities 
 of constitution are either concealed or decorated by 
 genius : not so in the man ; fretfulness, sj^leen, morbid 
 sensitiveness, eternally spoil our plans in life, but they 
 often give an interest to our plans on paper. To show 
 wisdom in a book, it is but necessary that we should 
 possess the theoretical wisdom ; while in life it re- 
 quires not only the theoretical wisdom, but the prac- 
 tical ability to act up to it. We may know exactly 
 what we ought to do, but we may not have the forti- 
 tude to do it. " Now," says the shy man in love, " I 
 ought to go and talk to my mistress — my rival is wnth 
 her — I ought to make myself as agreeable as possible 
 — I ought to throw that fellow into the shade by my 
 hons mots and my compliments." Does he do so ? 
 No ! he sits in a corner and scowls at the lady.
 
 IN MEN AND BOOKS. 20') 
 
 He is like the weak believer in virtue descrll)ccl by 
 the satirist, and, having studied all that could teach 
 him to do the right thing, never acquires the ability 
 to do it. Yet this poor man, if a writer of romances, 
 would probably endow the lover in his tale with the 
 qualities he misses in himself, and with the more gusto 
 from the sense of his own deficiencies. It is thus 
 that Cowley wooes upon j^aper the mistress whom 
 he never addressed in life. Hence the best advisers 
 of our conduct are often those who are the least 
 prudent in the regulation of their own. Their sense 
 is clear when exerted for us, but vanity, humour, 
 passion, blind them when they act for themselves. 
 
 There is a sort of wit peculiar to knowledge of 
 the world, and we usually find that writers, wdio are 
 supposed to have the most exhibited that knowledge 
 in their books, are also commonly esteemed the 
 wittiest authors of their country — Horace, Plautus, 
 Moliere, Le Sage, Yoltaire, Cervantes, Shakspeare, 
 Fielding, Swift; and this is, because the essence of 
 the most refined species of wit is truth. Even in the 
 solemn and grave Tacitus, we come perpetually to 
 sudden turns, striking points, of sententious bril- 
 liancy, which make us smile, from the depth itself 
 of their importance ; — an aphorism is always on the 
 borders of an epigram. 
 
 It is remarkable that there is scarcely any very 
 popular author of great imagination, in w^hose works 
 we do not recognise that common sense which is 
 knowledge of the world, and which is so generally 
 supposed by the superficial to be in direct opposition 
 to the imaginative faculty. When an author does not 
 possess it eminently, he is never eminently />o/7M/ar, 
 whatever be the dignity accorded to his station. 
 Compare Scott and Shelley, the two most imaginative 
 authors of their time. The one, in his wildest flights, 
 never loses siglit of common sense — there is an afiinity 
 between him and his humblest reader ; nay, the more 
 discursive the flight, the closer that affinity becomes. 
 
 VOL. II. P
 
 20G TIIK KXOWLKPGK OF TFIK WoHT.D 
 
 We arc even more \vra})pi'cl in the aiitlior whuii lie 
 is witli liis Spirits of the mountain and fell — or with 
 'the ml<i:litv dead' at Melrose — than when he is lead- 
 ing us throui^'li the liumours of a j^uard-room, or 
 confiding to us the interview of lovers. IJut Shelley 
 disdained common sense. Of In's 'Prince Atiianase' 
 we have no earthly comprehension — with his ' Pro- 
 metheus ' we liave no human sympathies; and the 
 grandei" lie becomes, the less popular we find him. 
 Writers who do not, in theory, know their kind, may 
 be admired, but they can never be lastingly popular. 
 And when we hear men of unquustionable genius 
 complain of not being appreciated by the herd, it is 
 because they are not themselves skilled in the feelings 
 of the herd. For what is knowledge of mankind, but 
 the knowledge of their feelings, their humours, their 
 caprices, their passions ? — Touch these, and you gain 
 attention — develop these, and you have conquered 
 your audience. 
 
 Among writers of an inferior reputation we often 
 discover a sufficient shrewdness and penetration into 
 human foibles to startle us in details, while they can- 
 not carry their knowledge far enough to please us 
 on the whole. They can hit off some feature in 
 nature by a hap]:)y stroke, but they violate all the 
 likeness before they have concluded the picture — 
 tliey charm us with a reflection and revolt us by a 
 character. Sir John Suckling is one of these writers : 
 his correspondence is witty and thoughtful, and his 
 plays — but little known in comparison with his songs 
 — abound with just remarks and false positions, the 
 most natural lines and the most improbable inventions. 
 Two persons in one of these plays are under sentence 
 of execution, and the poet hits off the vanity of the 
 one by a stroke w^orthy of a mucli greater dramatist. 
 
 " I have something troubles me," says Pellagrin. 
 
 " WliaTs that?" asks his friend. 
 
 "The people," replies Pellagrin, "will say, as we 
 go along, ' thoic art the properer fdh/w V "
 
 IN MEN AND BOOKS. 207 
 
 Had the whole character been conceived like that 
 sentence, I should not have forgotten the name of the 
 play, and, instead of making a joke, the author would 
 have consmnmated a creation. Both Madame de 
 Stael and Rousseau appear to me to have possessed 
 this sort of imperfect knowledge. Both are great in 
 aphorisms, and, feeble in realising conceptions of flesh 
 and blood. When Madame de Stael tells us " that 
 great losses, so far from binding men more closely to 
 the advantages they still have left, at once loosen all 
 ties of affection," she speaks like one versed in the 
 mysteries of the human heart, and expresses exactly 
 what she wishes to convey ; but when she draws the 
 character of Corinne's lover, she not only confounds 
 opposite moral qualities into one impossible compound, 
 but she utterly fails in what she evidently attempts 
 to portray. The proud, sensitive, generous, high- 
 minded Englishman, with a soul at once alive to 
 genius, and fearing its effect — daring as a soldier, 
 timid as a man — the slave of love that tells him to 
 scorn the world, and of opinion that tells him to re- 
 vere it — this is the new, the delicate, the many- 
 coloured character Madame de Stael conceived, and 
 nothing can be more unlike the heartless and whining 
 pedant she has created. 
 
 In Rousseau's 'Julie,' every sentence Lord 
 Edouard utters is full of beauty, and sometimes of 
 depth, and yet those sentences give us no conception 
 of the utterer himself. The expressions are all soul, 
 and the character is all clay — nothing can be more 
 brilliant than the sentiments, nor more heavy than 
 the speaker. 
 
 It is a curious fact, that the graver writers have 
 not often succeeded in plot and character in propor- 
 tion to their success in the allurements of reflection, 
 or the graces of style. While Goldsmith makes us 
 acquainted with all the personages of his unrivalled 
 story — while we sit at the threshold in the summer 
 evenings and sympathise with the good vicar in his 
 
 p 2
 
 208 THE KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD 
 
 lautlalilc zeal iur iiioiio<x:«inv — while ever and anon 
 we steal a look Uelniid tlirou;:;li the lattice, and smile 
 at the jnray Sopliia, who is ])laying with Dick, or fix 
 our admiration on Olivia, who is j)ractising an air 
 af^ainst the young squire comes — while we see the 
 sturdy Burehell crossing- the stile, and striding on at 
 his hearty ])ace with his oak cudgel cutting circles in 
 the air — nay, while we ride with Mo.ses to make his 
 bargains, and prick up our ears wlien Mr. Jenkinson 
 begins with " Ay, sir ! the world is in its dotage ; " — 
 while, in recalling the characters of that immortal 
 tale, we are recalling the memory of so many living 
 persons with whom we have dined, and walked, and 
 argued — we behold in the gloomy *llasselas' of 
 Goldsmith's sager contemporary a dim succession of 
 shadowy images without life or identity — mere ma- 
 chines for the grinding of morals, and the nice loca- 
 tion of sonorous phrases. Perhaps, indeed, Humour 
 is an essential requisite in the delineation of actual 
 character. The greatest masters of modern tragedy 
 — Shakspeare, Corneille, Kacine — are writers of come- 
 dies, and of comedies more indebted to humour than 
 to wit for the hold they retain upon audiences and 
 readers. 
 
 Tliat delightful egotist — half-goodfellow, half- 
 sage, half-rake, half-divine, the pet gossip of jdiilo- 
 sophy, — the inimitable and unimitated Montaigne, 
 insists upon it in right earnest, that contiimal cheer- 
 fulness is the most indisputable sign of AVisdom, 
 " whose estate, like that of things in the regions above 
 the moon, is always calm, cloudless, and serene." 
 And in the same essay he recites the old story of 
 Demetrius the grammarian, who, finding a knot of 
 philosophers chatting away in high glee and comfort, 
 said, " I am greatly mistaken, gentlemen, or by your 
 pleasant countenances you are not engaged in any 
 very profound discourse." Whereon Jleracleon an- 
 swered the grammarian with a " Pshaw, my good 
 friend ! it does very well for fellows who live in a
 
 IN MEN AND BOOKS. 209 
 
 perpetual anxiety to know whether the future tense 
 of the verl) Ballo should be spelt with one / or two, to 
 knit their brows and look solemn ; but we who are 
 engaged in discussing true philosophy, are cheerful 
 as a matter of course." Heracleon knew what he 
 was about when he resolved to be wise. And yet, 
 after all, it is our constitution and not our learning 
 that makes us one thing or the other — grave or gay, 
 lively or severe ! We may form our philosophy in 
 one school, but our feelings may impel us to another ; 
 and while our tenets rejoice with Democritus, our 
 hearts may despond with Heraclitus. And, in fact, 
 it requires not only all that our wisdom can teach us, 
 but perhaps, also something of a constitution of mind 
 naturally sanguine and elastic, to transmute into 
 golden result the baser ores of our knowledge of the 
 world. Deceit and disappointment are but sorry 
 stimulants to the spirits ! " The pleasure of the 
 honey will not pay for the smart of the sting." * 
 
 As we know, or fancy that we know, mankind, 
 a certain dimness falls upon the glory of all we 
 see. "The lily is withered, the purple of the 
 violet turned into paleness ; " f without growing 
 perhaps more selfish, we contract the circle of our 
 enjoyments. We do not hazard — we do not ven- 
 ture as we once did. The sea that rolls before us 
 proffers to our curiosity no port that we have not 
 already seen. About this time, too, our ambition 
 changes its character — it becomes more a thing of 
 custom than of ardour. We have begun our career 
 — shame forbids us to leave it ; but I question 
 whether any man, moderately wise, does not see how 
 small is the reward of pursuit. Nay, ask the oldest, 
 tlie most hackneyed adventurer of the world, and you 
 will find he has some dream at his heart which is 
 more cherished than all the honours he seeks — some 
 dream perhaps of a happy and serene retirement, 
 
 * Jeremy Taylor : Sermon vi. Part ii. 
 f Jeremy Taylor : ' Contemplations of the State of Man.'
 
 210 'riiK KNOWLHDGK OK 'IIIK WOKLD, ETC. 
 
 wliicli has lain at his breast since he was a l)<>y, and 
 wiiieh lie will never realise. The trader and his 
 retreat at Hiiihicate are l>ut the type of Waljxde and 
 Iiis |)alac<' at 1 l<»uj;"ht<»ii. The worst feature in onr 
 knowledge of the world is, that we are wise to little 
 purpose — we forma skilful diagnosis of com])laints in 
 the hearts of others; we attempt not hy change of 
 regimen to still the disordered movements which warn 
 us of disease in our own. Every wise man feels that 
 he ought not to he ambitious, nor covetous, nor the 
 slave of any passionate emotion ; yet the wisest go on 
 toiling and burning to the last. Men who have de- 
 claimed most against ambition have been among the 
 most amljitious ; so that, at the best, we only become 
 wise for the sake of writing books which the world 
 seldom values till we are dead — or of making speeclies, 
 which, when dead, the world hastens io forget. "When 
 all is done, human life is at the greatest and the best 
 but like a fro ward child, that must be played with 
 and humoured a little to keep it quiet till it falls 
 asleep, and then the care is over."* 
 
 * Sir Willi;iiii 'IVinple.
 
 KOSEM KESAMIM, THE MAGICIAN. 211 
 
 THE TALE OF KOSEM KESAMIM, 
 THE MAGICIAN * 
 
 ***** 
 ***** 
 ***** 
 
 It was deep night, and the Magician suddenly stood 
 before me. " Arise," said he, " and let us go forth upon 
 the surface of the world." f I rose, and followed the 
 sorcerer until we arrived at the entrance of a cavern. 
 Pursuing its subterranean course for some minutes, — 
 with the rushing sound of imprisoned waters loud and 
 wild upon the ear, we came at length into a colder and 
 fresher atmosphere ; and presently, through a fissure 
 in the rock, the sudden whiteness of the moon broke 
 in, and j)artially lit uj? walls radiant with spars, and 
 washed by a deep stream that wound its mysterious 
 way to the upper air. And now, gliding through 
 the chasm, we stood in a broad cell, with its lofty arch 
 open to the sea. Column and spire, brilliant with 
 various crystallizations — spars of all hues, sprang 
 lightly up on either side of this cavern ; and with a 
 leap and a mighty voice, the stream, whose course we 
 had been tracking, rushed into the arms of the great 
 sea. Upon that sea, star after star mirrored its 
 solemn lustre ; and the moon, clad in a fuller splen- 
 dour than I had ever before seen gathered round her 
 melancholy orb, filled the cavern with a light, which 
 was to the light of day what the life of a spirit is to 
 that of a mortal. Passionless, vet tender — steadfast 
 — mystic — unwavering — she shone upon the glitter- 
 
 * This tale, complete in itself, is extracted from an unfiuislied romance, 
 which, however, furnished the groundwork for ' Zanoni.' I may add that 
 I find the outline of this tale in some papers written in my schooldays. 
 
 t The Narrator is supposed to have been with the Magician amidst the 
 caverns of the interior of the Earth.
 
 -lli Tin: TALK OF KOSKM KKSAMIM, 
 
 iiip^ spars ; and in a long- lino, froni llic cavern to 
 llic vcrg-e ol" lieaven, lier sweet face breatlied a (|uiet 
 joy into tlir ri|t|>liii;^- liillows — 'smiles of tlie sea.' 
 A few tliin and lleecv clouds alone varied tlic clear 
 exjianse of llie heavens. And, 
 
 '' licantiful," said I, "is this outward world! — 
 your dim realms beneath have iiothinf^ to comj)are 
 with it. Tiiere are no stars in the temples of the 
 hidilen earth — and one glimjtse from the lovely moon 
 is worth all the witchfires and meteors of the giant 
 palaces below." 
 
 " Youiiii: mortal," said the Wizard in his mourn- 
 fid voice, ''thou beholdest my native shore. Beside 
 that sea stood my ancestral halls — and beneath that 
 moon first swelled within my bosom the deep tides of 
 human emotion — and in this cavern, whence we now 
 look forth on the seas and heavens, my youth ])assed 
 some of its earnest hours in contem])lati()ns never 
 known to your lesser race clogged with the mire of 
 ages : for tliat epoch lies remote in primeval times, 
 whieh even tradition scarcely pierces. Your first 
 fathers — what of their knowledge know ye? — what 
 of their secrets have ye retained ? Their vast and 
 solemn minds were never fathomed by the ])lummet 
 of vour researches. The waves of the black Xiii-ht 
 have swept over the ancient world ; and you can 
 only guess of its buried glories by the shivered frag- 
 ments which, ever and anon, Chance casts upon the 
 shores of tlie modern Time." 
 
 " Do we sink, then," said I, "by comparison with 
 the men of those distant dates ? Is not our lore 
 dee})er and more certain ? Was not their knowledge 
 the imperfect offspring of confused conjecture? Did 
 they not live among dreams and shadows, and make 
 Truth herself the creature of fantastic Fable?" 
 
 " Nay," replied the shrouded and uncertain form 
 beside me, " their knowledge pierced into the heart 
 of things. They consulted the stars — but it was to 
 measure the dooms of eartli ; and could we recall from 
 the dust their perished sicrolls, you would behold the
 
 THE MAGICIAN. 213 
 
 mirror of the living times. Tlieir prophecies, wrinig 
 from the toil and rapture of those powers which ye 
 sutter to sleep, quenched, within the soul, traversed 
 the wilds of nges, and pointed out among savage 
 hordes the cities and laws of empires yet to he. Ten 
 thousand arts have mouldered from the earth, and 
 Science is the shadow of what it was. Young mortal, 
 thou hast set thine heart upon Wisdom — thou hast 
 wasted the radiant hours of opening life amidst 
 *tlie wearisome thoughts of doting sages : thou hast 
 laboured after Knowledge, and in that labour the 
 healthful hues have left thy cheek, and the worm of 
 decay creeps into the core of thy youth while the 
 dew is yet upon its leaf:- — and for this labour — and 
 in the transport and the vision that the soul's labour 
 nurtures — thy spirit is now rapt from its fleshly 
 career on earth, — wandering at will among the 
 chasms and mines wombed within the world — 
 breathing a vital air among the dead, — comrnded 
 by Spirits and the Powers that are not of flesh, — 
 and catching, by imperfect glimpse and shadowy 
 type, some knowledge of the arch mysteries of Crea- 
 tion ; — and thou beholdest in me and in my science 
 that which thy learning and thy fancy tracked not 
 before. No legend ever chanced upon my strange 
 and solemn being : nor does aught of my nature 
 resemble the tales of wizard or sorcerer that the 
 vulgar fantasies of superstition have embodied. Thou 
 hast journeyed over a land without a chart, and in 
 which even fable has hackneyed not the truth. 
 Thou wouldst learn something of the Being thus 
 permitted to thy wonder ; — be it so. Under these 
 sparkling arches — and before my ancestral sea — and 
 beneath the listening ear of the halting moon — thou 
 shalt learn a history of the antique world." 
 
 « THE TALE OF KOSEM KESAMIM. 
 
 " Along the shores which for thirty centuries no 
 human foot has trod, and upon plains where now not 
 one stone stands upon another, telling even of decay
 
 214 TIIi: TALK OF KOSKM KKSAMIM, 
 
 — was once tlie city and tlie empire of tlie Wise 
 Kiiij^s; for so termed hy their iiei^^liboiirs were the 
 mouarchs tliat ruled tliis country. Generation after 
 generation tliey li.id toiled to earn and preserve that 
 name. Amidst the gloom of mysterious temples and 
 the oracular learning of the star-read ])riests, the youth 
 of each succeeding king was reared into a grave and 
 brooding manliood. Tlicir whole lives were mystery. 
 Wra})})ed in the sepulchral grandeur of the imperial 
 palace ; seen rarely, like gods, they sent forth, as from 
 a cloud, the light of tlieir dread but benignant laws : 
 the courses of their life were tracked not — but they 
 were believed to possess a powder over the seasons 
 and elements, and to summon, at their will, the large- 
 winged spirits that flit to and fro across tlie earth, 
 governing, like dreams, with a vague and unpene- 
 ti'ated power the destiny of nations and the career 
 of kings. 
 
 There was born to this imperial race a son, to 
 whom seer and king alike foretold a strange and pre- 
 ternatural fate. His childhood itself was of a silent, 
 stern, and contemplative nature. And his learning, 
 even in his Ijoyish youth, had ransacked all that the 
 grey priests could teacli him. 
 
 But when wind encounters wind the meeting is 
 warfare — the warfare is storm. Wind meets with 
 wind when the mind of youth soars from earth to 
 seek wisdom and the heart of youth ranges heaven 
 to find love." 
 
 The Magician paused for a moment, and then, in 
 a voice far different from the cold and solemn tone in 
 which his accents were usually clothed, he broke 
 forth : — 
 
 " O, beautiful, l)eyond the beauty of these sicklied 
 and hoary times, was the beauty of Woman in the 
 young world ! The glory of Eden had not yet 
 departed from her face, and the lustre of unwearied 
 Nature glowed alike upon earth and earth's majestic 
 daughters. Age after age Man invents and deserts 
 some worship of idols in his yearning for symbols of
 
 THE MAGICIAN. 215 
 
 a Power beyond the reach of his vision and the 
 guess of his reason. But never yet has he forsaken 
 the oldest idolatry of all — the adoration of earthly 
 beauty as the fairest image of celestial good. Yet to 
 me, for I am that prince of whose throne and whose 
 people no record in Time remains, — to me even the 
 love of Beauty was a passion less ardent than the 
 desire of Knowledge ! My mind launched itself into 
 the depth of things — I loved step after step to 
 trace effect to its first cause. Reason was a chain 
 from heaven to earth, and every link led me to 
 aspire to the stars themselves. And the wisdom of 
 my wise fathers was mine ; I knew the secret of 
 the elements, and could charm them into slumber, 
 or arouse them into war. The mysteries of that 
 dread chemistry which is now among the sciences 
 that sleep — by which we can command the air and 
 walk on its viewless paths, by which we can 
 wake the thunder, and summon the cloud, and 
 rive the earth ; the exercise of that high faculty 
 — the Imagining Power — by which Fancy itself 
 creates what it wills, and which, trained and exer- 
 cised, can wake the spectres of the dead — and bring 
 visible to the carnal eye the Genii that walk the 
 world; — the watchful, straining, slee^Dless science, 
 that can make a sage's volume of the stars ; — these 
 were mine, and yet I murmured — I repined ! — what 
 higher mysteries were yet left to learn ! The ac- 
 quisition of to-day was but the disappointment of the 
 morrow, and the dis^Densation of my ambition was — to 
 desire ! 
 
 It was evening, and I went from the groves of 
 the sacred temple to visit one whom I loved. The 
 way spread over black and rugged masses of rock, 
 amidst which the wild shrub and dark weed sprung 
 rife and verdant ; for the waste as yet was eloquent 
 of some great revolution in the earlier epochs of 
 the world — when change often trod the heels of 
 change ; and Earth was scarcely reconciled to the 
 sameness of her calm career. And I stood beneath
 
 21«) Tlir: TALE OF KOSKM KKSAMIM. 
 
 tlie tree wlicic siiK was to iir'cI me; my licart leaped 
 within me as I saw lier footsteps Ixniiidin^" along — 
 slie came with lier sweet lips lireatliiii<j; tlie welcome 
 of human love, and 1 laid my head on her bosom and 
 was content. 
 
 And, "Oh," said she, "art thon ])roiid of thy 
 dawninii: fame? The seers s])eak of tliee with won- 
 der, and the ]>riests how their heads before thy 
 name." 
 
 Then the passion of my soul broke forth, and 1 
 answered, — " AVhat is this petty power that I possess, 
 and what this barren knowledge? The great arch 
 secret of all, I have toiled night after nigljt to con- 
 quer, and I cannot attain it. What is it to command 
 even the dark Spirits at war M-ith Heaven — if we 
 know not the nature of those whom we conmiand ? 
 What I desire is not knowledge, but the source of 
 knowledge. I wn'sli that my eye should penetrate at 
 once into the germ and cause of things : that when 
 1 look upon the outw^ard beauty of the Avorld, my 
 sight should pierce within, and see the mechanism 
 which causes and generates the beauty working be- 
 neath. Enough of my art have I learned to know 
 that there is a film over liuman eyes which prevents 
 their penetrating beyond the surface ; it is to remove 
 that Him, and dart into the essence, and survey the 
 One Great Productive Spirit of all Things, that I 
 labour and yearn in vain. All other kncnvledge is 
 a cheat; this is the high prerogative which mocks at 
 conjecture and equals us with a God ! " 
 
 Then Lyciah saw that I was moved, and she 
 soothed me into rest with the coo of her sweet 
 songs. 
 
 Midnight had crept over the earth as I returned 
 homeward across that sa^•age scene. Rock heaped on 
 rock bordered and broke upon the lonely valley that 
 I crossed ; and the moon was still, and shining, as at 
 this hour, when its life is four thousand years nearer 
 to its doom. Then suddenly I saw moving before me, 
 with a tremulous motion, a meteoric Fire of an ex-
 
 THE MAGICIAN. 217 
 
 ceeding brightness. Ever as it moved above the 
 seared and sterile soil, it soared and darted restlessly 
 to and fro ; and I thought, as it danced and quivered, 
 that I heard it laugh from its burning centre witli 
 a wild and frantic joy. I fancied, as I gazed upon 
 the Fire, that in that shape sported one of the 
 children of the Elementary Genii ; and, addressing 
 it in their language, I bade it assume a palf)able form. 
 But the Fire darted on unheedingly, save that now 
 the laugh from amidst the flame came distinctly and 
 fearfully on my ear. Then my hair stood erect, and 
 my veins curdled, and my knees knocked together ; 
 I was under the influence of an awe ; for I felt 
 that the Power was not of this world, nor of any 
 world of which the knowledge ye call magic had yet 
 obtained a glimpse. My voice faltered, and thrice 
 I strove to speak to the Light — but in vain : and 
 when at length I addressed it in the solemn ad- 
 juration by which the sternest of the Fiends are 
 bound, the Fire sprang up from the soil — towering 
 aloft — with a livid but glorious lustre, bathing the 
 whole atmosphere in its glare, — quenching, with an 
 intenser ray, the splendours of the moon, — and losing 
 its giant crest in the far Invisible of Heaven ! 
 
 And a voice came forth, saying — " Thou callest 
 upon inferior Spirits ; I am that which thou hast 
 pined to behold — I am The Living Principle of the 
 World ! " 
 
 I bowed my face, and covered it with my hands, 
 and my voice left me ; when again I looked round, 
 behold, the Fire had shrunk from its momentary 
 height, and was (now dwarfed and humble) creeping 
 before me in its wavering and snake-like course. But 
 fear was on me, and I fled, and fast fled the Fire by 
 my side ; and oft, but faint, from its ghastly heart 
 came the laugh that thrilled the marrow of my bones. 
 The waste was past, and the giant temple of the One 
 God rose before me ; I rushed forward, and fell 
 breathless by its silent altar. And there sat the
 
 218 TIIK 'I'ALE OF KOSEM KESAMIM, 
 
 ITIu'li Pi'irst ; for iilu-Jit ami day some one of tlic 
 sacred host watched h_v the ahai"; lie was of f^reat 
 ap;e, and the tide of human emotion liad chhed IVom 
 his veins; hut even he was struck with my fear, aii<l 
 gazed upon me with his rayless eyes, and hade me l)e 
 of cheer, for the place was holy. 1 looked round; 
 the Fire was not visil)le, and I hreathed freely ; hut 
 I answered not the Priest, for years had dulled him 
 into stone, and when I rose his eye followed me not. 
 I gained the jnii-ple halls set apart for the king's 
 son. And the pillars were of ivory inlaid with gold ; 
 the gems and perfumes of the East gave light and 
 fragrance to the air ; the gorgeous banquet was 
 spread ; and music from unseen hands swelled from 
 floor to roof as I passed along. But lo ! by the throne, 
 crouching beneath the purple canopy, I saw the 
 laughing Fire ; and it seemed, lowly and paled, to 
 implore protection. I paused, and took the courtiers 
 aside, and asked them to mark the flame ; but they 
 saw it not — only for me did it gleam and burn. Then 
 knew I that it was indeed a Spirit of that high race, 
 which, even when they take visible form, are not 
 \isiljle save to the students of the Dread Science! 
 And I trembled but revered. 
 
 And the Fire stayed by me night and day, and 
 I grew accustomed to its light. But never, by charm 
 nor spell, could I di'aw further word from it ; and it 
 followed my steps with a silent and patient homage. 
 By degrees there came over me a vain and proud 
 delight to think that I was so honoured ; and I looked 
 upon the changeful face of the Fire as upon the face 
 of a friend. 
 
 There was a inan who had told years beyond 
 the memory of the living — a revered and famous 
 soothsayer — to whom, in times of dread and omen, 
 our ])riests and iimuarchs themselv^es repaired for 
 warning and advice. I sought his abode. The Seer 
 was not of our race — he came from the distant waters 
 of the Nile, banished by the hioro]ihants of Egypt
 
 THE MAGICIAN. 219 
 
 for solutions more clear than tlieir own of the mys- 
 teries of Osiris and Naith. It was in the very cavern 
 in which we now stand that the Seer held his glitter- 
 ing home — lamp upon lamp then lighted up, from 
 an unfailing naphtha, these dazzling spars, hailed as 
 a beacon by the seamen who brought the merchandize 
 of the world into yonder bay, then so loud and 
 swarming, now so desolate and still. Hither had my 
 feet often turned in boyhood, an(5 from the shrivelled 
 lips of the old Egyptian had much of my loftiest 
 learning been gleaned ; for he loved me ; and seeing 
 with a prophet eye far down the lengths of Time, 
 he foretold the dates at which Nations should be no 
 more ; and yet, far as he could look, beheld me 
 living still ; me, the infant he had cradled on his lap. 
 
 It was on that night, when the new moon scat- 
 ters its rank and noxious influence over the foliage 
 and life of earth, that I sought the Egyptian. The 
 Fire burned with a fiercer and redder light than its 
 wont, as it played and darted by my side. And 
 when, winding by the silver sands, I passed into the 
 entrance of the cave, I saw the old man sitting on 
 a stone. As I entered, the Seer started from his 
 seat in fear and terror — his eyes rolled — his thin grey 
 hairs stood erect — a cold sweat broke from his brow 
 — and the dread master stood before his pupil in agony 
 and awe. 
 
 " Thou comest," muttered he with white lips. 
 " What is by thy side ? Hast thou dared to seek 
 knowledge with the Soul of all Horror — with the 
 
 ghastly Leper of ? Avaunt ! bid the fiend be- 
 
 gone ! 
 
 His voice seemed to leave the old man, and with 
 a shriek he fell upon his face on the ground. 
 
 " Is it," said I, appalled by his terror — " is it the 
 Fire that haunts my steps at which thou tremblest ? 
 Behold, it is harmless as a dog ; it burns not while it 
 shines : if a fiend, it is a merry fiend, for I hear 
 it laugh while I speak. But it is for this, dread sire.
 
 220 'IIIK 'lALK OF KOSEM KKSAMIM, 
 
 tliat T liavc soiio-lit flioc. (^iiist tliou tell me tlie 
 nature ol" the Sj)iril ? - for a S|iiiit it surely is. (aiist 
 thou tt'll me its end and aim ? "" 
 
 1 lilted the old m;in Irom the earlh, and his 
 kiniidv heart returniNl lo him : he took the wizard 
 crown from the wall, and he placed it on his brows; 
 for he was as a monarch amon.iz; the Thing's that are 
 not of clay. And he said to the Fire — " Apjtroach ! " 
 The Fire glided to his knees. And he said, "• Art 
 thou tlie Spirit of the Element, and was thy cradle in 
 the Flint's heart?" 
 
 And a voice from the flame answered " No." 
 
 And again the Egyptian trembled. 
 
 " What art thou, then ? " vsaid he. 
 
 And the Fire answered, " Thy Lord." 
 
 And the limbs of the Egyptian shook as if in 
 the grasp of death. 
 
 And he said, " Art thou a Demon of this world?" 
 
 And the Fire answered, "I am the Life of this 
 world — and I am 7iot of other worlds." 
 
 " I know thee — I fear thee — 1 acknowledge thee ! " 
 said the Egyptian ; " and in thy soft lap shall this 
 crowned head soon be laid." 
 
 And the Fire lauglied. 
 
 "But tell me," said I, — for, though my blood 
 stood still, my soul was brave and stern — "Tell me, 
 seer ! what hath this Thing with me ? " 
 
 "It is the Great Ancestor of us all!" said the 
 Egyptian, groaning. 
 
 "And knows it the secrets of the Past?" 
 
 " The secrets of the Past are locked withiji it." 
 
 "Can it teach me that which I pine to know? 
 Can it teach me the essence of things — the nature of 
 all I see? Can it raise the film from the human gaze? " 
 
 "Hush, ]ash ])rince!" cried the Egyptian, — 
 " Seek not to know that which will cui'se thee with 
 tlie knowledge. Ask not a power that would turn 
 life into a living gi-ave. vVll the lore th.at man ever 
 knew is mine ; but that secret have I shunned, and
 
 THE MAGICIAN. 221 
 
 that power have I cast from me, as the shepherd casts 
 the viper from his hand. Be moderate and be wise. 
 And bid me exorcise the Spirit that accosts thee from 
 the Fire ! " 
 
 " Can it teach me the arch mystery ? When 
 I gaze upon the herb or flower, can it gift my gaze 
 with the power to pierce into the cause and workings 
 ofitshfe?" 
 
 " I can teach thee this," said the Fire ; and it 
 rose higher, and burned more fiercely, as it spoke, 
 till the lamps of naphtha paled before it. 
 
 " Then abide by me, Spirit ! " said I ; " and let 
 us not be severed." 
 
 " Miserable boy ! " cried the Egyptian ; " was 
 this, then, the strange and preternatural doom which 
 my Art foresaw was to be thine, though it deciphered 
 not its nature ? Knowest thou that this Fire, so clear 
 — so pure — so beautiful — is " 
 
 " Beware ! " cried the voice from the Fire ; and 
 the crest of the flame rose, as the crest of a serpent 
 about to spring upon its prey. 
 
 " Thou a west me not," said the Egyptian, though 
 the blood fled from his shrivelled and tawny cheeks. 
 " Thou art " 
 
 " The Principle of the Living AVorld," interrupted 
 the voice. 
 
 " And thine other name ? " cried the Egyptian. 
 
 " Thy Conqueror ! " answered the voice ; and 
 straight as the answer went forth, the Egyptian fell, 
 blasted as by lightning, a corpse at my feet. The 
 liglit of the Fire played with a blue and tremulous 
 lustre upon the carcase, and presently I beheld by 
 that light that the corpse was already passed into the 
 loathsomeness of decay — the flesh was rotting from 
 the bones — and the w^orm and the creeping thing 
 which the rottenness generates, twined in tlie very 
 jaws and temples of the Sage. 
 
 I sickened and gasped for breath. — "Is this thy 
 work, oil fearful fiend ? " said I, shuddering. And 
 VOL. II. Q
 
 222 THE TALE OF KOSEM KESAMIM, 
 
 tlie Fire, passing; from the corpse, crept liinnbly to my 
 feet ; and its voice answered — " AVlialever my power, 
 it is thy slave ! " 
 
 "Was that deatli tliy work?" repeated my 
 qniverinjj^ hps. 
 
 "Thou knowest," answered tlie Fire, " tliat deatli 
 is not the will of any Power — save One. The death 
 came from His will, and T hut exulted over the 
 blow ! " 
 
 I left the cavern ; my art, subtle as it was, gave 
 me no glimpse into the causes of the Egyptian's 
 death. 1 looked upon the Fire, as it crept along the 
 herbage, with an inquisitive, j^et timorous eye. I felt 
 an awe of the Demon's power ; and yet the proud 
 transport I had known in the subjection of that power 
 was increased, and I walked with a lofty step at the 
 thought that I should have so magnificent a slave. 
 But the words of the mysterious Egyptian still rang 
 in my ear — still I shuddered and recoiled before his 
 denunciation of the secret I desired to know. And, 
 as 1 passed along the starry solitude, the voice of the 
 Fire addressed me with a sweet and persuasive tone. 
 " Shrink not, young Sage," it said, or rather sang, 
 " from a power be3'ond that of which thy wisest 
 ancestors ever dreamed ; lose not thy valour at the 
 dirivelling wdiispers of age : when did age ever ap- 
 prove what youth desires ? Thou art formed for the 
 destiny w^liich belongs to royal hearts — the destiny 
 courts thee. Why dost thou })lay the laggard?" 
 
 " Knowdedge," said I, musingly, "can never be 
 productive of woe. If it be knowledge thou canst 
 give me, I will not shrink. Lo ! I accept thy 
 gift!" 
 
 The Fire played cheerily to and fro. And from 
 the midst of it there stepped forth a pale and shadowy 
 form, of female shape and of exceeding beauty ; her 
 face was indeed of no living wanness, and the liml)S 
 were indistinct, and no roundness swelled from their 
 vapoury robes ; but the features w^ere lovely as a
 
 THE MAGICIAN. 223 
 
 dream, and long yellow hair — glowing as sunlight — 
 fell adown her neck. " Thou wouldst pierce," said she, 
 " to the Principle of the World. Thou wouldst that 
 thine eye should penetrate into my fair and mystic 
 dominion. But not yet ; there is an ordeal to pass. 
 To the Whole Knowledge thou must glide through 
 the Imperfect ! " Then the female kissed my eyes, 
 and vanished, and with it vanished also the Fire. 
 
 Oh, beautiful ! — Oh, wondrous ! — Oh, divine ! 
 A scale had fallen from my sight— and a marvellous 
 glory was called forth upon the face of earth. I saw 
 millions and millions of spirits shooting to and fro 
 athwart the air— spirits that my magic had never yet 
 invoked — spirits of rainbow hues, and quivering with 
 the joy which made their nature. Wherever I turned 
 my gaze, life upon life was visible. Every blade of 
 grass swarmed with myriads invisible to the connnon 
 eye — but performing with mimic regularity all the 
 courses of the human race ; every grain of dust, 
 every drop of water, was a world — mapped into 
 countless tribes, all fulfilling mortal destinies through 
 the agency of mortal instincts, — hunger and love 
 and hate and contest. There was no void in space, 
 no solitude in creation. Bending my eyes below, 
 I saw emerging from the tiny hollows of the earth 
 those fantastic and elfin shapes that have be^i 
 chiefly consecrated by your Northern Bards : forth 
 they came merrily, merrily — now circling in choral 
 dances, now chasing gossamers whose airy substance 
 eludes the glass of science. If all around was life, it 
 was the life of enchantment and harmony — a subtle, 
 pervading element of delight. Speech left me for 
 very joy, and I gazed, thrilled and breathless, around 
 me — entered, as it were, into the innermost temple 
 of the great system of the universe. 
 
 I looked round for the Fire — it was gone. I 
 was alone amidst this new and populous creation, and 
 I stretched myself voluptuously beneath a tree, to sate 
 nw soul with wonder. As a Poet in the height of 
 
 (i 2
 
 224 'riiF': talr of kosem kksamim, 
 
 his (leliriiiin was my rapture — my veins were filled 
 witli Poesv, wliicli is iiitoxie;itioii — and mv eyes liad 
 been louclied with JN)esy, wliicli is tlie creative ])o\ver 
 — and tlie miracles betbre me were the things of 
 Puesy, Nvliich is the encliantcr's wand. 
 
 Days passed, and the liright Demon which had 
 so gifted me ajipeared not, nor yet did tlie spell cease ; 
 but every hour, every moment, new marvels rose. 
 I could not touch stone nor herb without coming 
 into a new realm utterly different from those I had 
 yet seen, but equally filled with life — so that there 
 was never a want of novelty ; and had I been doomed 
 to ]>nss my whole existence upon three feet of earth, 
 1 might have spent that existence in perpetual variety 
 — in unsatisfied and eternally new research. But 
 most of all, when I sought Lyciah I rejoiced in the 
 gil't I possessed ; for in conversing with her my 
 sense penetrated to her heart, and 1 felt, as with a 
 magnetic sympathy, moving through its transparent 
 purity, the thoughts and emotions which were all my 
 own. 
 
 ]5v deji'rees 1 lomred indeed to make her a sharer 
 in my discovered realms ; for I now slowly began to 
 feel the weariness of a conqueror who reigns alone — 
 none to share my power or partake the magnificence 
 ill which I dw^elt. 
 
 One day, even in the midst of angelic things 
 that floated blissfully round me — so that I heard the 
 low melodies they hymned as they wheeled aloft — one 
 day this pining, this sense of solitude in life — of 
 satiety in glory — came on me with intense increase 
 of force. And I said, " But this is the Imperfect state ; 
 why not achieve the Whole? Why not ascend to 
 that high and empyreal Knowledge which admits of 
 no dissatisffiction, because in itself complete ? Bright 
 S[)irit," cried I aloud, "to whom I already owe so 
 great a l)enefit, come to me now — why hast thou left 
 me ? Come and complete thy gifts. I see yet only 
 th^ wonders of the secret yiDrtions of the world —
 
 THE MAGICIAN. 225 
 
 touch mine eyes that I may see the cause of the won- 
 ders. I am surrounded with an air of hfe ; let me 
 pierce into the principle of that life. Bright Spirit, 
 minister to thy servant ! " Then I heard the sweet 
 voice that had spoken in the Fire — but I saw not the 
 Fire itself. And the voice said unto me — 
 
 " Son of the Wise Kiugs, I am here ! " 
 
 " I see thee not," said I. " Why hidest thou thy 
 lustre ? " 
 
 " Thou seest the Half, and that very sight blinds 
 thee to the Whole. This redundant flow of life 
 gushes from me as from its source. When the mid- 
 course of the river is seeu, who sees also its distant 
 spring ? In thee, not myself, is the cause that thou 
 beholdest me not. I am as I was when I bowed my 
 crest to thy feet ; but thine eyes are not what then 
 they were ! " 
 
 " Thou tellest me strange things, Demon ! " 
 said I ; " for why, when admitted to a clearer sight of 
 things, should my eyes be only darkened when they 
 turn to thee ? " 
 
 " Does not all knowledge, save the one right 
 knowledge, only lead men from the discovery of the 
 primal cause ? As Imagination may soar aloft, and 
 find new worlds, yet lose the solid truths of this 
 one — so thou mayest rise into the regions of a pre- 
 ternatural lore, yet recede darklier and darklier from 
 the clue to Nature herself." 
 
 I mused over the words of the Spirit, but their 
 sense seemed dim. 
 
 " Canst thou not appear to me in thine old, 
 wan, and undulating brightness ? " said I after a 
 pause. 
 
 " Not until thine eyes receive power to behold 
 
 me. 
 
 " And when may I be worthy that power ? " 
 " When thou art thoroughly dissatisfied with thy 
 present gifts." 
 
 " Dread Demon, I am so now ! "
 
 '^20 TUK TALE OF KOSEM KESAMLM, 
 
 " Wilt tlion pass from tliis pleasant state al a 
 liazanl — not knowing that whicli may ensue? I>e- 
 lioM, all aroniid tlieo is full of glory, and musical 
 with joy! Wilt thou abandon that state for a dark 
 and perilous Lnknown?" 
 
 " The Unknown is the passion of him who 
 aspires fo know." 
 
 '' Pause ; for there is terror in thy choice," said 
 the Invisible. 
 
 " My heart beats steadily. — I bravo wliatsoever 
 be the penalty that attends on my desire ! " 
 
 " Thy wish is granted," said tlie Spirit. 
 
 Then straightway a JDang, quick, sharp, agonis- 
 ing, shot through my heart. I felt the stream in my 
 veins stand still, hardening into a congealed substance 
 — my throat rattled, I struggled against the grasp of 
 some iron power. A terrible sense of my own im- 
 potence seized me — my muscles refused my will, my 
 voice fled — I was in the possession of some autho- 
 rity that had entered, and claimed, and usurped the 
 citadel of my own self. Then came a creeping of 
 the flesh, a immbing sensation of ice and utter cold- 
 ness ; and lastly, a blackness, deep and solid as a 
 mass of rock, fell over the whole earth — I had 
 entered Dk atu ! 
 
 From this state I was roused by the voice of the 
 Demon. " Awake, look forth ! — Thou hast thy desire ! 
 — Abide the penalty ! " The darkness broke from the 
 earth ; the ice thawed from my veins ; once more my 
 senses were my servants. 
 
 I looked, and behold, I stood in the same spot, 
 but how changed ! The earth w^as one crawding 
 mass of |)utridity ; its rich verdure, its lofty trees, 
 its sublime mountains, its glancing waters, had all 
 been the deceit of my previous blindness; the very 
 green of the grass and the trees was rottenness, and 
 the leaves (not each leaf olae and inanimate as they 
 seemed to the common eye) were composed of myriads 
 of insects and puny reptiles, battened on the corrup-
 
 THE MAGICIAN. 227 
 
 tion from which they sprang. The waters swarmed 
 with a leprous Hfe — those heautiful shapes that I had 
 seen in my late delusion were corrupt in their several 
 parts, and from that corruption other creatures were 
 generated living upon them. Every breath of air was 
 not air, a thin and healthful fluid, but a wave of animal- 
 cula3, poisonous and foetid ; for the Air is the Arch 
 Corrupter, hence all who breathe die ; it is the slow, 
 sure venom of Nature, pervading and rotting all 
 things ; the light of the heavens was the sickly, 
 loathsome glare that steamed from the universal 
 Death in Life. The World was one dead carcase, 
 from which everything the AVorld bore took its 
 being. There was not such a thing as beauty ! — 
 there was not such a thing as life that did not gene- 
 rate from its own corruption a loathsome life for 
 others ! I looked down upon myself, and saw that 
 my very veins swarmed with a motelike creation of 
 shapes, springing into hideous existence from mine 
 own disease, and mocking the Human Destiny with 
 the same career of life, love, and death. Me thought it 
 must be a spell, which change of scene would annul. 
 I shut my eyes with a frantic horror, and I fled, fast, 
 fast, but blinded ; and ever as I fled a laugh rang in 
 my ears. I stopped not till I was at the feet of 
 Lyciah, for she was my first involuntary thought. 
 Whenever a care or fear possessed me, I had been 
 wont to fly to her bosom, and charm my heart by the 
 magic of her sweet voice. I was at the feet of Lyciah 
 — I clasped her knees — I looked up imploringly into 
 her face — God of my Fathers ! the same curse attended 
 me still ! Her beauty was gone. There was no 
 whole, — no one life in that Being whom I had so 
 adored. Her life was composed of a million lives ; 
 her stately shape, of atoms crumbling from each 
 other, and so bringing about the ghastly state of cor- 
 ruption which reigned in all else around. Her 
 
 delicate hues, her raven hair, her fragrant lips 
 
 Pah ! What, what was my agony ! I turned from
 
 2*28 JALK OF KOSKM KKSAMIM, THE .MAGICIAN. 
 
 her a_t!:aiii, — 1 sliraiik in loatliini;- IVom her em])race, 
 — I lied once more, — on — on. 1 ascended a mountain, 
 and looked down on the various lejjrosies of" Kartli. 
 Sternly I forced myself to the task; sternly I inhaled 
 the knowledfj^e I had sought; sternly 1 drank in the 
 horrihle penalty I had dared. 
 
 "Demon!" I cried, "appear, and receive my 
 curse !" 
 
 " Lo, I am by thy side evermore," said the voice. 
 Then 1 gazed, and, behold, the Fire was by my side ; 
 and I saw that it was the livid light which the jaws of 
 Rottenness emits ; and in the midst of the light, which 
 was as its shroud and garment, stood a Giant shape — 
 which was the shape of a Corpse that had been for 
 months buried. I gazed upon the Demon with an 
 appalled yet unquailing eye, and, as I gazed, I recog- 
 nised in those ghastly lineaments a resemblance to 
 the Female Spirit that had granted me the first fatal 
 gift. But exaggerated, enlarged, dead, — Beauty 
 rotted into Horror. 
 
 " I am that which thou didst ask to see face to 
 face. — I am the Princi])lc of Life." 
 
 " Of Life ! Out, horrible mocker ! — hast thou 
 no other name ? " 
 
 " I have ! and that name — Corruption ! " 
 
 " Bright Lamps of Heaven ! " I cried, lifting 
 my eyes in anguish from the loatldy charnel of 
 the universal eartli ; " and is this, which men call 
 Nature, — is this tlie sole Principle of the World ? " 
 
 As I spoke, the huge carcase beneath my feet 
 trembled. And over the face of the corpse beside me 
 there fell a fear. — And lo ! the heavens were lit up 
 with a pure and glorious light, and from tlie midst of 
 them there came forth a Voice which rolled slowly 
 over the charnel earth as the voice of thunder 
 above the valley of the shepherd. " Such," said the 
 Voice, "is Nature, if thou acceptest Nature as 
 TUE First Cause — such is the Universe without 
 a Ood ! "
 
 MANY-SIDEDNESS AND SELF-COMPLETION. 229 
 
 MANY-SIDEDNESS AND SELF-COMPLETION. 
 
 The ambitious may be divided into two main classes 
 — the first comprises those who strive to excel others ; 
 the second those who seek to improve themselves. 
 Each man may say with the Poet, 
 
 " My mind to me a kingdom is ; " 
 
 and surely a king may seek to develop all the re- 
 sources of his kingdom without any desire of coming 
 into collision and contest with the potentates of other 
 realms. 
 
 This second class of the ambitious is, however, 
 very limited in point of numbers, and its members 
 are usually distinguished even in boyhood less by 
 carrying off school-prizes than by exercising their 
 faculties upon various things for which no school- 
 prizes are given. They are thus, perhaps, some- 
 what underrated by the masters, but can scarcely 
 fail of exciting the admiration of the boys. Indeed, 
 as there must be a great deal of native vigour and 
 warmth in the temperament which demands a wide 
 and diversified range for its energies, so in such boys 
 there will generally be found an affluence of life and 
 vivacity of animal spirits, which follow, as it were, 
 their own irresistible impulse in acquiring distinction 
 on the playground ; — storing mental accomplishments 
 without any apparent motive, such boys seem to 
 acquire skill in bodily sports without any apparent 
 effort. When they grow up they may or may not 
 become eminent men, but they nearly always obtain 
 the title of ' accomplished.' Should they mature into 
 scholars or statesmen ; should they settle quietly
 
 230 MAXV-SI])KI»\i:SS 
 
 down into private lile ; litill the word 'accomplislii d ' 
 will 1)0 a))})lied to tlicin, whether as scholar, states- 
 man, or gentleman. 
 
 Tliis impulse towards general accom})lishnient is 
 much less allied with A'anity, i. e. the undue love of 
 appr()l)ation, than is commonly su})})0sed; it is quite 
 as often the unconscious instinct towards that self- 
 development and enrichment l»y whicli Man seeks to 
 complete himself as a whole. The impulse is en- 
 couraged by the examples which are set before the 
 children of educated parents at tlie onset of their 
 admission into the ancient classical world. The 
 notion of individual self-completion, through the 
 union of those accomj)lishments which are nowadays 
 subdivided and kept apart, pervades the whole dis- 
 ciplined culture of Athenian life. The youth wdio 
 wins the prize-garlands for gymnastics and music, 
 becomes the poet of ' Antigone ' and ' 0^]dipus,' the 
 colleague of Pericles in military command, and one 
 of the leaders of a political revolution at the age of 
 eighty-three.* 
 
 It is needless to show that such examples in the 
 life of the ancient commonwealths are misleading 
 and dangerous guides to modern ambition, — even 
 were it not a question whether So])liocles had not 
 Ijetter have been only a great poet, since he certainly 
 did not add to his fame by his skill as a general, nor 
 perhaps by his sagacity as a politician. It is enough 
 to ow]i that the "all accomplishment" by which a 
 small commonwealth sought, in completing the whole 
 man, to secure to itself, in every condition of peace 
 and war, the useful citizen, is, save in the rarest 
 instances, an unattainable object of aspiration to the 
 member of existent societies. The practical world 
 soon checks and humbles that ambition in men 
 who are destined to achieve success. Settled early 
 to the pursuit of one career, or the mastery of a 
 
 * Unless it be some otlier Sojiliocles wlio was appointed by Athens to 
 the Council of Ten, after the destruction of the Sicilian armament.
 
 AND SELF-COMPLETION. 231 
 
 single art, he who would win the race must pause for 
 no golden apples. 
 
 Yet for a short time, at least, that yearning for uni- 
 versal accomplishment, with a view to the adornment 
 and completion of the intellectual man, has its uses, and 
 uses that should last throughout our lives : without 
 aiming in youth at the acquisition of many things, we 
 should scarcely in manhood attain perfection in one. 
 Insensibly, through a wide and desultory range, we 
 gather together the vast hoard of thoughts and images 
 — of practical illustrations of life — of comparisons 
 of the multiform aspects of Truth, whether in men 
 or books, which are the aids, and corroborants, and 
 embellishments of the single and sole pursuit to which 
 we finally attach ourselves. To an active mind it 
 is astonishing what use may be made of every the 
 pettiest acquisition. Gibbon tells us with solemn 
 complacency of the assistance he derived for his im- 
 mortal work — in the sieges it details and the strategy 
 it expounds — from having served in the Militia ! A 
 much wider use of accomplishment is to be found in 
 the instance of Milton : — what a wonderful copious- 
 ness of all knowledge, seemingly the most motley, 
 the most incongruous, he has poured into his great 
 poem ! Milton is indeed an august exami^le of the 
 aspiration to self-completion, not only as to scope and 
 strength, but as to ornament and grace. In the tastes 
 and characteristics of his youth this severe republican, 
 who has come down to the vulgar gaze in colours so 
 stern though so sublime, rather presents to us the 
 idealized image of the Elizabethan cavalier. Philip 
 Sidney himself was not more the type of the all- 
 accomplished and consummate gentleman. Beautiful 
 in person — courtly in address — skilled in the gallant 
 exercise of arms — a master of each manlier as each 
 softer art — versed in music — in song — in the lan- 
 guages of Europe — the admired gallant of the dames 
 and nobles of Italy — th6 cynosure of all eyes " that 
 rained influence and adjudged" — he, the destined
 
 232 MANV-SIDF.UXKSS 
 
 Dante of P^n^laMel, was ratlier in his youtli tlie bril- 
 liant ]>ersonific'atiou of the niytln'cal Cricliton. In 
 liis later life we find the lian_c;hty patriot recurrini^, 
 with a patrician ])ri<le, to all the acconipli«liments he 
 had mastered — his skill on the sword as well as lute; 
 and if we couhl furnish forth the outline of the 
 education lie prescribes as necessary to others, we 
 should have no reason to complain that tlie versa- 
 tility and the range of Athenian genius had passed 
 away.* 
 
 Yet this Greek yearning after all lore, not only 
 that instructs, but embellishes, invariably exposes 
 him who indulges it to two charges — superficiality 
 and frivolity — the last accusations which he is likely 
 to deserve. Perhaps no men are more superficial 
 in their views than those who cultivate one branch 
 of learning, and only one branch ; — perhaps no men 
 are less superficial than those who know the outlines 
 of many. It is by constant comj^arisons of truth 
 with truth, that we come to just and i^rofound con- 
 
 * In liis letter to Master Samuel Hartlib, Milton does indeed startle 
 even the most ambitious of modern scholars. After declaring, in his own 
 stately manner, that he calls " a complete and generous education that 
 which fits a man to i)erform justly, skilfully, and magnanimously all 
 the offices of peace and war" he proceeds to chalk out a general outline 
 of rational studies for young gentlemen between twelve and twenty-one : — 
 Grammar, arithmetic, agriculture, natural history, geometry, astronomy, 
 geography, fortification, architecture, engineering, navigation, history of 
 meteors, minerals, ])lants, and living creatures, as far as anatomy and the 
 art of medicine. All this to be assisted by the " heli)ful experiences of 
 hunters, fowlers, fishermen, shej)herds, gardeners, apothecaries, architects, 
 engineers, miners, anatomists." And the above, by the by, before the tyro 
 enters the "rural part of A^irgil !" Then come ethics, theology, jwlitics, 
 law, as delivered first by Moses, and, " as far as human pnidence can be 
 trusted, Lyciu-gus, Solon, Zaleucus, Charoudas ;" and thence " to all the 
 Roman edicts and tables, with their Justinian ; and .so down to the Saxon 
 and Common laws of England, and the statutes." Join to this French, 
 Italian, Latin, Greek, Hebrew; "whereto it would be no impossibilitv to 
 atld the Chaldee and the Syrian dialect." Thus accomplished, the pupils 
 are to be made poets, authors, orators ; and in play-hours they are " to 
 serve out the rudiments of soldiership, in all the skill of embattling, 
 marching, encamping, fortifying, besieging, and battering;" besides trijis 
 after the first two or three years (after which Milton gravely declares he 
 woidd not be much for their studying) to our navy to learn the practical 
 knowledge of sailing and sea-fight.
 
 AND SELF-COMPLETION. 233 
 
 elusions ; the wider the range of comparisons, the 
 more accurate our inferences. There is an experience 
 of the intellect as well as of the observation, which 
 never can be well attained by exclusive predilections 
 and confined circles. 
 
 We find, therefore, in the deej^est masters of the 
 human heart, or of the human mind, an amazingly 
 eager and miscellaneous appetite for knowledge of 
 all sorts, small or great. The statesman who wrote 
 the ' Prince,' wrote also comedies and a novel — a 
 treatise on the military art — and poetry without end. 
 Goethe was a botanist as well as a poet and a philo- 
 sopher. Shalvspeare seems, by the profuse allusions, 
 " enamelling with pied flowers his thoughts of gold," * 
 to have diligently learned all that his age permitted 
 to one self-educated and not versed betimes in the 
 ancient languages or the physical sciences — yet even 
 of these latter he had taught himself something. 
 You find in him metaphors borrowed from the me- 
 chanical arts of life. It was an universal smattering 
 which helped him to be profound. No less universal, 
 no less accomplished, was Bacon, wdio may be called 
 the Shakspeare of philosophy. With the same pen 
 which demolished the Aristotelism of the schoolmen, 
 he writes a treatise on the laws, a cure for the gout — 
 the translation of a psalm, and an essay on planta- 
 tions. The men who, on the contrary, are so careful 
 to avoid the Superficial — who plummet only one 
 source of learning, and think that, in order to j)ene- 
 trate to its depth, no time can be spared to sport over 
 other fountains, are usually shallow and headstrong 
 theorists. They go round and round in a narrow 
 circle, and never discover the outlet. Such a man 
 was that pedant mentioned by Boyle, who had de- 
 voted his whole life to the study of a single mineral, 
 and who owned he had not ascertained a hundredth 
 part of its properties. These men are not only 
 superficial, they are the truly frivolous — they grow 
 
 * Sir P. Sidney.
 
 234 MANY-SIDEDNESS 
 
 SO wedilcd to their one puisiiit, tliat its pettiest 
 and most insignificant details liave a grandeur in 
 their eyes. They are lor ever poring over the ani- 
 nialc-iila3 on a single leaf of the Eden tree : they 
 cannot see things that are large — they are spending 
 their lives in the midst of" the prodigal world in con- 
 sidering the hundredth part of the properties of a 
 mineral ! 
 
 The critical sense of beauty in all its aspects, 
 and the pure delight in beauty for its own sake, aie 
 keenest in those whose early years have passed in 
 cultivating many faculties and many tastes — for 
 which general culture they had no special motive in 
 worldly distinctions and rewards. Many-sidedness 
 is manifold enjoyment. For as the general design of 
 the world is to please and not pain the sense of life 
 in those who inhabit it — so the more all around them 
 men open that world to the sense, the more they 
 become sharers of the bounty tliat permeates its 
 design. A landscape, a picture, a statue, a gem, a 
 peasant's cottage, a king's palace, if in its own way 
 it be a thing to admire — he who has taught himself 
 to comprehend and to love that which is admirable, 
 enjoys as if it were part and parcel of his own pos- 
 sessions. Nay, if something be written, said, or 
 done, even by a rival or enemy, which charms his 
 sense of truth and beauty, he will forget the rival, 
 forget the enemy, and enjoy for the moment the 
 thing said, written, or done as if it were some happy 
 interpretation of his own mind and heart. 
 
 Hence the great distinction between the many- 
 sided and the one-sided critic. The first looks at 
 "generals ;" the second at "particulars." The first 
 is more prone to be indidgent to particular faults, 
 and to discover whatever beauty there may be in the 
 general character of the work ; the second more 
 prone to enlarge on its particular faults, and to 
 ignore the very nature and scope of its general 
 character. So in life, the one-sided man is nearly
 
 AND SELF-COMPLETION. 235 
 
 always envious ; the many-sided man very rarely so. 
 For he who concentres all his claims for approval 
 on one side of intellect will perpetually find rivals 
 who, if less strong on that side, wound his self-love 
 by superior strength oJi others ; while he who is 
 strong on many sides of his intellect easily consoles 
 himself if overmastered on one. His kingdom does 
 not rely upon a single fortress, and cannot be lost in 
 a single battle. 
 
 The true obstacle to self-completion through diver- 
 sified stores of experience and study is in the short 
 duration of human life. So vast is the mind of man, 
 so various its faculties, so measureless the range of 
 observation to feed and to elicit its powers, that, if 
 we had lived from the birth of the world till now, 
 we could not have compassed a millionth part of 
 that which our capacities, trained to the utmost, 
 would enable us to grasp. — It requires an eternity 
 to develop all the elements of the soul !
 
 23G FFKDIXAXD FITZ1^)Y. 
 
 FERDINAND FITZROY; 
 
 on, 
 TOO HANDSOME FOK ANYTHING. 
 
 " My dear friend," said I, tlie otlier day, to a mother 
 wlio was expressing an anxious hope that her son 
 should be as handsome as herself — " Jk'lieve me, that 
 if beaut^^be a fatal gift to women it is an inconvenient 
 one to men. A handsome face is very much against 
 a young gentleman destined to the professions. An 
 attorney takes an instinctive dislike to an Adonis of a 
 barrister. What prudent man would like Antinous 
 for his fomily physician ? The envy of our sex (much 
 more jealous than yours) will not acknowledge 
 Wisdom unless it has a snub nose. AVhen Apollo 
 came to earth, the highest employment he could 
 obtain was that of a shepherd." 
 
 " Pooh ! " replied iny fair friend — " Has it not 
 been well said, that a handsome face is a letter of 
 recommendation ?" 
 
 " It is a Bellerophon letter, madam, and betrays 
 while it recommends. Permit me to tell you the 
 history of Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy." 
 
 Mr. Ferdinand Fitzrov was one of those models 
 of perfection of which a human father and mother 
 can produce but a single example. Mr. Ferdinand 
 Fitzroy was therefore an only son. He was so 
 idolized l)y both his parents that they resolved to 
 ruin him ; accordingly, he was exceedingly spoiled, 
 never annoyed by the sight of a book, and had 
 as much plum-cake as he could eat. Happy would 
 it have been for Mr. Ferdinand Fitzrov could 
 he always have eaten plum-cake and remained a
 
 FERDINAND FITZROY. 237 
 
 child. " Never," says the Greek tragedian, " reckon 
 a mortal happy till you have witnessed his end." 
 A most beautiful creature was Mr. Ferdinand Fitz- 
 roy ! Such eyes — such hair — such teeth — such a 
 figure — such manners, too, — and such an irresistible 
 way of tying his neckcloth ! When he was about 
 sixteen, a crabbed old uncle represented to his parents 
 the propriety of teaching Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy to 
 read and write. Though not without some difficulty, 
 he convinced them, — for he was exceedingly rich, 
 and riches in an uncle are persuasive arguments in 
 behalf of his advice for the culture of a nephew whose 
 parents have but little to leave him. So our hero 
 was sent to school. He was naturally a very sharp, 
 clever boy ; and at first he came on surprisingly 
 in his learning. The schoolmaster's wife liked hand- 
 some lads. " What a genius will Master Ferdinand 
 Fitzroy be, if you take pains with him ! " said she to 
 her husband. 
 
 " Pooh, my dear ! it is of no use to take pains 
 with himy 
 
 " And why, love ? " 
 
 " Because he is a great deal too handsome ever 
 to be a scholar." 
 
 " That's true enough, my dear !" said the school- 
 master's wife. 
 
 So, because he was too handsome to be a scholar, 
 Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy remained the lag of the fourth 
 form ! 
 
 They took our hero from school. " What pro- 
 fession shall he follow ? " said his mother. 
 
 " My first-cousin is the lord-chancellor," said his 
 father : " let him go to the bar." 
 
 The lord-chancellor dined there that day : Mr. 
 Ferdinand Fitzroy was introduced to him. His 
 lordship was a little, rough-faced, beetle-browed, 
 hard-featured man, w^ho thought beauty and idleness 
 the same thing, and a parchment skin the legitimate 
 complexion for a lawyer. 
 
 VOL. II. R
 
 238 FERDINAND FTTZROY. 
 
 " Send liini to tlie bar ! " said he ; " no, no, that 
 will never do ! — Send him into the army ; he is much 
 too liandsome to hecome a lawyer." 
 
 " That's true enoup^h," said the mother. So they 
 bought Mr. Fcidiiiainl Fitzroy a coruetcy in the 
 reiriment ot" Hussars. 
 
 Thino-s are not learned by inspiration. Mr. Fer- 
 dinand Fitzroy liad never ridden at school, except 
 when he was hoisted ; he was, therefore, a very in- 
 different horseman ; they sent him to the riding- 
 school, and everybody laughed at him. 
 
 " Fitzroy is a spooney ! " said Cornet Horsephiz, 
 who was very ugly. " A coxcomb ! " said Lieu- 
 tenant St. Squintem, who was still uglier. " If he 
 does not ride better, he will disgrace the regiment ! " 
 said Captain Rivalhate, who was very good-looking. 
 " If he does not ride better, we will cut him ! " said 
 Colonel Everdrill, who was a wonderful martinet. 
 " I say, Mr. Bumpemwell (to the riding-master), 
 make that youngster ride less like a miller s sack." 
 
 " Pooh, sir ! he will never ride better." 
 
 " And why the d 1 will he not ? " 
 
 " Bless you, colonel, he is a great deal too hand- 
 some for a cavalry officer ! " 
 
 " True ! " said Cornet Horsephiz. 
 
 " Very true !" said Lieutenant St. Squintem. 
 
 " We must cut him ! " said the colonel. 
 
 And Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was accordingly cut. 
 
 Our liero was a youth of susceptibility — he quitted 
 
 the regiment, and challenged the colonel. The 
 
 colonel was slightly wounded in the shoulder, but 
 happening to die two months afterwards his friends 
 ascribed his death to Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy, though 
 the doctors ascribed it to suppressed gout. 
 
 " Those beauty-men are so vain," said Cornet 
 Horsephiz, moralizing ; " wound their vanity and 
 they kill their colonels." 
 
 Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy, now without a profession, 
 returned to the purse of his disconsolate parents.
 
 FERDINAND FITZROY. 239 
 
 They were not rich : but our hero was an only son, 
 and they sponged hard upon the crabbed old uncle, 
 
 " He is very clever," said they both, " and would 
 make a striking appearance in public life." 
 
 So they borrowed some thousands from the uncle, 
 and bought his beautiful nephew a seat in parlia- 
 ment. 
 
 Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was ambitious, and desirous 
 of retrieving his character. He fagged like a dragon 
 — conned pamphlets and reviews — got Ricardo by 
 heart — and made notes on the British constitution. 
 
 He rose to sjoeak. 
 
 " What a handsome fellow ! " whisjoered one 
 member. 
 
 " Ah, a regular puppy ! " said another. 
 
 " Never do for a speaker," said a third, very 
 audibly. 
 
 And the gentlemen on the opposite benches 
 sneered and lieared ! Impudence is only indigenous 
 in Milesia, and an orator is not made in a dav. Dis- 
 couraged by his reception, Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy 
 grew a little embarrassed. 
 
 " Told you so ! " said one of his neighbours. 
 
 " Fairly broke down ! " said another. 
 
 " Too fond of his hair to have anything in his 
 head," said a third, who was considered a wit. 
 
 " Hear, hear ! " cried the gentlemen on the oppo- 
 site benches. 
 
 Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy sat down — he had not 
 shone ; but, to say truth, he had not failed. Many 
 a first-rate speaker has made a less flourishing com- 
 mencement ; and many a county member has been 
 declared a phcenix of promise upon half his merit. 
 
 Not so thought the bald-headed prosers. 
 
 " Your Adonises never make orators," said a 
 crack speaker with a wry nose. 
 
 " Nor men of business either," added the chair- 
 man of a finance committee, with a face like a kan- 
 garoo's. 
 
 R 2
 
 240 FERDINAND FITZP^OY. 
 
 " Poor dc\ il ! " said the civilest of the set. " lie's 
 a deuced deal too liaiidsoine for work ! By Jove, he 
 is going to speak again ! — this will never do ; we 
 must cough him down !" 
 
 And ^Fr. Ferdinand Fitzroy was accordingly 
 coughed down. 
 
 Our hero was now seven or eight-and-twenty, 
 handsomer than ever, and the admiration of all the 
 young ladies at Alniack's. 
 
 " We have nothing to leave yon," said the parents, 
 who had long since spent their fortune, and now 
 lived on the credit of having once enjoyed it. " You 
 are the handsomest man in London ; you must marry 
 an heiress." 
 
 " I will," said Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy. 
 
 Miss Helen Convolvulus was a charming young 
 lady, with a hare-lij^ and six thousand a-year. To 
 Miss Helen Convolvulus our hero paid his addresses. 
 
 Heavens ! what a storm of anger those addresses 
 aroused in the breasts of Miss Helen's relations ! 
 " Easy to see his mercenary intentions," said one : 
 "a handsome fortune-hunter, who wants to make 
 the best of his person!" — "handsome is that hand- 
 some does," said another ; " he was turned out of the 
 army, and murdered his colonel ;" — "never marry a 
 beauty," said a third ; — " he can admire none but 
 himself;" "will have so many mistresses," said a 
 fourth; — "make you perpetually jealous," said a 
 fifth ; — " spend your fortune," said a sixth ; " and 
 break your heart," said a seventh. 
 
 Miss Helen Convolvulus was prudent and wary. 
 She saw a great deal of justice in what was said ; 
 and was sufficiently contented with liljerty and six 
 thousand a-year, not to be highly im])atient for a 
 husband ; but our heroine had no aversion to a lover; 
 especially to so handsome a lover as Mr. Ferdinand 
 Fitzroy. Accordingly she neither accepted nor dis- 
 carded him ; but kept him on hope, and suffered him 
 to get into debt with his tailor and coaclimaker, on
 
 FERDINAND FITZROY. 241 
 
 the strength of becoming Mr. Fitzroy Convolvulus. 
 Time went on, and excuses and delays were easily 
 found ; however, our hero was sanguine, and so were 
 his parents. A breakfast at Chiswick, and a new 
 kind of fever which had just come into fashion, carried 
 off the latter, within one week of each other ; but 
 not till they had blessed Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy, and 
 rejoiced that they had left him so well provided for. 
 
 Now, then, our hero depended solely upon the 
 crabbed old uncle and Miss Helen Convolvulus ; — 
 the former, though a baronet and a satirist, was a 
 banker and a man of business : — he looked very dis- 
 tastefully at the Hyperion curls and white teeth of 
 Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy. 
 
 " If I make you my heir," said he, " I expect you 
 will continue the bank." 
 
 " Certainly, sir ! " said the nephew. 
 
 " Humph !" grunted the uncle ; " you are a very 
 pretty fellow ; — a very pretty fellow for a banker ! " 
 
 Creditors pressed hard upon Mr. Ferdinand Fitz- 
 roy, and Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy pressed hard upon 
 Miss Helen Convolvulus. " It is a dangerous thing," 
 said she, timidly, " to marry a man so admired, — will 
 you be always faithful ? " 
 
 " By heaven ! " cried the lover. 
 
 " Heigho ! " sighed Miss Helen Convolvulus ; and 
 Lord Eufus Pumilion entering, the conversation was 
 changed. 
 
 But the day of the marriage was fixed ; and Mr. 
 Ferdinand Fitzroy bought a new curricle. By Apollo, 
 how handsome he looked in it ! A month before the 
 wedding-day the uncle died. Miss Helen Convolvulus 
 was quite tender in her condolences — " Cheer up, my 
 Ferdinand," said she; "for your sake, I have dis- 
 carded Lord Eufus Pumilion ! " " Adorable conde- 
 scension ! " cried our hero ; " but Lord Eufus Pumilion 
 is only four feet two, and has hair like a peony." 
 
 " All men are not so handsome as Mr. Ferdinand 
 Fitzroy ! " was the reply.
 
 242 FEHUINAND FITZRdY. 
 
 Away goes our licro, to be present at the opening 
 of his uncle's will. 
 
 " I leave," said the testator, " my share of the 
 bank, and the wliole of my fortune, legacies excepted, 
 to" — (here Mr. Fer<linand Fitzroy wijjed his beautiful 
 eyes with his cambric handkerchief) "John Spriggs, 
 an industrious, painstiiking youth, who will do credit 
 to the bank. I did once intend to have made my 
 nephew Ferdinand my heir; but so curly a head 
 can have no talent for accounts. T want my suc- 
 cessor to be a man of business; and Mr. Ferdinand 
 Fitzroy is a great deal too handsome for a banker ; 
 his good looks will, no doubt, win him any heiress 
 in town. Meanwhile, I leave him, to buy a dressing- 
 case, a thousand pounds." 
 
 " A thousand devils ! " cried Mr. Ferdinand Fitz- 
 roy, banging out of the room. He flew to his 
 mistress. She was not at home. "Lies," says the 
 Italian proverb, "have short legs;" but truths, if 
 they are unpleasant, have terribly long ones ! The 
 next day Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy received a most 
 obliging note of dismissal. 
 
 " I wish you every happiness," said Miss Helen 
 Convolvulus, in conclusion : " but my friends are 
 right ! — you are much too liandsome for a wife's 
 peace of mind ! " 
 
 And the week following. Miss Helen Convolvulus 
 became Lady Rufus Pumilion ! 
 
 " Alas ! sir," said the bailiff, as a day or two after 
 the dissolution of parliament he was jogging along 
 with Mr. Ferdinand Fitzroy, in a hackney coach, 
 bound to the King's Bench, — " Alas ! sir, what a 
 pity it is to take so handsome a gentleman to 
 prison !
 
 JULIET'S TOMB IN VEKUNA. 243 
 
 JULIET'S TOMB IN YERONA. 
 
 " But I assure you, sir," said the Cicerone, " that 
 there is nothing to see in it." 
 
 " More than in all Yerona." 
 
 The Cicerone shrugged his shoulders, and we 
 continued our way. 
 
 There is no town in Italy more interesting in its 
 appearance than Yerona. A quiet and venerable 
 melancholy broods over its streets and houses. Its 
 architecture of all forms — its peculiar casements and 
 balconies — the half-Grothic, half-classic stamp of its 
 antiquity, have, to my eyes, an inexpressible charm. 
 I think to recognise something Shakspearian in the 
 asjDCct of the place — it accords well with the memories 
 with which he has associated its reverent name ; and 
 I own that I trod its motley streets with a less respect 
 for its history than for its immortal legend. For, 
 was it not here that the gay Mercutio and the haughty 
 Tybalt ran their brief career ? — along these very 
 streets went the masqued troop, with their torch- 
 bearers and merry music, on the night that Romeo 
 made himself a guest in the halls of Capulet, and 
 won the heart of the impassioned Juliet ? — the Gothic 
 lattice, the frequent balcony, the gardens seen through 
 the iron gates that close yonder ancient court — do 
 they not all breathe of Romeo, of Shakspeare, of 
 Romance? Of that Romance which is steeped in 
 the colours of so passionate, so intoxicating a love, 
 that, in order even to comprehend it, we must lift 
 ourselves out of our common and worldly nature — 
 we must rise from what our youth has been made by 
 the arid cares and calculating schemes of life — we 
 must shut ourselves up, as it were, in a chamber of 
 sweet dreams from which all realities must be rigidly
 
 •J 11 JULIET'S TOMB IN VKUONA. 
 
 excluded. "Wc must call back to the heart, to the 
 sense, to the whole frame, its first youth. We must 
 feel the blood ]iass throuoi-h the veins as an elixir, and 
 iman^ine that we are yet in that first era of the world 
 when, according: to the Grecian superstition, Love 
 was the only deity that existed, and his breath in- 
 si)ired Nature with a soul. Then, and but then, can 
 we see what faithful types of Humanity are Romeo 
 and Juliet. For the j^reat characteristic of their 
 love is youth — the sparkling and divine freshness 
 of first years; — its luxuriant imagination, its sud- 
 denness, and yet its dei)th — the conceits and lan- 
 tasies which find common language too tame, and 
 wander into sweet extravagance from the very truth 
 of the passion ; all this belongs but to the flush and 
 May of life, the beauty of our years — the sunny 
 surface of the golden well. You see at once the 
 7/ounr/ness of that love, if you compare it with the 
 love of Antony and Cleopatra, in another and no 
 less wonderful tragedy of the great blaster's. The 
 love in either tale ascends from the level of human 
 emotions — it is the love of warmer hearts and stronger 
 natures than the world knows. But the one is the 
 love which demands luxury and pomjD — it dispenses 
 with glory, but not with magnificence — it lies 
 
 " In a pavilion — cloth of gold — of tissue 
 O'er picturing that Venus, where we see 
 The fancy outwork Nature." 
 
 Take away the majesty from that love, and it sinks 
 into tlie gross passion of a hoary dotard and an old 
 coquette. But everything about the love of Juliet 
 is young ; pure even in its passion ; it does not lose 
 worlds, but it can dispense with the world itself; it 
 asks no purple canopies, no regal feasts — its wine is 
 rich enough without dissolving pearls in its sparkling 
 freshness — it is precisely that love which belongs to the 
 beautiful inexperience of the passionate girl — it is the 
 incarnation of passion, solely because it is the incar- 
 nation of youth. And there, in that barn attached
 
 JULIET'S TOMB IN VERONA. 245 
 
 to the convent of the Franciscans — the very convent 
 of the good old friar of the tale — no roof above, the 
 damp mould below, the broken, oblong sepulchre 
 itseljP half-filled with water, is the tomb of the being 
 made by genius as familiar to us as if she had really 
 moved and lived before our eyes ; — as if we had 
 gazed upon her face in the revel, and listened to her 
 voice from the moonlit balcony. Nothing can equal 
 the sadness and gloom of the spot. On the walls 
 yet remain two old and faded frescoes depicting the 
 religious subjects favoured by Italian art — morn- 
 ing and night the dews fall through the roofless 
 hovel, and the melancholy stars gleam on the tomb 
 whence the very dust is gone. It has not even the 
 grandeur of desolation — it is no splendid sepulchre, 
 no cathedral aisle, no high-arched roof impressing 
 you with awe. A heap of fagots piled carelessly 
 at one end of the outhouse j)i'0'^"es the little vener- 
 ation in which the place is held ; — the old tomb, 
 with its pillow of stone, is but a broken cistern to 
 the eyes of the brethren of the convent. Beautiful 
 daughter of the Capulet ! none care for thee, thy 
 love or thy memories, save the stranger from the 
 far isle whom a Northern minstrel hath taught to 
 weep for thee ! It is this peculiar dreariness, this 
 want of harmony between the spot and the associa- 
 tions, which make the scene so impressive. The 
 eager, tender, ardent Juhet — every thought a passion 
 — the very Hebe of Romance — never fated to be old 
 — and this damp, unregarded hovel, strewed with vile 
 lumber or profaned to rude uses. What a contrast ! 
 what a cynical rebuke to human affections ! Had it 
 been a green spot in some quiet valley, the tomb 
 would have impressed us with sweet not sorrowful 
 associations. We should have felt the soft steps of 
 the appropriate spirit of the place, and dreamed back 
 the dreams of poetry as in Petrarch's Arqua or in 
 Egeria's grotto. But there is no poetry here ! — all is 
 stern and positive : the loveliest vision of Shakspeare
 
 240 JULIET'S TOMB IN VKIIUNA. 
 
 siiiToniideil }>y tlie hardest realities of Crahbe. And 
 afar in tlie city rise the fji-or^eous toiiiKs o\' tlie Scali- 
 gers — the family of that Dnke of Verona who is Imt a 
 pageant, a thing of I'oil and glitter, in the machinery 
 of that enchanting tale ; — ten thousand llorins of gold 
 had been spent by one of those })rinces in adorning 
 a palace for his dust. Fretted and arched in all tlie 
 clal)orate tracery of the fourteenth century, those 
 feudal tombs make yet the pride and boast of Verona ; 
 and to Her whose tale more ennobles the city than 
 the records of all its Dukes — this grey stone, and 
 this moulderinfr barn ! 
 
 The old woman who showed the place had some- 
 thing in her of the })ictures(pie — aged, and wrinkled, 
 and hideous, with lier hard hand impatiently stretched 
 out for the petty coin which was to pay for admission 
 to the spot. She suited well with all the rest. She 
 increased the pathos that belongs to the deserted 
 sanctuary. How little could she feel that nothing in 
 Verona was so precious to the 'Zingaro' as this 
 miserable hovel ! And if it shoidd not be Juliet's 
 tomb after all ! — Out, sceptic ! — the tradition goes 
 far back — the dull Veronese themselves do not 
 question it ! Why should we ? That which made 
 the passion and the glory of our youth — the Juliet 
 of the heart — when once it has died and left us, lies 
 not its tomb within us, little heeded, but never disen- 
 hallowed ; surrounded by the lumber of commonplace 
 cares and uses, yet, in itself, still prized and sacred 
 as the memorial of a gone romance ?
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS 
 STUDENT IN HIS LAST ILLNESS.
 
 NOTE. 
 
 These Dialogues complete the early Essays first collected under the title 
 of ' The Student,' They were written with the design of showing the 
 stages of reading, reflection, and of such expcTJcnce of the passions as is 
 more or less commonly acquired in youth, through which a studious mind 
 may be supposed to have passed successively before arriving at the ambi- 
 tion of originating new forms out of the materials it had collected — viz. 
 the ambition of creative authorship ; and at the moment that ambition 
 became earnestly conceived Death comes to arrest its career and transfer to 
 another life the hopes denied fruition in this one. The design in itself 
 is, I believe, original, but its execution ought to have been deferred to 
 a maturcr age. The variety of subjects embraced in the Dialogues, and 
 the imix)rtance of some of them, are too much for the grasp of a very 
 young writer. Still, as both the speakers in the Dialogue are represented 
 as young, the very defects of the composition may serve the more truth- 
 fully to represent the hardihood with which youth is accustomed to pass 
 judgment on the subjects which engage its interest, the freedom with 
 which it admits sentiment and fancy into provinces of critical inquiry or 
 abstract speculation that rightfully belong to severer exercise of thought; 
 and that florid redundance of imagery which characterises the age in which 
 imagination predominates. For this reason I have, though not without 
 hesitation, included these dialogues in the present collection.
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 249 
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS 
 STUDENT IN HIS LAST ILLNESS. 
 
 I HAVE always loved the old form of dialogue ; not, 
 indeed, so much for investigating truth, as for speak- 
 ing of truths after an easy yet not uncritical nor hasty 
 fashion. More familiar than the Essay, more im- 
 pressed with the attraction of individual character, 
 the Dialogue has also the illustrious examples of old — 
 to associate with no commonplace nor ignohle recol- 
 lections the class to which it belongs. I have held 
 of late some conversations, that do not seem to me 
 altogether uninteresting, with a man whom I have 
 long considered of a singular and original character. 
 I have obtained his permission to make these con- 
 versations public. They are necessarily of a de- 
 sultory nature — they embrace a variety of topics — 
 they are marked and individualised only by that 
 poetical and half-fantastic philosophy which belongs 
 to my friend, and that melancholy colouring which 
 befits a picture that has Death in the background. 
 If in their diction they should appear now too 
 ornate — now too careless — I can only say that they 
 faithfully represent the tone of conversation which 
 in excited moments is the characteristic of the prin- 
 cipal speaker. — Would that, while I detail the in- 
 animate words, I could convey to the reader the 
 aspect, the expression, the smile, the accents low and 
 musical, that lent all its cliarm to their meaning. As 
 it is, they would remain altogether untold, were it 
 not for my friend's conviction that his end draws
 
 250 CONVERSATIONS WriTI AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 near, and did I not see sufficient in his a}»pearance 
 to forbid tlie liope that he can linf>:er many montlis 
 beyond tlic present date. To liis mind, wliatever be 
 its cajiacities, its cultivation, its asjjiring-s, matured 
 ofisprin<^ is forbidden. These fugitive tokens of all 
 he ac(|uired, or tliour^ht, or felt, are, if we read 
 arip:]it liuman probabilities, the sole testimony that 
 he will leave beliind him ; not a monument, — but at 
 least a few leaves scattered ujion his ^rave. I feel a 
 pain in writing the above words, but will he ? — No ! 
 or he has wronged himself. He looks from the little 
 inn of his mortality, and anticipates the long summer 
 journey before him ; he repines not to-day that he 
 must depart to-morrow. 
 
 On Saturday last, November 13th, I rode to 
 
 L 's habitation, which is some miles from my 
 
 own home. The day was cold, but I found him with 
 the windows of his room open, and feeding an old 
 favourite in the shape of a squirrel, that had formerly 
 
 been a tame companion. L , on arriving at his 
 
 present abode, had released it ; but it came from the 
 little copse in front of the windows every day to see 
 its former master, and to receive some proof of re- 
 membrance from his good-natured hospitality.
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 251 
 
 CONVERSATION THE FIEST. 
 
 The Universality of Evil in tlie World : is no less visible in the lesser 
 creatures than in Man — The hope of Perfectibility — Change in the 
 
 temperament of L What is pleasant when recalled is often 
 
 wearisome when acted — Love — Society exacts in proportion as it is 
 
 prepared to admire — L 's sadness — Distinctions between Wit 
 
 and Humour — Our inability to conceive the nature of our happiness 
 hereafter — Anecdote of Fuseli — Plato — Quotation from Lord Herbert 
 of Cherbury — The sentiment that our faculties cannot content them- 
 selves in this life visible in the works of Genius — This sentiment 
 more common in the English than the Continental Poets — The 
 Spirituality of Goethe's genius — Observation in the ' Wilhelm 
 Meister ' — The Painter Blake, and his Illustration of the ' Night 
 Thoughts' — Yoimg — His gloom spreads only over this world, with- 
 out darkening the next. 
 
 " After all," said L , " though the short and 
 
 simple annals of the poor are often miserable enough, 
 no peasant lives so wretched a life as the less noble 
 animals, whom we are sometimes tempted to believe 
 more physically happy. Observe how uneasily this 
 poor squirrel looks around him. He is subject to per- 
 petual terror from a large Angola cat, which my house- 
 keeper chooses to retain in our domestic service, and 
 which has twice very nearly devoured my nervous 
 little hermit. In how large a proportion of creatures 
 is existence composed of one ruling passion — the 
 most agonising of all sensations — Fear I No ; human 
 life is but a Eembrandt kind of picture at the best ; 
 yet we have no cause to think there are brighter 
 colours in the brute world. Fish are devoured by 
 intestinal worms ; birds are subject to continual dis- 
 eases, some of a very torturing nature. Look at yon 
 ant-hill, what a melancholy mockery of our kind — 
 w^hat eternal wars between one hill and another — 
 what wrong — what violence ! You know the red 
 ants invade the camps of the black, and bear off the 
 young of these little negroes to be slaves to their 
 victors. When I see throughout all nature the same
 
 252 CONVEHSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDKNT. 
 
 miseries, tlie same evil passions, wliose elTects arc 
 Clime witli us, l)iit wliose cause is instinct with the 
 brutes, I confess there are moments when I feel 
 almost inclined to despond of our ultimate destinies 
 in this world : almost compelled to surrender the 
 uohlest earthly hope that man ever formed, and which 
 is solely the offsprinfi;' of modern times — the hope of 
 human ]U'rfectibiIity. 
 
 A. You have inclined, then, to the eloquent mad- 
 ness of Condorcet and De Stael ! You have believed, 
 then, in spite of the countless ages before us, in which 
 the great successions of human kind are recorded by 
 the Persian epitome of Universal History, " They 
 were born, they were wretched, they died," — you 
 have believed, despite so long, so uniform, so mournful 
 an experience — des2)ite, too, our physical conforma- 
 tion, which, even in the healthiest and the strongest, 
 subjects the body to so many afflictions, and there- 
 fore the mind to so many infirmities — you have 
 believed that we yet may belie tlie past, cast off 
 the slough of sin, and, gliding into the full light of 
 knowledge, become as angels in the sight of God — 
 you have believed, in a word, that, ev^en on this 
 earth, by maturing in wisdom we may ripen to per- 
 fection. 
 
 L. What else does the age we live in betoken ? 
 Look around ; not an inanimate object, not a block of 
 wood, not a bolt of iron, 
 
 " liiit doth suffer an earth-change 
 Into something rich and strange." 
 
 Wherever Man applies his intellect, behold how he 
 triumphs. What marvellous improvements in every 
 art, every ornament, every luxury of life ! Why not 
 these improvements ultimately in life itself? Are 
 we " the very fiend's Archmock," that we can reform 
 everything, save that which will alone enable us to 
 enjoy our victory — the human heart? In vain we 
 grasp all things without, if we have no command
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 253 
 
 over the things within. No ! Institutions are 
 mellowing into a brighter form ; with Institutions 
 the Character will expand : it will swell from the 
 weak bonds of our foibles and our vices ; and if we 
 are fated never to become perfect, we shall at least 
 advance eternally towards perfection. 
 
 A. Our conversation has fallen on a topic graver 
 than usual ; but these times give, as it were, a solemn 
 and prophetic tone to all men who think, and are not 
 yet summoned to act. I feel as if I stood behind a 
 veil stretched across another and an unknown world, 
 and waited in expectation, and yet in awe, the hand 
 that was to tear it away. 
 
 L. Ay, I envy you at times (but not always) the 
 long and bright career which, in these days, is opened 
 to a wise man's ambition ; you may live to tread it ; 
 you have activity and ardour ; and, whether you fall 
 or rise, the step forward you will at least adventure. 
 But I am a bird chained, and the moment my chain 
 is broken mv course is heavenward. After all, what 
 preacher of human vanities is like the Flesh, which 
 is yet their author ? Two years ago my limbs were 
 firm, my blood buoyant — how boundless was my am- 
 bition ! Now my constitution is gone — and so perish 
 
 my desires of glory. You and I, A , entered 
 
 the world together. 
 
 A. Yes, — yet with what different tempers ! 
 
 L. True : you were less versatile, *more reserved, 
 more solidly ambitious, than myself; your tone of 
 mind was more solemn, mine more eager : life has 
 changed our dispositions, because it has altered our 
 frames. That was a merry year, our first of liberty 
 and pleasure ! — but when the sparkle leaves the cup, 
 how flat is the draught ! How much of the grave 
 wisdom of manhood results from the light follies of 
 youth ! 
 
 A. Yet shall we not exclaim, with Boileau, 
 
 VOL. II. S
 
 lir)4 C'ONA'EKSATIONS Wl'lll AN AMIUTFOUS STI'DENT. 
 
 " Scmvent do tons nofi iiiaux la raison est le pire "? 
 
 Tliose follies were pleasant. 
 
 L. Tliey seem so when we remember them ; were 
 they so when they were in(liil<^e<l ? The faults of 
 youth are mostly those of the head ; but are not the 
 follies of youth mostly those of the heart? and wher- 
 ever the heart invites a folly does it not admit a 
 sorrow ? Lif^htly as the poets of old looked upon 
 those fugitive loves which constitute the main follies 
 of the young, do they not truly represent their frivo- 
 lous Cupid as a cruel god 
 
 " Semper ardentes acuens sagittas 
 Cote cruenta"? 
 
 I do not regret that I am no longer the butt of his 
 arrows, — and those that leave the slightest scar 
 behind them were perhaps those which inflicted the 
 sorest pain at the time, — 
 
 Me— 
 
 " — ^jam nee spes animi credula mutui, 
 Nee certare juvat mero 
 
 Nee vincire novis tempera floribus." 
 
 A. Nay, say what you will, you had some bright 
 moments in your first year of the world — I re- 
 member you the admired of all, the admirer of how 
 many ? 
 
 L. I was young, rich, well-born ; and I had an 
 elastic and gay temper. See all my claims to notice ! 
 But the instarrt my high spirits forsook me, society 
 cooled. It is not quite true that adventitious claims 
 alone, unless of the highest order, give one a per- 
 manent place in the charmed circle of the Armidas of 
 our age. Society is a feast where every man must 
 contribute his quota, and when our seat at the table 
 is noted as the home of silence and gloom, we are 
 soon left to enjoy our meditations alone. Besides, 
 the secret of fashion is to surprise, and never to dis- 
 appoint. If you have no reputation for wit, you 
 may succeed without it ; if you have, people do not
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 255 
 
 forgive you for falling below their expectations : they 
 attribute your silence to your disdain ; they see the 
 lion, and are contented to go away ; to abuse him, 
 and to see him no more. 
 
 A. I have often been surprised to remark you so 
 contented with silence, whom I have known, in some 
 circles, so brilliant. 
 
 L. There is no mystery in my content ; it is in 
 spite of myself. I have always preached up the 
 morality of cheerfulness ; if I do not practise it, it is 
 because I cannot. About two years ago my spirits 
 suddenly fled me. In vain I endeavoured to rally 
 them : in vain to force myself into the world — in vain 
 " 1 heard music, and wooed the smile of woman ;" 
 a sort of stupor seized and possessed me — I have 
 never in mixed society been able, since that time, to 
 shake it off: since then, too, I have slowly wasted 
 away without any visible disease, and I am now 
 literally dying of no disorder but the inability to 
 
 live. 
 
 * * * * 
 
 * . * * * 
 
 L. Speaking of wit, I met at a dinner, a few 
 
 months ago, M and W I , and two or 
 
 three other persons, eminent, and deservedly, both 
 for wit and for humour. One of them, I think 
 
 M , said that some one or other had wit but no 
 
 humour ; it was asserted, on the other hand, that the 
 person spoken of had humour but no wit. I asked 
 the disputants to define the difference between wit 
 and humour, and of course they w^ere struck dumb. 
 
 A. No rare instance of the essence of dispute, 
 which consists in making every one allow what 
 nobody understands. 
 
 L. Perhaps so ; but really, to understand a thing 
 thoroughly is less necessary than you or I think for. 
 Each of the disputants knew very well what he 
 meant, but he could not explain ; the difference was 
 
 s 2
 
 25G CONYFi'vSATIONS WiTfl AX AMl'.l'lMOr^S STCDFA'T. 
 
 clear enough to serve liis own mind as a guide, but, 
 not being analysed, it was not clear enough to be 
 of use to others. Wit is the jdiilosoplier's quality 
 — humour ilif poet's; the nature of wit relates 
 to things, huuKMir to persons. Wit utters brilliant 
 general truths, humour delicate deductions from 
 the knowledge of individual character : in Roche- 
 foucauld we find wit ; in the Vicar of Wakefield 
 humour. 
 
 A. Your definition is not thoroughly satisfactory, 
 for by it you would imply qualities in a writer that 
 would Ijc more or less antagonistic, and rarely, at 
 least, combined in the same person. Yet most authors 
 eminent for the one have been very largely endowed 
 with the other. If Shakspeare and Cervantes are 
 prodigals in humour, certainly they are no niggards 
 in Avit. The same may be said of Aristophanes and 
 Jlorace, of Rabelais and Swift. On the other hand, 
 writers chiefly famous for wit have seldom been 
 deficient in humour. The wit of Voltaire is incon- 
 testable, but any definition of humour would be sadly 
 in fault if it excluded from its pale the characters in 
 ' Candide.' 
 
 L. I do not tliink you have proved my definition 
 to be unsatisfactory. You assume that it implies 
 antagonistic (pialities, but the assumption is gra- 
 tuitous. I never said that philosophy and poetry 
 were not to be found in the same writer. 
 
 Here our discourse was interrupted by the entrance 
 
 of a female relation of L 's ; she came with a new 
 
 medicine, for, though he considers himself beyond 
 human aid, he does not affect to despise the more 
 sanguine hopes of those attached to him. Let them 
 tliink, said he, that they have done all they could 
 for me : my boat is on the water, it is true, but it 
 would be ill-natured if I did not loiter a little on the 
 strand. It seems to me a singular thing that, among 
 persons about to die, we note so little of that anxious, 
 intense, restless curiosity to know what will await
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 257 
 
 them beyond the grave, which, with me, is powerful 
 enough to conquer regret. Even those the most re- 
 signed to God, and the most assured of Revelation, 
 know not, nor can dream, of the nature of the life, of 
 the happiness prepared for them. They know not 
 hoiv the senses are to be refined and sublimated into 
 the faculties of a Spirit ; they know not hoiu they 
 shall live, and move, and have their being; they know 
 not whom they shall see, nor what they shall hear ; 
 they know not the colour, the capacity of the glories 
 with which they are to be brought face to face. 
 Among the many mansions, which is to be theirs ? 
 All this, the matter of grand and of no irreverent 
 conjecture — all this, it seems to me, so natural to 
 revolve — all this I revolve so often, that the con- 
 jecture incorporates itself into a passion, and I am 
 impatient to pass the ebon gate, and be lord of the 
 Eternal Secret. Thus, as I approach nearer to death, 
 Nature, and the face of things, assume a more solemn 
 and august aspect. I look upon the leaves, and tlie 
 grass, and the water, with a sentiment deep, and 
 grave, — and passionate though scarcely sad. I desiie, 
 as I look on those, the ornaments and children of 
 earth, to know, whether, indeed, such things I shall 
 see no more — whether they have no likeness, no 
 archetype in the world in which my future home is 
 to be cast ; or whether tliey have their images above, 
 only wrought in a more wondrous and delightful 
 mould. Whether, in the strange land that knoweth 
 neither season nor labour, there will not be, among 
 all its glories, something familiar. Whether tlie heart 
 will not recognise a somewhat that it has known, 
 somewhat of " the l)lessed household tones," somewliat 
 of that which the clay loved and tlie spirit is reluctant 
 to disavow. Besides, to one who, like us, has made a 
 thirst and a first love of knowledge, what intenseness 
 is there in that peculiar curiosity which relates to the 
 extent of the knowledge we are to acquire ! What, 
 after all, is Heaven but a transition, from dim guesses
 
 256 CUNVEIISATIONS Willi AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 and blind struggling^ with a mysterious and adverse 
 fate, to the fulness of all wisdom — from ignorance, in 
 a word, to knowledge : but knowledge of what order? 
 Thus even books have, in their speculations, something 
 weird and mystic which, some years ago, my spirit 
 was too encumbered with its frame to recognise : for 
 wliat of those speculations shall be true — what false ? 
 How far has our wisdom gone toward the arcanum of 
 a true morality ? how near has some daring and 
 erratic reason approached to the secret of circulating 
 happiness round the world ? Shall He, whom we 
 now contemn as a visionary, be discovered to liave 
 been the inspired prophet of our blinded and deaf- 
 ened race ; and shall He, whom we now honour 
 as the 231'ofound philosopher, be found to have been 
 the vainest of all dreamers, the unsafest of all 
 guides ? 
 
 A. But to those — and how many are there ! — 
 who doubt of the future world itself, this solace 
 of conjecture must be but a very languid exertion of 
 the mind. 
 
 L. I grant it. I am not referring to the mere 
 crowxl, whether of one iaith or another, or of none. 
 I liave often pleased myself with recalling an anec- 
 dote of Fuseli — an imperfect artist, yet a great 
 genius, whose cajDacities in this world were only a 
 tithe part developed ; in everything of his, in his 
 writings as well as his paintings, you see the un- 
 quiet intellect struggling forth with labour and pain, 
 and with only a partial success; and feeling this 
 himself — feeling this contest between the glorious 
 design and the crippled power — I can readily ])ene- 
 trate into his meaning in the reply I am about to 
 repeat. Some coxcomb said to him, " Do you really 
 believe, Mr, Fuseli, that I have a soul?" — "I don't 
 know, sir," said Fuseli, "whether ^ou have a soul 
 or not; but, by God! I know that /have." And 
 really, were it not for the glorious and all-circling 
 compassion enjoined by our faith, it would be a little
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 259 
 
 difficult to imagine that the soul's inheritance of 
 immortality were equally entailed on all, equally to 
 be claimed by the creature in whom so little of 
 spiritual Essence can be detected that he himself 
 ignores and denies it, and who but fulfils with the 
 brutes the functions necessary to his mere animal 
 existence, — and by the lofty natures with whom the 
 consciousness of soul is constant, and who seem to 
 have nothing human about them but, to use Plato's 
 metaphor, the garments which they wear away. 
 In arriving at home — as the Moravian sectarians so 
 endearingly call Heaven — shall I see Plato, and learn 
 if he had ever existed, as he himself imagined, in a 
 brighter world before he descended to this ? So be- 
 witching is the study of that divine and most Chris- 
 tian genius, that I have often felt a jealous envy of 
 those commentators who have devoted years to the 
 contemplation of his philosophy. My ambition — had 
 I enjoyed health — would never have suffered me to 
 have become so dreaming a watcher over the lamp 
 in another's tomb : but my imagination would have 
 placed me in an ideal position, which my restlessness 
 forbade me in reality. This activity of habit, yet 
 love of literary indolence — this planning of schemes 
 and conquests in learning, from which one smile 
 from enterprise would decoy me, when scarce begun, 
 made C call me, not unaptly, " the most extra- 
 ordinary reader he ever knew — in theory. '' I see, 
 by-the-by, that you are leaning upon the 'Life of 
 Lord Herbert of Cherbury ' — will you open the page 
 in which I have set a mark ? We were speaking of 
 the soul, and that page expresses a very beautiful 
 and eloquent, if not very deep sentiment, on the 
 subject. Will you read it ? 
 
 A. Certainly, — " As in my mother's womb, that 
 formatrix which formed my eyes, ears, and other 
 senses, did not intend them for that dark and noisome 
 place — but, as being conscious of a better life, made 
 them as fitting organs to apprehend and perceive
 
 200 CONVKHSATIONS WI'III AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 tliosc tilings wliicli occur in tliis world, — so I boliove, 
 since my ct)minf:; into this world, my sonl liatli formed 
 or produced certain faculties, which are almost as 
 nsek'ss lor this lite as tlie ahove-named senses were 
 for tlie mother's womh : and these faculties are Hope, 
 Faith, Love, and Joy, since they never rest or fix on 
 anv transitory or perishing- ohject in this world — as 
 extending themselves to something farther than can 
 be here given, and, indeed, acquiescing only in tlie 
 ])erfect Eternal ami Infinite." 
 
 L. It is fine — is it not? 
 
 A. Yes. It is a proof that the writer has felt 
 that vague something which carries us beyond this 
 world. 'J'o discover the evidence of that feeling is 
 one of mv first tasks in studying a great author. 
 How solemnly it burns tlirough Sliakspeare! with 
 what serene and austere grandeur it thrills through 
 the yet diviner Milton ! how peculiarly it has stamped 
 itself in the pages of our later poets ! But this feel- 
 ing is rarely perceptible in any of the Continental 
 poets; except, perhaps, the Germans. 
 
 L. Ay ; Goethe has it. To me there is something 
 verv mysterious and spiritual about Goethe's genius — 
 even that homely and plain sense with which, in 
 common with all master-minds, he so often instructs 
 us, and wdiich is especially evident in his ' Memoirs,' 
 is the more effective from some delicate and subtle 
 beauty of sentiment with which it is always certain 
 to be found in juxtaposition. 
 
 A. I rememljer a very delicate observation of his 
 in ' AVilhelm Meister,' a book which had a marked 
 influence upon my own mind ; and though the 
 observation may seem commonplace, it is one of 
 a nature very peculiar to Goethe : " When," he re- 
 marks, " we have despatched a letter to a friend 
 which does not find him, but is brought back to us, 
 what a singular emotion is produced by breaking 
 open our own seal, and conversing with our altered 
 self as with a tliird ])erson."
 
 CONVEESATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 261 
 
 L. There is something ghostlike in the confer- 
 ence ; something hke a commune with one's wraith. 
 
 .* * * * 
 
 * * * * ■ 
 
 A. Of all enthusiasts, the painter Blake seems to 
 have been the most remarkable. AVith what a hearty- 
 faith he believed in his faculty of seeing sj^irits and 
 conversing with the dead ! And what a delightful 
 vein of madness it was ! — with what exquisite verses 
 it inspired him ! 
 
 L. And what artistic designs ! I saw, a few days 
 ago, a copy of the ' Night Thoughts,' which he had 
 illustrated in a manner at once so grotesque, so sub- 
 lime — now by so literal an interpretation, now by so 
 vague and disconnected a train of invention, that the 
 whole makes one of the most astonishing and curious 
 productions which ever balanced between the con- 
 ceptions of genius and the chimeras of insanity. I 
 remember two or three of his illustrations, but they 
 are not the most remarkable. To these two fine 
 lines — 
 
 " 'Tis greatly wise to talk witli our past Hours, 
 And ask them what report they bore to heaven " — 
 
 he has given the illustration of one sitting, and with 
 an earnest countenance conversing with a small, 
 shadowy shape at his knee, while other shapes, of a 
 similar form and asj^ect, are seen gliding heavenward, 
 each with a scroll in its hands. The effect is verv 
 solemn. Again, the line — 
 
 " Till Death, that mighty hunter, earths them all," — 
 
 is bodied forth by a grim savage with a huge spear, 
 cheering on fiendish and ghastly hounds, one of 
 which has just torn down, and is griping by the 
 throat, an unfortunate fugitive : the face of the hound 
 is unutterably deathlike.
 
 2t]2 CONVEllSATIONS WITH AN AMI51T10US STUDENT. 
 
 Tlie verse — 
 
 " Wo censure Nature for a span too short," — 
 
 obtains an illustration literal enonu;]! tor ridicule. 
 — A bearded man of f^ig-antic stature is spanning 
 an infant with his finger and thumb. Scarcely less 
 literal, but more impressive, is the illustration of the 
 following lines : — 
 
 " When Sense runs savap;o, broke from Keason's chain, 
 And sings false peace till smothered by the pall ! " 
 
 You perceive a young female savage, with long 
 locks, wandering alone, and exulting —while above, 
 two bodiless hands extend a mighty pall, that ap- 
 pears about to fall upon the unconscious rejoicer. 
 
 A, Young was fortunate to have his very meta- 
 phors illustrated and made corporeah 
 
 L. What wonderful metaphors they are ; some- 
 times trite, familiar, commonplace — sometimes exag- 
 gerated and fantastic, but often how ineffably sublime ! 
 Milton himself has scarcely surpassed them. But 
 Young is not done justice to, popular as he is with 
 a certain class of readers. He lias never yet had a 
 critic to display and make current his most peculiar 
 and emphatic beauties. He is, of all poets, the one 
 to be studied by a man who is about to break 
 the golden chains that bind him to the world — his 
 gloom, then, does not appal nor deject : for it is a 
 gloom that settles on the earth we are about to 
 leave, and casts not a single shadow over the heaven 
 wliich it contrasts — the dark river of his solemn 
 genius sweeps the thoughts onward to Eternity. 
 We have no desire even to look Ijehind ; the ideas 
 he awakens are, in his own words, " the pioneers 
 of Death ;" they make the road broad and clear ; 
 they bear down those "arrests and barriers," the 
 Affections ; the goal, starred and luminous with 
 glory, is placed full before us ; everything else, with
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 26:^ 
 
 which he girds our path, afflicts and saddens. We 
 recoil, we shudder at hfe ; and, as children who in 
 tears and agony at some past peril bound forward to 
 their mother's knee, we hasten, as our comforter and 
 our parent, to the bosom of Death. 
 
 CONVEESATION THE SECOND. 
 
 L 's increase of Illness — Remarks on a passage in Bacon — Advantages 
 
 in the belief of Immortality — An Idea in the last Conversation fol- 
 lowed out — A Characteristic of the Sublime — Feelings in one about 
 to die at the Restlessness of Life around. 
 
 When I called on L the third day after the con- 
 versation I have attempted to record, though with 
 the imperfect success that must always attend the 
 endeavour to retail dialogue on paper, I found him 
 stretched on his sofa, and evidently much weaker 
 than when I had last seen him. He had suffered 
 the whole night from violent spasms in the chest, and, 
 though now free from pain, was labouring under the 
 exhaustion which follows it. But nothing could 
 wholly conquer in him a certain high-wrought, rather 
 than cheerful, elasticity of mind; and in illness it 
 was more remarkable than in health : for I know not 
 how it was, but in illness his thoughts seemed to 
 stand forth more prominent, to grow more trans- 
 parent, than they were wont in the ordinary state of 
 the body. He had also of late, until his present 
 malady, fallen into an habitual silence, from which 
 only at moments he could be aroused. Perhaps now, 
 however, when all his contemplations were bounded 
 to a goal apparently near at hand, and were tinged 
 with the grave (though in him not gloomy) colours 
 common to the thoughts of death — that secret yearn- 
 ing for sympathy — that desire to communicate — in- 
 herent in man, became the stronger for the short date
 
 •Jt;4 CONVEliSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 lli.it seemed allowed for its Indiilfj^eiice. AVislios long 
 hoarded, reflections ot'teii ami deej)ly revolved, finding 
 themselves cut oil" from the distant oliject.s whicli they 
 had tiavailed to aecjuire, seemed wisely to lay down 
 their lairdeii, and arrest their course upon a journey 
 which they were never destined to complete. " I have 
 
 been reading," said L (after we had conversed for 
 
 some minutes about himself), " that divine work on 
 'The Advancement of Learning.' What Kiiglish 
 prose-writer ever lifted us from this low earth like 
 Bacon? How shrink before his lofty sentences all 
 the meagre consolation and trite common|)lace of 
 lecturers and preachers ! — it is, as he has beautifully 
 expressed it, upon no ' waxen wings,' tliat he urges the 
 mind through the great courses of heaven. He 
 makes us feel less earthly in our desires, by making 
 us imagine ourselves wiser, — the love of a divine 
 knowledge inspires and exalts us. And so nobly has 
 he forced even our ignorance to contribute towards 
 enlarging the soul — towards increasing our longings 
 after immortality — that he never leaves us, like 
 other ])hilos()[)hcrs, with a sense of self-littleness and 
 dissatisfaction. With the same hand that limits our 
 progress on earth, he points to the illimitable glories 
 of heaven. Mark how he has done this in the pas- 
 sage I will read to you. As he proceeds in his su1> 
 lime vindication of Knowledge, ' from the discredits 
 and disgraces it hath received all from ignorance ; 
 but ignorance, severally acquired, appearing some- 
 times in the zeal and jealousy of divines ; sometimes 
 in the severity and arrogance of politicians ; some- 
 times in the errors and imperfections of learned men 
 themselves ; ' — proceeding, I say, in this august and 
 majestical defence, he states the legitimate limits of 
 knowledge, as follows : — ' firstly, that we do not so 
 place our felicity in knowledge as to forget our mor- 
 tality; secondly, that we make application of our 
 knowledge, to give ourselves repose and contentment, 
 not distaste or repining; thirdly, that we do not pre-
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 265 
 
 sume, by the contemplation of Nature, to attain to 
 the mysteries of God.' After speaking of the two 
 first hmits, he comes as follows to the last : — ' And 
 for the third point, it deserveth to be a little stood 
 upon, and not to be lightly passed over ; for if any 
 man shall think, by view and inquiry into these 
 sensible and material things, to attain that light 
 whereby he may reveal unto himself the nature or 
 will of God^ then indeed is he spoiled by vain philo- 
 sophy ; for the contemplation of God's creatures and 
 works produceth (Jiaving regard to the works and crea- 
 tures themselves) knowledge ; but (^having regard to 
 God) no perfect knowledge, but wonder, which is 
 broken knowledge. And therefore (note how ad- 
 mirably this image is translated, and how beautifully 
 applied) it was most aptly said by one of Plato's 
 school, ' that the sense of man carrieth a resemblance 
 with the sun, which, as we see, openeth and revealeth 
 all the terrestrial globe ; but then again it obscureth 
 the stars and celestial globe : so doth the sense dis- 
 cover natural things, but it darkeneth and shutteth 
 up divine.' Tell me now, and sjDeak frankly, not 
 misled by the antique splendour of the language 
 alone, — tell me whether you do not feel, in the above 
 passages, not humbled by your ignorance, but trans- 
 ported and raised by its very conviction ; for, by 
 leaving the mysteries of heaven, and heaven alone, 
 unpenetrated by our knowledge, what do we, in 
 reality, but direct the secret and reverent desires of 
 our hearts to that immortal life which shall put the 
 crown upon the great ambition of knowledge, and 
 reveal those mysteries which are shut out from us in 
 this narrow being ? Here then there is nothing to 
 lower our imagination, — nothing to chill us in the 
 ardour of our best aspirings, — nothing to disgust us 
 with the bounds of knowledge, or make us recoil 
 upon ourselves with the sense of vanity, of emptiness, 
 of desolation. It is this — the peculiar prerogative of
 
 206 CONVEIiSATlOXS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STrDKNT. 
 
 the conviction of our inborn immort;ility, to take 
 away fi-oni iis that bitterness at the cliccks and arrests 
 of knowk'ilge, of whicli tlie wise of all ages liave 
 complained, — to give wings to our tliouglits at the 
 very moment they are stopped on their earthly 
 course, — to exalt lis above ourselves at the moment 
 when self languishes and (h'oops : it is this prero- 
 gative, I say, which lias always seemed to me 
 among the greatest advantages which a thinking 
 man, wdio believes in our immortality, has over one 
 who does not so believe. And though, fortunately 
 for mankind, and for all real virtue, the time is 
 rapidly passing away in which we may presume to 
 measure the conduct of others by the proportion in 
 wdiich their opinions resemble our own, yet it must 
 be confessed that he who claims this prerogative has, 
 even here, a grander existence than he who rejects 
 it — in the stimulus to wisdom, and the exalting 
 of the affections, the visions, and the desires ! It 
 seems to me as if not only the Form but the Soul 
 of Man was made ' to walk erect, and to look upon 
 the stars.' " 
 
 A. — (After some pause.) — Whether or not that it 
 arises from the sentiment, common, however secretly 
 nursed, to the generality of men ; the sentiment, 
 that the sublimest sources of emotion and of wisdom 
 remain as yet unknown, there is one very peculiar 
 characteristic in all genius of the highest order ; viz. 
 even its loftiest attempts impress us with the feeling, 
 that a vague but glorious " something " inspired or 
 exalted the attempt, and yet remains unexpressed. 
 The effect is like that of the spire, which, by in- 
 sensibly tapering into heaven, owes its patlios and 
 its sublimity to the secret thoughts with which that 
 heaven is associated. 
 
 L. Yes ; and this, wdiich, you say justly, is the 
 characteristic of the loftiest order of genius, is that 
 token and test of sublimity so especially insisted upon
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 267 
 
 by the ancients, who, perhaps, in consequence of the 
 great scope left by their rehgion to inquiry, were 
 more impressed with the sentiment we speak of, than 
 is common to the homelier sense, and the satisfied 
 and quiet contemiDlations, of the moderns. The old 
 scholastic critic * has made it a characteristic of the 
 true sublime, to leave behind it something more to 
 be contemplated than is expressed ; and again, Pliny, 
 speaking of painters, observes, I think of Timanthes, 
 " that in his works something moref than was painted 
 was understood, and that, when his art was at the 
 highest, the genius was beyond the art." 
 
 ***** 
 ***** 
 
 Here we talked for some time on the aspect of 
 affairs, the administration, the disturbances in the 
 country. J 
 
 L. How strangely falls the sound of tumult on 
 the ear of one who is about to die — how strange doth 
 it seem to behold life so busy and death so near ! It 
 is this contrast which, I own, gives me — though 
 I reluctantly acknowledge it — the most mournful 
 feelings that I experience ; it gives me a dejection, 
 an envy ; my higher and more soaring thoughts 
 desert me ; I become sensible only j^f my weak- 
 riess, of my want of use, in this world where all 
 are buckling-to their armour, and awaiting an excite- 
 ment, an enterprise, and a danger. I remember all 
 my old ambition — my former hopes — my energies — 
 my anticipations; I see the great tides of action 
 sweep over me, not even wrestling with death, but 
 feeling it gather and darken upon me, unable to stir 
 
 * Longin, sect. 7. 
 
 t " In unius hujus operibus intelligitur plus semper quam pingitur ; et 
 cum sit ars summa, ingenium tamen ultra artem est." 
 
 X Written during the agitation that preceded the passing of Lord Grey's 
 Eeform Bill.
 
 208 CONVKHSATIDXS WITH AN A.MlllTKtrS S'lTDKNT. 
 
 or to resist. I could compare myseH" to some iie- 
 gk'Cted ibuiitaiii in a ruined city : amidst the crum- 
 l)lin<^ jialaces of hope, wliicli liave fallen around me, 
 the waters of life ooze away in silence and deso- 
 ktion. 
 
 L 's voice faltered a little as he spoke, and 
 
 his do<^, whether, as I often think, tliere is in that 
 animal an instinct which lets him know hy a look, hy 
 a tone of voice, wlien the oljject of his wonderful 
 fidelity and aftection is sad at heart — his dog, an old 
 pointer, that he had clierished for many years, and 
 now was no less his companion in the closet tlian it 
 had once been in the chase, came up to him and licked 
 his hand. I own this little incident affected me, and 
 the tears rushed into my eyes. But I was yet more 
 
 softened when I saw L- 's tears were falling fast 
 
 over the honest countenance of the dog ; I knew well 
 what was passing in his mind — no womanly weak- 
 ness — no repining at death ; of all men he had suf- 
 fered most, and felt most keenly, the neglect and 
 }jerfidy of friends ; and, at that moment, he was con- 
 trasting a thousand hitter remembrances with the 
 simple affection of that humble companion. I never 
 
 saw L weep before, thouprh T have seen him in 
 
 trying aflBictions, and though his emotions are so 
 easily excited that he never utters a noble thought, 
 nor reads a tt)ucliing sentiment in poetry, but you 
 may perceive a moisture in his eyes, and a quiver on 
 his lips. 
 
 Our conversation drooped after this, and, though 
 I stayed with him for some hours longer, I do not 
 remember anything else that day worth repeating.
 
 CONVEESATIONS WITH AX AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 209 
 
 CONVERSATION THE THIRD. 
 
 The French Worldly Philosophers — The First Step in Wisdom is to learn 
 to Think, no matter how — Thought corrects itself — Brilliant Writers 
 less dangerous than dull ones— Why ?— Faults of certain I'hilosophers 
 
 — L , the respectful affection he excites — The Heart turns from 
 
 Death — Passage in Bolingbroke — Private Life does not afford a 
 vent for all our susceptibilities — A touching Thought in Milton's 
 Latin Poems. 
 
 I CALLED on L the next day ; K , one of the 
 
 few persons he admits, was with him ; they were 
 talking on those writers who have directed their 
 philosophy towards matters of the world ; who have 
 reduced wisdom into epigrams, and given the god- 
 dess of the G-rove and the Portico the dress of a lady 
 
 of fashion. "Never, perhaps," said K , "did 
 
 Virtue, despite the assertion of Plato, that we had 
 only to behold in order to adore her, attract so many 
 disciples to wisdom as Wit has done. How many of 
 us have been first incited to reason, have first learned 
 to think, to draw conclusions, to extract a moral from 
 the follies of life, by some dazzling aphorism in Roche- 
 foucauld or La Bruyere ! Point, like rhyme, seizes 
 at once the memory and the imagination : for my own 
 part, I own frankly that I should never have known 
 what it was to reflect — I should never have written 
 on Political Economy — I should never have pene- 
 trated into the character of my rogue of a guardian, 
 and saved my fortune by a timely act of prudence — I 
 should never have chosen so good a wife — nay, 
 
 I should never have been L 's friend, if I had not, 
 
 one wet day at Versailles, stumbled upon Rocliefou- 
 cauld's Maxims : from that moment / tliouglit, and 1 
 thought very erroneously and very superficially for 
 some time, but the habit of thinking, by degrees, cures 
 the faults of its novitiateship ; and I often bless 
 
 VOL. II. T
 
 270 f'ONVERSATIOXS WITFT A\ AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 the Maxims of IJocliefoncaiild as tlie means \vliich 
 redeemed me liom a life of extravagance and de 
 bauclierv, from tlie eliitclies of a. rascal, and made 
 me fond of rational |)ursuits and respectable society. 
 And yet, to say triifli, I liaAc no desire to read 
 Rochefoucauld again, and, if 1 did, T sjiould dissent 
 from his theory." 
 
 A. Yes, the faults of a brilliant writer are never 
 dangerous on the long run ; a thousand people read 
 his work who would read no other : inquiry is di- 
 rected to each of liis doctrines, it is soon discovered 
 what is true and what is false ; the true become star- 
 lights, and the false beacons. But your dull writer 
 is little conned, little discussed. Debate, that great 
 winnow^er of the corn from the chaff, is denied him'; 
 the student hears of him as an authority, reads him 
 without a guide, imbibes his errors, and retails them 
 as a proof of his learning. In a word, the dull 
 writer does not attract to wisdom those indisposed 
 to follow it : and to those who are disposed he 
 bequeaths as good a chance of inheriting a blunder 
 as a truth. 
 
 L, I will own to you very frankly that I have one 
 objection to beginning to think, from the thoughts 
 of these worldly inquirers. Notwithstanding Koche- 
 foucauld tells us himself, with so honest a gravity, 
 that he had " les sentimens heaux^'' and that he ap- 
 jjroved " exiremement les belles passions^'' his obvious 
 tendency is not to ennoble ; he represents the Tragi- 
 comedy of the Great World, but he does not excite 
 us to fill its grand ])arts; he tells us some of the real 
 motives of men, but he does not tell us also the better 
 motives with which they are entwined. This want 
 of faith in the sublime is what I find, not to blame, 
 but to lament, in most of the authors wdio have very 
 shrewdly, and with a felicitous and just penetration, 
 unravelled the vices and errors of mankind. I find 
 it in La Bruyere, in Rochefoucauld, e^■en in the more 
 weak and tender A^auvenargues, whose merits have, I
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 271 
 
 think, been so unduly extolled by Dugald Stewart ; 
 I find it in Swift, Fielding (admirable moralist as the 
 latter indubitabh^ is in all the lesser branches of 
 morals) ; and among the ancients, who so remarkable 
 for the same want as the sarcastic and inimitable 
 Lucian ? But let us not judge hastily ; this want of 
 nobleness, so to speak, is not necessarily the com- 
 panion of shrewdness. But mark, where we find the 
 noble and the shrewd united, we acknowledge at 
 once a genius of the very highest order whether in 
 poetry or prose ; we acknowledge a Shakspeare, or a 
 Tacitus. 
 
 A. Another characteristic of the order of writers 
 we refer to is this — they are too apt to disregard 
 books, and to write from their own experience ; now, 
 an experience, based upon some wide and compre- 
 hensive theory, is of incalculable value to Truth ; but, 
 where that theory is wanting, the experience makes 
 us correct in minute points, but contracted, and there- 
 fore in error, on the whole ; for error is but a view 
 of few facts instead of a survey of many. 
 
 X. In a word, it is with philosophers as with 
 politicians ; the experience that guides the individuals 
 must be no rule for the community. And here I 
 remember a fine and just comparison of the Emperor 
 Julian's : speaking of some one who derived know- 
 ledge from practice rather than from principle, he com- 
 pares him to an empiric who, by practice, may cure 
 one or two diseases with which he is familiar ; but, 
 having no system or theory of art, must necessarih' 
 be ignorant of the innumerable complaints which 
 have not fallen under his personal observation. Yet 
 now, when a man ventures to speak of a compre- 
 hensive and scientific theory, in opposition to some 
 narrow and cramped practice, he who in reality is 
 the physician, is exclaimed against as the quack. 
 
 Shortly after this part of our conversation, K 
 
 went away, and we talked on some matters connected 
 
 with L 's private and household affairs. By 
 
 T 2
 
 272 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 def>;rcc's, wliilo our coiiimuno rrrew more familiar and 
 confidential, and while tlio sliades of" these long winter 
 eveninrrs jj^athered rapidly over iis, as we s.it alone 
 
 by tlie fire, L sjioke of some incidents in liis 
 
 early history; and I wlm had always felt a deep 
 interest in even the smallest matter respecting him, 
 and, despite our intimacy, was unacquainted with 
 many particulars of his life, in wdiich I fancied there 
 must be something not unworthy recital, jiressed him 
 earnestly to give me a short and fraidv memoir of his 
 actual and literary life. Indeed, I was anxious that 
 some portion of the world should know as much as 
 may now be known of one who is of no common clay, 
 and who, though he has not numbered many years, 
 and has passed some of those years in the dissipa- 
 tion and pleasure common to men of his birth and 
 wealth, is now, at least, never mentioned by those wdio 
 know him without a love bordering on enthusiasm, 
 and an esteem more like the veneration we feel for 
 some aged and celebrated philosopher, than the 
 familiar attachment generally entertained for those 
 of our own years and of no public reputation. 
 
 " As to my early life," said L , smiling, in 
 
 answer to my urgent request, " I feel that it is but an 
 echo of an echo. I do not refuse, however, to tell it 
 you, such as it is ; for it may give food to some ob- 
 servations from you more valuable than the events 
 which excite them ; and, as to some later epochs in 
 my short career, it will comfort me, even while it 
 wounds, to speak of them. Come to me, then, to- 
 morrow, and I will recall in the mean while what may 
 best merit repeating in the memoir you so incon- 
 siderately ask for. But do not leave me yet, dear 
 
 A . Sit down again — let us draw nearer to the 
 
 fire. — How manv scenes have we witnessed in com- 
 mon — how many enterprises have we shared ! Let 
 us talk of these, and to-morrow shall come my solitary 
 history : self, self, the eternal self — let us run away 
 from it one day more. Coidd you l>iit know how
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 273 
 
 forcibly it appears to me, that as life wanes the 
 affections warm ! I have observed this in many in- 
 stances of early death ; — early, for in the decay by 
 years the heart outlives all its ties. As the physical 
 parts stiffen, so harden the moral. But in youth, 
 when all the Affections are green within us, they will 
 not willingly perish ; they stretch forth their arms, 
 as it were, from their ruined and falling prison-house 
 — they yearn for expansion and release. ' Is it,' as 
 that divine, though often sullied nature, at once the 
 luminary and the beacon to English statesmen, has 
 somewhere so touchingly asked, ' is it that we grow 
 more tender as the moment of our great separation 
 approaches, or is it that they who are to live together 
 in another state (for friendship exists not but for the 
 good) begin to feel more strongly that divine sym- 
 pathy which is to be the great bond of their future 
 society ?' " * 
 
 I could have answered this remark by an allusion 
 to the change in the physical state ; the relaxation of 
 illness ; the helplessness we feel when sick, and the 
 sense of dependence, the desire to lean somewhere, 
 which the debility of disease occasions. But I had 
 
 no wish to chill the vein of reasoning to which L 
 
 was inclined ; and, after a little pause, he continued : — 
 " For men who have ardent affections, there seems to 
 me no medium between public life and dissatisfaction. 
 In public life those affections find ample channel ; 
 they become benevolence, or patriotism, or the spirit 
 of party ; or, finally, attaching themselves to things, 
 not persons, concentrate into ambition. But in pri- 
 vate life, who, after the first enthusiasm of passion 
 departs, who, possessed of a fervent and tender soul, 
 is ever contented with the return it meets ? A word, 
 a glance, chills us ; we ask for too keen a sympathy ; 
 we ourselves grow irritable that we find it not — the 
 irritability offends ; that is attributed to the temper 
 which in reality is the weakness of the heart — accu- 
 
 * Bolino-brokc's * Letters to Swift.'
 
 274 CONVERSATIONS WITH AX AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 saticii. ilisjmte, coMness succeed. We are flung })ack 
 uj»()H cmr own l)reasts, and bo comes one ^ood or one 
 evil — we <i;row devout or wo p;row selfisli. Denied 
 vent auion<>; our iellows, the aiHeetions find a I'eln^'e 
 in lieaven ; or tliey centre in a ])eevis]i and lonely 
 contraction of heart, and self-love hecoraes literally, as 
 the forgotten Lkk has expressed it generally, 
 
 ' The uxlutrce tliiit darts through all the IVaiue.' 
 
 This inevitahle alternative is more especially to he 
 noted in women ; their affections are more acute than 
 ours, so also is their disa|)pointnient. It is thus you 
 see the credulous loudness of the devotee, or the 
 fossilised heart of the solitary crone, where, some 
 thirty years back, you would have witnessed a soul 
 running over wnth love for all things and the yearn- 
 ing to be loved again ! Ah ! why, why is it that no 
 natures are made wholly alike? why is it that, of all 
 Itlcssings, we long the most for sympathy ? and of 
 all blessings it is that which none can say, after the 
 experience of years and the trial of custom, that they 
 have possessed and retained. Milton, whose fate 
 through life w^as disappointment — disappointment 
 in his private ties and his public attachments — 
 Milton, who has descended to an unthinking pos- 
 terity as possessing a mind, Ijowever elevated, at 
 least austere and harsh, has, in one of his early Latin 
 poems, expressed this sentiment w^ith a melancholy 
 and soft pathos, not often found in the golden and 
 Platonic richness of his youthful eflusions in his own 
 language : — 
 
 ' Yix sibi quisque parem de millibus invenit unum ; 
 Aut si fors dederit tandem non aspera votis 
 Ilium inopina dies — qua non speravoris hora 
 Surripit — eternum linquens in stEcula damnum.' * 
 
 * Thus prosaically translated : — 
 
 " Scarce one in thousands meets a kindred heart ; 
 Or, if no harsh fate grant, at last, his dreams, 
 Swift comes the unforeboded Doom ; — and In, 
 Leaves to all time the everlasting loss !"
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 275 
 
 " And who is there that has not said to himself, 
 if possessed for a short time of one heart, entirely re- 
 sembling and responding to his own, — who has not 
 said to himself, daily and hourly, ' This cannot last ! ' 
 Has he not felt a dim, unacknowledged dread of 
 death ? has he not, for the first time, shrunk from 
 penetrating into the future ? has he not become 
 timorous and uneasy ? is he not like the miser who 
 journeys on a road begirt with a thousand perils, and 
 who yet carries with him his all ? Who has not felt 
 the truth of the Poet's reproach to Love ? 
 
 "Ah! why 
 With cypress-branches hast thou wreathed thy bowers, 
 And made thy best interpreter a sigh ? " 
 
 CONVERSATION THE FOURTH. 
 
 Containing L 's History. 
 
 In order to make allowance for much of the manner 
 
 and the matter of L 's conversation, I must beg 
 
 the reader to observe how freely he admits his fancy 
 to wander over those regions of inquiry from which 
 fancy would be rigidly excluded by minds more 
 severely disciplined. In excuse for himself he was 
 wont to say, " that the main cause of man's superiority 
 to the brutes, in the distinction between reason and 
 instinct, is in man's irresistible impulse to guess- 
 work — that human reason only accepts a new proof 
 as the starting-point for a new conjecture. Hence, 
 while the most intelligent of the inferior races, from 
 the elephant to the ant, remain stationary, the dullest 
 societies of mankind, if they do but give freedom 
 to guess-work, progressively advance." I am not
 
 270 CUNVKHSATIUNS WITH AN AMIUTIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 sayiii«; tliat this notion wiis soiiniV; 1 <1<) but say that 
 it waa siucuicly maintained by a man at the a<2;e ot 
 twenty-five, wlio did not live loiiii: enoun^h to leject 
 if Inu'nd false, or uphold, if found true, by maturer 
 experienee. 
 
 I reminded L , when 1 next saw him, of liis 
 
 })romise, in our last conversation, to ^ive me a sketcli 
 of his early history. I wished it to be the history of 
 his mind as well as his adventures; in a word, a 
 literary and moral, as well as actual narrative,—" A 
 MKMoiii OF A Student." The moment in which 1 
 jn-essed the wish was favourable. He was in better 
 si)irits than usual, and free from pain ; the evening 
 was fine, and there was that quiet cheerfulness in the 
 air which we sometimes find towards the close of one 
 of those mild days tliat occasionally relieve the 
 severity of an English winter. 
 
 THE CONFESSIONS OF AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 " You know," said L , commencing his story, 
 
 " that I was born to the advantages of an honourable 
 name and of more than a moderate opidence. The 
 care of my education, for I was an orphan, devolved 
 upon my aunt, a maiden lady of some considerable 
 acquirements and some very rare qualities of heart. 
 Good old woman ! how well and how kindly I re- 
 member her with her high cap and kerchief, the 
 tortoise-shell spectacles, that could not conceal nor 
 injure the gentle expression of her eyes — eyes above 
 which the brow never frowned ! How well, too, I 
 remember the spelling-book, and tlie grammar, and, 
 as I grew older, the odd volume of Plutarch's * Lives,' 
 which was placed for my use and profit on the table 
 beside her chair. And something better too, than 
 spelling and grammar, ay, and even the Life of Caius 
 Marius, with'that grand and terrible incident in the 
 memoir wliich Plutarch has so finely told, of how the
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 277 
 
 intended murderer, entering the great Roman's hiding- 
 chamber, as he lay there stricken by years and mis- 
 fortune, saw through the dim and solemn twilight of 
 the room the eye of the purposed victim fall like 
 a warning light upon him, while a voice exclaimed, 
 ' Barest thou, man, to slay Caius Marius ? ' and how 
 the stern Gaul, all awe-stricken and amazed, dropped 
 the weapon, and fled from the chamber ; better, I say, 
 even than spelling and grammar, and these fine 
 legends of old, were certain homely precepts with 
 which my good aunt was wont to diversify the 
 lecture. Never to tell a lie, never to do a mean 
 action, never to forsake a friend, and never to malign 
 a foe ; these were the hereditary maxims of her race, 
 and these she instilled into my mind as things which, 
 if I duly remembered, even the sin of forgetting how 
 to spell words in eight syllables might be reasonably 
 forgiven me. 
 
 " I was sent to school when I was somewhere 
 about seven years old, and I remained at that school 
 till I was twelve, and could construe Ovid's Epistles. 
 I was then trans23lanted to another, better adapted to 
 my increased years and wisdom. Thither I went with 
 a notable resolution which greatly tended in its con- 
 sequences to expand my future character. At my 
 first academy I had been so often and so bitterly the 
 victim of the exuberant ferocity of the elder boys, 
 that I inly resolved, the moment I was of an age and 
 stature to make any reasonable sort of defence, to 
 anticipate the laws of honour, and never put up, in 
 tranquil endurance, with a blow. When, therefore, 
 I found myself at a new school, and at the age of 
 twelve years, I saw, in my fancy, the epoch of 
 resistance and emancipation, which I had so long 
 coveted. The third day of my arrival I was put to 
 the proof ; I was struck by a boy twice my size — I 
 returned the blow — we fought, and I was conquered, 
 but he never struck me again. That was an ad-
 
 278 CONYERSATTOXS WITH AX AATRTTinuS STUDENT. 
 
 inii;ililc lulo ul' iiiiiu', if a boy has but animal lianli- 
 liooil ; for one sound l)('atiii<:^ he escapes at least twenty 
 lesser ones, witli teasiu<:;s and tonnentinf]^s indefinitely 
 numerous into the bar<::ain. No lioy likes to eng-age 
 Avitli a boy much less than himself, and rather than 
 do so he will refrain from the pleasure of tyrannis- 
 ing-. AVe cannot, alas! in the present state of the 
 world, learn too early the great wisdom of Resistance. 
 I carried this rule, however, a little too far, as you 
 shall hear. I had never been once touched, once 
 even chidden by the master, till one day, when I was 
 aljout fifteen, we had a desperate quarrel, ending in 
 my expulsion . There was a certain usher in the school, 
 a very pink and pattern of ushers. He w^as harsh to 
 the lesser boys, but he had his favourites among them 
 — fellow^s who always called him ' Sir,' and offered 
 him oranges. To us of tlie higher school he was 
 generally courteous, and it w^as a part of his policy to 
 get himself invited home by one or the other of us 
 during the holidays. For this purpose he wn'nked at 
 many of our transgressions, allowed us to give feast-s 
 on a half-holiday, and said nothing if he discovered 
 a crib * in our possession. But, oh, to the mistress 
 he was Meekness in a human shape. Such humble 
 and sleek modesty never appeared before in a pair of 
 drab inexpressibles and long gaiters. How he praised 
 her pudding on a Sunday ! how he extolled her 
 youngest dunce on his entrance into Greek ! how 
 delicately he hinted at her still existent charms, when 
 slie w^ore her new silk gown at the parish church ! 
 and how subtly he alluded to her gentle influence 
 over the rigid doctor ! Somehow or other, between 
 the usher and myself there was a feud ; we looked on 
 each other not lovingly ; he said I had set the boys 
 against him, and I accused him, in my own heart, of 
 doing me no good service with the fat school-mistress. 
 
 * The cant word at schools for a literal translation of some classic 
 antlior.
 
 CONVERSATIOXS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 279 
 
 Things at lengtli came to an open ruptiux^ One 
 evening, after school, the usher was indulging himself, 
 with one of the higher boys, in the gentle recreation 
 of a game at draughts. Now, after school, the school- 
 room belonged solely and wholly to the boys ; it was 
 a wet afternoon, and some half-a-dozen of us entered 
 into a game, not quite so quiet as that w^hich the 
 
 usher was engaged in. Mr. commanded silence ; 
 
 my companions were awed — not so myself; I insisted 
 on our right to be as noisy as we would out of school. 
 My eloquence convinced them, and we renewed the 
 game. The usher again commanded silence ; we 
 affected not to hear him. He rose ; he saw me in 
 the act of rebellion. 
 
 " ' Mr. L ,' cried he, ' do you hear me, sir ? 
 
 Silence ! ' 
 
 " ' I beg your pardon, sir ; but we have a right 
 to the school-room after hours ; especially of a wet 
 evening.' 
 
 " ' Oh ! very well, sir ; very well ; I shall report 
 you to the Doctor.' So saying, the usher buttoned up 
 his nether garment, which he had a curious custom 
 of unbracing after school, — especially when engaged 
 in draughts, and went forthwith to the master. 
 I continued the game. The master entered. He 
 was a tall, gaunt, lame man, very dark in hue, and 
 very stern of aspect, with a cast in his eye. 
 
 "' ' How is this, Mr. L ? ' said he, walking 
 
 up to me ; ' how dared you disobey Mr. 's 
 
 orders ? ' 
 
 " ' Sir, his orders were against the custom of the 
 school.' 
 
 " ' Custom, sir ! and who gives custom to this 
 
 school but myself? You are insolent, Mr. L , 
 
 and you don't know what is due to your superiors.' 
 
 " ' Superiors ! ' said I, with a look at the usher. 
 The master thought I spoke of himself; his choler 
 rose, and he gave me a box on the ear.
 
 280 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOrs STUDENT. 
 
 "All my blood was up in a iiioiiicnl; never yet, 
 under that roof, had I received a blow unavenged on 
 the spot. 1 had touf:;ht my way in the school, step 
 by step, to the first ranks of })iio:ilistic heroism. 
 Boys taller and more peaceable than myself hated 
 me, but attacked not ; these were now around me 
 exultinji; in my mortification ; I saw them nud^e each 
 other with insolent satisfaction. The master had never 
 l>ef()re struck a boy in my class. The iiisidt was ten- 
 fold, because unparalleled. All these thoughts Hashed 
 across me. I gathered myself up, clenched my fist, 
 and, with a sudden and almost unconscious effort, 
 I returned, and in no gentle manner, the blow I had 
 received. The pedagogue could have crushed me on 
 the spot ; he was a remarkably powerful man. I 
 honour him at this moment for his forbearance ; at 
 that moment I despised him for his cowardice. He 
 looked thunderstruck, after he had received so auda- 
 cious a proof of my contumacy ; the blood left, and 
 then gushed burningly back to, his sallow cheek. 
 ' It is well, sir,' said he, at length ; ' follow me ! ' and 
 he walked straight out of the school-room. I obeyed 
 with a mechanical and dogged suUenness. lie led 
 the wav into the house, which was detached from the 
 school-room ; entered a little dingy front parlour, 
 in which only once before (the eve of my first aji- 
 pearance under his roof) had I ever set foot ; mo- 
 tioned me also within the apartment ; gave me one 
 stern, contemptuous look ; turned on his heel ; left 
 the room; locked the door, and I was alone. At 
 night the maid-servants came in, and made up a bed 
 on a little black horsehair sofa. There was I left to 
 repose. The next morning came at last. My break- 
 fast was brought to me in a mysterious silence. I 
 began to be affected by the monotony and dulness 
 of my seclusion, I looked carefully round the little 
 chamber for a book, and at length, behind a red tea- 
 tray, I found one. It was — I remember it well — it was
 
 CONVEESA'l'IONS WITEI AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 281 
 
 Beloe's ' Sexagenarian.' I have never looked into the 
 book since, but it made considerable impression on me 
 at the time — a dull, melancholy impression, like that 
 produced on us by a rainy, drizzling day ; there 
 seemed to me then a stagnant quiet, a heavy repose 
 about the memoir, which saddened me with the idea 
 of a man writing the biography of a life never 
 enjoyed, and wholly unconscious that it had not been 
 enjoyed to the utmost. It is very likely that this im- 
 pression is not a just one, and, were I to read the book 
 again, it might create very different sensations. But 
 I recollect that I said, at some passage or another, 
 with considerable fervour, ' Well, I will never devote 
 existence to becoming a scholar.' I had not finished 
 the book, when the schoolmistress entered, as if look- 
 ing for a bunch of keys, but in reality to see how I 
 was employed ; a very angry glance did she cast upon 
 my poor amusement with the ' Sexagenarian,' and, 
 about two minutes after she left the room, a servant 
 entered and demanded the book. The perusal of the 
 'Sexagenarian' remains yet unconcluded, and most 
 probably will so remain to my dying day. A gloomy 
 evening and a sleepless night succeeded ; but early 
 next morning a ring was heard at the gate, and from 
 the window of my dungeon I saw the servant open the 
 gate, and my aunt walk up the little straight riband 
 of gravel that intersected what was termed the front 
 garden. In about half an hour afterwards the Doctor 
 entered with my poor relation, the latter in tears. The 
 Doctor had declared himself inexorable ; nothing less 
 than my expulsion would atone for my crime. Now 
 my aunt was appalled by the word expulsion ; she had 
 heard of boys to whom expulsion had been ruin for 
 life; on whom it had shut the gates of college, the 
 advantages of connexion, the fold of the Church, the 
 honours of civil professions ; it was a sound full of omen 
 and doom to her ear. She struggled against what 
 she deemed so lasting a disgrace. I remained in the
 
 2S2 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMIUTIOUS STFDKNT. 
 
 iliirnitv of silence, slniek lo the lieart l>v lier ixv'mi' 
 and reproaelies, but lesolved to show no token of 
 remorse. 
 
 "■'Look, ma'am,' cried tlie Doctor, irritated l>y 
 mv obstinacy; 'look at tlie young gentleman's coun- 
 tenance : do you sec rei)entance there?' My aunt 
 looked, ami I walked to the window to ]iide mv face. 
 This finislied tiie business, and I returned home tliat 
 dav with mv aunt; who saw in me a future outcast, 
 and a man midone for life, from the want of a proper 
 facility in bearing boxes on the ear. 
 
 " AVithin a week from that time I was in the 
 house of a gentleman, who professed not to keep a 
 school, but to take pupils, — a nice distinction, which 
 separates the schoolmaster from the tutor. There 
 were about six of us, from the age of fifteen to 
 eighteen. Our tutor undertook to prepare us for the 
 University, and with him, in real earnest, I, for the 
 first time, began to learn. Yes ; thei"e, commenced 
 an epoch both in my mind and heart, — [ woke to the 
 knowledge of books and also of mvself. In one vear 
 I passed over a world of feelings. From the child I 
 rose at once into the man. But let me tell my story 
 methodically; and first, as to the education of the 
 
 intellect. Mr. S was an elegant and graceful 
 
 scholar, of the ortliodox University crt/ZAre, not deeply 
 learned, but intimately acquainted with the beauties 
 and the subtleties of the authors he had read. You 
 
 know, A , what authors an University scholar 
 
 does read, and those whom he neglects. At this 
 time it is with those most generally neglected that 1 
 am least imperfectly acquainted ; but it was not so, 
 then, as you may suppose. Before I went to Mr. 
 
 S 's I certainly had never betrayed any very 
 
 studious disposition ; the ordinary and hackneyed 
 method of construing, and parsing, and learning by 
 heart, and making themes, of wdn'ch the only pr)s- 
 sil^le excellence was to be unoriginal; — all this
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH x\N AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 283 
 
 had disgusted me betimes, and I shirked lessons 
 with the same avidity as the rest of my tribe. It 
 
 became suddenly different with Mr. S . The 
 
 first day of my arrival, I took up the ' Medea ' of 
 Euripides. Into what a delightful recreation did 
 
 S convert the task I had hitherto thought so 
 
 wearisome, — how eloquently he dwelt on each poetical 
 expression, — how richly he illustrated every beauty 
 by comparisons and contrasts from the pages of other 
 poets ! What a life he breathed into the dull lecture ! 
 How glowingly, as if touched by a wand, were the 
 Greek crabbed sentences, hitherto breathing but of 
 lexicons and grammars, exalted into the freshness 
 and the glory of the poet ! Euripides was the first 
 of the divine spirits of old who taught me those 
 forms of truth which are never visible excejot in 
 fiction ; and so great and deep is my gratitude, that 
 at this day I read his plays more often than I do 
 even those of Shakspeare, and imagine that beauties 
 speak to me from that little obsolete edition, in which 
 I then read him, which are dumb to every heart but 
 i:6yown. I now studied with a new frame of mind : 
 first, I began to admire — then to dwell upon what 
 I admired — then to criticise, or sometimes to imitate. 
 Within two years I had read, nor inattentively, the 
 works of almost all the ancient poets, historians, 
 orators. The G-reek philosophers remained out of 
 
 my reach. S did not undertake to expound 
 
 Piato, and the only work of Aristotle which he 
 ventured to commend to our study was that Treatise 
 upon Poetry, which, confining poetry almost exclu- 
 sively to the Tragic Drama, lays down rules that 
 an English schoolboy, fresh from Shakspeare, thinks 
 himself privileged to despise. 
 
 " I had been little more than a year with S when 
 
 one bright morning of June I felt as if a strong spirit 
 had passed into my soul teacliing mc to view Nature 
 through a new medium, and bidding me seek some
 
 284 CONVERSATIONS W'VVW AX AMniTIOUS STT'DENT. 
 
 new form of laiifj^nng:© for tliouglits so swoet that tliey 
 seemed to reject all utterance not akin to music. F<^r 
 tlie first time I yearned for tlio gift of poetry, be- 
 cause for the first time I felt tlie inspiration of love. 
 
 " There was a slender, l)ut j^leasant brook, about 
 
 two miles from S 's house, to which one or two of 
 
 us were accustomed, in the summer days, to repair to 
 bathe and saunter away our leisure hours. To this 
 favourite spot I one day went alone, and, crossing 
 a field which led to the brook, I encomitered two 
 ladies, with one of whom, having met her at some 
 house in the neighbourhood, I had a slight acquaint- 
 ance. We stopped to speak to each other, and I saw 
 the face of her companion. Alas ! were I to live ten 
 thousand lives, there would never be a moment in 
 which I could be alone — nor sleeping, and that face 
 not with me ! 
 
 " My acquaintance introduced us to each other. 
 I walked home with them to the house of Miss D — — 
 (so was the strange, who was also the younger, lady 
 named). The next day I called upon her. Tlie 
 acquaintance thus commenced did not droop ; and, 
 
 notwithstanding our youth — for Lucy D was only 
 
 seventeen, and I nearly a year younger — we soon 
 loved, and with a love, which, however childlike 
 in its pure romance, was as strong, as true, as fatal 
 as ever ruled the heart of man or influenced the 
 life of woman. 
 
 " Ah ! how little did I think of what our young 
 fi »lly entailed upon us ! We basked in the sun- 
 shine of the moment, and foreboded no cloud in 
 the future. Neither of us had any ulterior design; 
 we did not think — poor children that we were — of 
 marriage, and settlements, and consent of relations. 
 We touched each other's hands, and were happy ; we 
 read poetry together — and when we lifted our eyes 
 from the page, those eyes met, and we did not know 
 why our hearts beat so violently; and at lengtli,
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 285 
 
 when we spoke of love ; when we described all that 
 we thoiiglit in absence — and all we had felt when 
 present — when we sat with our hands locked each in 
 each — and at last, growing bolder, wdaen in the still 
 and quiet loneliness of a summer twilight we ex- 
 changed our first kiss, we did not dream that the 
 world forbade what seemed to us so natural ; nor — 
 feeling in our own hearts the impossibility of change 
 — did we ever ask whether this sweet and mystic 
 state of existence was to last for ever ! 
 
 " Lucy was an only child ; her father, though 
 well-born, was a man of attainted character. A 
 profligate, a gambler — ruined alike in fortune, hope, 
 and reputation, he was yet her only guardian and 
 protector. The village in which we both resided was 
 
 near London ; there Mr. D had a small cottage, 
 
 where he left his daughter and his slender establish- 
 ment for da3^s, and sometimes for weeks together, 
 while he was engaged in equivocal speculations — 
 giving no address, and engaged in no professional 
 mode of life. Lucy's mother had died long since, of 
 a broken heart — so that this poor girl was literally 
 without a monitor or a friend, save her own inno- 
 cence — and, alas! innocence is but a poor substitute 
 for experience. The lady with whom I had met her 
 had known her mother, and she felt compassion for 
 the child. She saw her constantly, and sometimes 
 took her to her own house, whenever she was in the 
 neighbourhood ; but that was not often, and only for 
 a few days at a time. Her excepted, Lucy had no 
 female friend. 
 
 " Was it a wonder, then, that she allowed herself 
 to meet me ? — that we spent hours and hours together? 
 — that she called me her only friend — her brother as 
 well as her lover ? There was a peculiarity in our 
 attachment worth noticing. Never, from the first 
 hour of our meeting to the last of our separation, did 
 we ever say an unkind or cutting word to each other. 
 VOL. II. TJ
 
 280 CONVERSATIONS WITH AX AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 Living so rancli alone — never meeting in theworM — 
 unacquainted with all the tricks, and doubts, and 
 artifices of life, we never had cause for the suspicion, 
 the jealousy, the reproach, which disturb the current 
 of loves formed in society ; tlie kindest language, the 
 most tender thouglits, alone occuried to us. if any- 
 thing prevented her meeting me, she never concealed 
 her sorrow, nor did I ever affect to chide. We knew 
 from the bottom of our hearts that we were all in all 
 to each other — and there was never any disguise to 
 the clear and full understanding of that delicious 
 knowledge. Poor — poor Lucy ! what an age seems 
 to have passed since then ! How dim and melan- 
 choly, yet, oh ! how faithful, are the hues in which 
 that remembrance is clothed ! When I muse over 
 that time, I start, and ask myself if it was real, or if I 
 did not wholly dream it — and, with the intenseness of 
 the dream, fancy it a truth. Many other passages in 
 my life have been romantic, and many, too, coloured 
 l)y the affections. But this brief period of my ex- 
 istence is divided utterly from the rest — it seems 
 to have no connexion with all else that I have felt 
 and acted — a strange and visionary wandering out 
 of the living world — having here no being and no 
 parallel . 
 
 " One evening we were to meet at a sequestered 
 and lonely j^art of the brook's course, a spot which 
 was our usual rendezvous. I waited considerably 
 beyond the time appointed, and was just going sor- 
 rowfully away, when she appeared. As she ap- 
 proached, I saw that she was in tears — and for 
 several moments she could not speak for weeping. 
 At length I learned that her father had just returned 
 home, after a long absence — that he had announced 
 his intention of immediately quitting their present 
 home and going to a distant part of the country, or 
 perhaps even abroad. 
 
 " And tin's chance, so probable, so certain — this
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 2^7 
 
 chance of separation had never occurred to us before! 
 We liad Hved in the Happy Valley, nor thought of 
 the strange and desert lands that stretched beyond the 
 mountains around us ! I felt while I listened to her 
 as if I had suffered some blow which suspended my 
 reason and annulled my very consciousness of life. 
 I did not speak, nor attempt, for several moments, 
 to console her. At length we sat down under an old 
 holm-tree, and Lucy it was who spoke first. I cannot 
 say whether Lucy was beautifid or not, nor will I 
 attempt to describe her. Methinks it were profane 
 to allow my thoughts wilfully to call back and re- 
 clothe in the form of mortal her whom in my dreams 
 I see only as the angel. But putting her outward 
 attractions wholly aside, there was something in 
 Lucy's sweet and kind voice which would have filled 
 me with love even for deformity ; and now, when 
 quite forgetting herself, she thought only of comfort 
 and liope for me, my love to her seemed to grow and 
 expand, and leave within me no thought, no feeling, 
 that it did not seize and colour. It is a strange thing 
 in the history of the human heart, tliat the times most 
 sad to experience are often the most grateful to recall ; 
 and of all the passages in our brief and chequered 
 love, none have I clung to so fondly, nor cherished so 
 tenderlv, as the remembrance of that desolate and 
 tearful hour. We walked slowly home, speaking very 
 little, and lingering on the way — and my arm was 
 round her waist all the time. Had we fixed any 
 scheme — formed any plan for hope ? — none ! We 
 felt ourselves as playthings in the hands of Fate. 
 There was a little stile at the entrance of the 
 garden round Lucy's home, and, sheltered as it was 
 by trees and bushes, it was there, whenever we met, 
 that we took our last adieu — and there that evening 
 we stopped, and lingered over our parting words and 
 our parting kiss — and at length, when I toj-e myself 
 away, I looked back and saw her in the sad and grey 
 
 u 2
 
 288 CONVEIiSA'riONS WITH AN AMniTIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 liL;-lit of tlie evening still llicre, still wutcliiiif^, still 
 weeping! Wliiit alter-lioiirs of anguish and gnawing 
 of lieart must one, who loved so kindly and so entirely, 
 have enihired ! 
 
 " As I lay awake that night, I formed the resolve 
 wliicli would have occurred at once to any lover 
 equally honest hut less inex])erienced in life. I would 
 seek Lucy's father, communicate our attachment, and 
 sue for his approhation. AVe might, indeed, be too 
 young for marriage — hut we could wait and love 
 each other in the mean while. I lost no time in fol- 
 lowing up tins resolution. The next day, before 
 noon, I was at the door of Lucy's cottage — I was in 
 the little chamber that faced the garden, alone with 
 her father. 
 
 " A boy forms strange notions of a man who is 
 considered a scoundrel. I was prepared to see one 
 of fierce and sullen appearance, and to meet with a 
 
 rude and coarse reception. I found in Mr. D 
 
 a person who, early accustomed to polished society, 
 still preserved, in his manner and appearance, its 
 best characteristics. His voice was soft and bland ; 
 his face, thougli haggard and worn, retained the 
 traces of early beauty ; and a courteous and atten- 
 tive ease of de[)ortment had been probably improved 
 rather than impaired by the habit of deceiving 
 others. I told our story to this man, frankly and 
 fully. When I had done, he rose ; he took me by 
 the hand ; he expressed some regret, yet some satis- 
 faction, at what he had heard. lie was sensible 
 how much peculiar circumstances had obliged him 
 to leave his daughter unprotected ; he was sen- 
 sible, also, that, from my birth and future fortunes, 
 my affection did honour to the object of my choice. 
 Nothing would have made him so happy, so proud, 
 had I been older — had I been my own master. But 
 I and he, alas! must be aware that my friends and 
 guardians would never consent to my forming any
 
 CONVEESATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 289 
 
 engagement at so premature an age, and they and 
 others would impute the blame to him ; for calimmy 
 (lie added in a melancholy tone) had been busy 
 with his name, and any story, however false or idle, 
 would be believed of one who was out of favour with 
 the world. 
 
 " All this, and much more, did he say ; and I 
 pitied him while he spoke. Our conference then 
 ended in nothing fixed ; but he asked me to dine with 
 him the next day. In a word, while he forbade me 
 at present to recur to the subject, he allowed me to 
 see his daughter as often as I pleased : this lasted for 
 about ten days. At the end of that time, when I 
 
 made my usual morning visit, I saw D alone ; he 
 
 appeared much agitated. He was about, he said, to 
 be arrested. He was undone for ever — and his poor 
 daughter ! — he could say no more — his manly heart 
 was overcome, and he hid his face with his hands. 
 I attempted to console him, and inquired the sum 
 necessary to relieve him. It was considerable ; and 
 on hearing it named, I at once deemed myself without 
 the power of assisting him. I was mistaken. But 
 why dwell on so hackneyed a topic, as the skill of 
 a sharper on the one hand, and the credulity of a 
 dupe on the other ? I saw a gentleman of the tiibe 
 of Israel — I raised a sum of money, to be repaid when 
 
 I came of age, and that sum was placed in D 's 
 
 hands. My intercourse with Lucy continued : but 
 not long. This matter came to the ears of one who 
 had succeeded my poor aunt, now no more, as my 
 
 guardian. He saw D , and threatened him with 
 
 penalties, which the sharper did not dare to brave. 
 My guardian was a man of the world ; he said nothing 
 to me on the subject, but he begged me to accompany 
 him on a short tour through a neighbouring county. 
 I took leave of Lucy only for a few days as I imagined. 
 I accompanied my guardian — was a week absent — 
 returned — and hastened to the cottage : it was shut
 
 290 CONVEKSATIUNS WI'III AX AMlUlIuL'S STUDENT. 
 
 lip — im old woiniin opened tlie door — thoy were gone, 
 latliLT :i!id dMUii'liter, none knew wliitlier ! 
 
 " It was now lli;il my ^'iiardian disclosed his sliare 
 in tliis event, no tciiilily unexpected by me. He un- 
 folded tlie arts of 1) ; he held up his character in 
 
 its true lig'ht. I listened to him ])atiently, while he 
 proceeded thus far; but when, encouraged by my 
 silence, he attempted to insinuate that Lucy was im- 
 plicated in her lather's artifices — that she had lent 
 herself to decoy, to the mutual advantage of sire and 
 daughtei", the inexperienced heir of considerable 
 fortunes — my rage and indignation exploded at once. 
 High words ensued. I defied his authority — I 
 laughed at his menaces — I openly declared my re- 
 solution of tracing Lucy to the end of the world, and 
 marrying her the instant she was found. Whether 
 or not my guardian had penetrated sufficiently into 
 my character to see that force was not the means by 
 which I was to be guided, I cannot say ; but he 
 softened from his tone at last — apologised for his 
 warmtli — condescended to soothe and remonstrate — 
 and our dispute ended in a comjiromise. I consented 
 to leave Mr. S , and to spend the next year, pre- 
 paratory to my going to the university, with my 
 guardian : he promised, on the other hand, that if, at 
 the end of that year, I still wished to discover Lucy, 
 he would throw no obstacles in the way of my search. 
 1 was ill contented witli tliis compact ; but I was 
 induced to it by my firm persuasion that Lucy would 
 write to me, and tliat we should console each other, 
 at least, by a knowledge of our mutual situation and 
 our mutual constancy. In this persuasion I insisted 
 
 on remaining six weeks longer with S , and gained 
 
 my point ; and that any letter Lucy might write 
 might not be exposed to officious intervention from 
 
 S or my guardian's satellites, I walked everyday 
 
 to meet the postman who was accustomed to bring 
 '>ur letters. None came from Lucy. Afterwards
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 291 
 
 I learned that D , whom my guardian had wisely 
 
 bought, as well as intimidated, had intercepted three 
 letters which she had addressed to me in her un- 
 suspecting confidence — and that she only ceased to 
 write when she ceased to believe in me. 
 
 " I went to reside with my guardian : a man of a 
 hospitable and liberal turn, his house was always full 
 of guests, who were culled from the most agreeable 
 circles in London. We lived in a perpetual round of 
 amusement ; and my guardian, who thought I should 
 be rich enough to aftbrd to be ignorant, was more 
 anxious that I should divert my mind than instruct 
 it. Well, this year passed slowly and sadly away, in 
 spite of the gaiety around me ; and, at the end of that 
 time, I left my uncle to go to the university ; but 
 I first lingered in London to make inquiries after 
 
 D . I could learn no certain tidings of him, but 
 
 heard that the most probable place to find him was 
 
 a certain gaming-house in K Street. Thither I 
 
 repaired forthwith. It was a haunt of no delicate 
 and luxurious order of vice ; the chain attached to 
 the threshold indicated suspicion of the spies of 
 justice ; and a grim and sullen face peered jealously 
 upon me before I was suffered to ascend the shabby 
 and darksome staircase : but my search was destined 
 to a brief end. At the head of the Rouge et Noir 
 table, facing my eyes the moment I entered the evil 
 chamber, was the marked and working countenance 
 of D . 
 
 " He did not look up — no, not once, all the time 
 he played : he won largely — rose with a flushed face 
 and trembling hand — descended the stairs — stojoped 
 in a room below, where a table was spread with meats 
 and wine — took a large tumbler of madeira, and left 
 the house. I had waited patiently — I had followed 
 him with a noiseless step — I now drew my breath 
 hard, clenched my hands, as if to nerve myself for a 
 contest, and as he paused for a moment under one 
 of the lamps, seemingly in doubt whither to go, I laid
 
 2!)2 CONVKHSATIONS WITH AN AMIUTIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 my liaud on liis sIkhiIiKt, mid uttered liis name. His 
 eyes wandered \vitli a leaden and didl <i*a/.e over my 
 face before lie remembered me. Then he recovered 
 liis usii;il Maud «mile and soft tone. He gra-sjied my 
 unwilling hand, and inquired with the tenderness of 
 a ])arent after my health. I did not heed his words. 
 ' Your daii<2,-htcr ?' said I, convulsively. 
 
 " ' Ah ! you were old friends,' quoth he, smilinj:!: ; 
 'you have recovered that folly, 1 hope. Poor thin*:;! 
 she will be hapjiy to see an old friend. You know, 
 of course ' 
 
 "'What?' for he hesitated. 
 
 " ' That Lucy is married ! ' 
 
 " ' Married ! ' and as that word left my lips, it 
 seemed as if my very life, my very soul, liad gushed 
 forth also in the sound. When — oh ! when, in the 
 nig-ht-watch and the daily yearning, — when, whatever 
 might have been my grief, or wretchedness, or de- 
 spondency, — when had I dreamed of a doom like this ? 
 Married ! my Lucy, my fond, my constant, my pm-e- 
 hearted, and tender Lucy ! Suddenly all the chilled 
 and revolted energies of my passions seemed to re- 
 act, and rush back upon me. I seized that smiling 
 wretch with a fierce grasp. ' You have done this 
 — you have broken her heart — you have crushed 
 mine ! I curse you in her name and my own ! 
 Wretch ! wretch ! ' and he was as a reed in my 
 hands. 
 
 " ' Madman! ' said he, as at last he extricated him- 
 self from my gripe, 'my daughter married with her 
 free consent, married one far better fitted to make her 
 happy than you. Go, go — I forgive you — I also was 
 once in love, and with her mother ! ' 
 
 " I did not answer — I let him depart. 
 
 " Behold me, now, then, entered upon a new stage 
 of life : a long, sweet, shadowy train of dreams and 
 fancies, and forethoughts of an unreal future, was for 
 ever passeil. I had attained suddenly to the end of 
 that i>eriod which is as a tale from the East, ' a tale
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 293 
 
 of glory and of tlie sun.' A startling and abrupt 
 truth had come upon me in the night, and unawares ! 
 I was awakened, and for ever — the charm had fallen 
 from me, and I was as other men ! The little objects 
 of earth — the real and daily present — the routine of 
 trifles — the bustle and tlie contest — the poor employ- 
 ment and the low ambition — these were henceforth to 
 me as to my fellow-kind. I was brought at once into 
 the actual world ; and the armour for defence was 
 girded round me as by magic ; the w^eapon adapted 
 to the hardship and to the battle was in my hand. 
 And all this had happened — love — disappointment — 
 desjDair — wisdom — while I was yet a boy ! 
 
 " It was a little while after this interview — but I 
 mention it now, for there is no importance in the 
 quarter from which I heard the tale — that I learned 
 some "few particulars of Lucy's marriage. There was, 
 and still is, in the world's gossip, a strange story of a 
 rich, foolish man, awed as well as gulled by a sharper, 
 and of a girl torn to a church with such evidence of 
 constraint and terror that the clergyman refused to 
 perform the ceremony. It was afterwards solemnized 
 in a private chapel by special licence. The pith of 
 that story has truth, and Lucy was at once the 
 heroine and victim of the romance. Now, then, I 
 turn to a somewhat different strain in my narrative. 
 
 " You, A , who know so well the habits of a 
 
 university life, need not be told how singularly 
 monotonous and contemplative it may be made to 
 a lonely man. The first year I was there, I mixed, 
 as you may remember, in none of the many circles 
 into which that curious and motley society is split. 
 I formed, or rather returned to, my passion for study ; 
 yet the study was desultory, and wanted that system 
 and vigoiu' on which, at a later time, you have com- 
 plimented my literary ardour. Two or three books, 
 of a vague and unmellowed philosophy, fell in my 
 way, and I fed upon their crude theories. We live 
 alone, and we form a system ; we go into the world.
 
 21)4 CUNVKrvSATlONb WITH AN AI^IIUTIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 aiul we see the errors in the systems of otliers. To 
 judf^e ami to invent are two opposite faculties, and 
 are cultivated by two 0])|)0site modes of life ; or, as 
 Gihhon has ex])resed it, 'Conversation enriches the 
 understanding^, hut solitude is the school of genius.' 
 
 *' My only recreation was in long and companion- 
 less rides ; and in the flat and dreary country around 
 our university, the cheeiless aspect of ^nature fed the 
 idle melancholy at my heart. In the second year 
 of my college life I roused myself a little from my 
 seclusion ; and rather by accident than design, you 
 will remember that my acquaintances were formed 
 among men considered the most able and promising 
 of our time. I appeared hut to poor advantage 
 among those young academicians, fresh as they were 
 from puhlic schools ; their high animal spirits for 
 ever on the wing ; — ready in wit and in argument — 
 prone now to laugh at trifles, and now eai-nestly to 
 dispute on them — they stunned and confused my 
 quiet and grave habits of mind. I have met the 
 most brilliant of these men since, and they have 
 frankly confessed tliemselves astonished, even at the 
 little and meagre reputation I have acquired, and at 
 Avhatsoever conversational ability, though only by fits 
 and starts, I may now display. They compliment 
 me on my improvement : tliey mistake — my intellect 
 is just the same — I have improved only in the facility 
 of communicating its fruits. In the summer of that 
 year I resolved to make a bold effort to harden my 
 mind and conquer its fastidious reserve ; and I set 
 out to travel over the north of England, and the 
 greater part of Scotland, in the humble character of 
 a })edestrian tourist. Nothing ever did my character 
 more solid good than that experiment. I was thrown 
 among a thousand varieties of character; I was con- 
 tinually forced into bustle and action, and into pro- 
 lidimj for inyself- — that great and indelible lesson to- 
 wards permanent independence of character. 
 
 " One evening, in an obscure part of Cumberland,
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 295 
 
 I was seeking a short cut to a neighbouring village 
 through a gentleman's grounds, in which there was a 
 public path. Just within sight of the house (which 
 was an old, desolate building, in the architecture of 
 James the First, with gable-ends and dingy walls, 
 and deep-sunk, gloomy windows), I perceived two 
 ladies at a little distance before me ; one seemed in 
 weak and delicate health, for she walked slowly and 
 with pain, and stopped often as she leaned on her 
 companion. I lingered behind, in order not to pass 
 them abruptly ; presently they turned away towards 
 the house, and I saw them no more. Yet that frail 
 and bending form, as I too soon afterwards learned — 
 that form, which I did not recognise — which, by a 
 sort of fatality, I saw only in a glimpse, and yet for 
 the last time on earth, — that form was the wreck of 
 
 Lucy D ! 
 
 " Unconscious of this event in my destiny, I left 
 that neiglibourhood and settled for some weeks on the 
 borders of the lake of Keswick. There, one evening, 
 a letter, redirected from London, reached me. The 
 handwriting was that of Lucy ; but the ti'embling 
 and slurred characters, so different from that graceful 
 ease which was wont to characterise all she did, filled 
 me, even at the first glance, with alarm. This is the 
 letter — read it ; you will know, then, what I have 
 lost. 
 
 ' " ' I write to you, my dear, my unforgotten *** *^ 
 the last letter tliis hand will ever trace. Till now, it 
 would lia\e been a crime to write to you ; perhaps 
 it is so still — but dying as I am, and divorced from 
 all earthly thoughts and remembrances, save yours, 
 I feel that I cannot quite collect my mind for the last 
 hour until I have given you the blessing of one whom 
 you loved once ; and when that blessing is given, I 
 think I can turn away from your image, and sever 
 willingly the last tie that binds me to earth. I will 
 not afflict you by saying what I have sufttred since
 
 200 CUNVERSATIONS WITH AN AMIUTIOUS STUDKNT. 
 
 ^Ye parted — willi wliat aiigiiisli I tlionglit of wliat 
 you woulil ferl wlieii you found lao gone — and witli 
 wliat cruel, what fearful violence, I was forced into 
 becoming the wretch I now am. I was hurried, I 
 was di-iven, into a dreadful and hitter duty — hut 
 I thank God that 1 have fulfilled it. AVhat, what 
 have I done, to have been made so miserable through- 
 out life as I have been ! I ask my heart, and tax 
 my conscience, and every night I think over the sins 
 of the day ; they do not seem to me heavy, yet my 
 ]ienance has been very great. For the two last 
 years I do sincerely think that there has not been 
 one day which I have not marked with tears. But 
 
 enough of this, and of myself. You, dear, dear L , 
 
 let me turn to vou ! Something at my heart tells 
 me that you have not forgotten that once we were 
 the world to each other, and even through the 
 changes and the glories of a man's life 1 think 
 you will not forget it. True, that I was a poor 
 and friendless, and not too-well educated girl, and 
 altogether unworthy of your destiny ; but you did 
 not think so then — and when you have lost me, it is 
 a sad, but it is a real comfort, to feel tliat that thought 
 will never occur to you. Your memory will invest 
 me with a thousand attractions and graces I did not 
 possess, and all that you recall of me will be linked 
 with the freshest and happiest thoughts of that period 
 of life in whicVi you first beheld me. And this 
 thought, dearest * * * *j sweetens death to me — aiid 
 sometimes it comforts me for what has been. Had 
 our lot been otherwise — had we been united, and had 
 you survived your love for me (and what more 
 probable !), my lot would have been darker even than 
 it has been. I know not how it is — perhaps from 
 my approaching death — but I seem to have grown 
 old, and to have obtained the right to be your monitor 
 and Warner. Forgive me, then, if I implore you to 
 think earnestly and deeply of the great ends of 
 life ; think of them as one might think who is anxious
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 207 
 
 to gain a distant home, and who will not he diverted 
 from his way. Oh ! could you know how solemn 
 and thrilling a joy comes over me as I nurse the 
 helief, the certainty, that we shall meet at length, 
 and for ever ! Will not that hope also animate you, 
 and guide you unerring through the danger and the 
 evil of this entangled life ? 
 
 " ' May God hless you, and watch over you — may 
 He comfort, and cheer, and elevate your heart to 
 Him ! Before you receive this I shall he no more ; 
 but my love, my care for you will, I trust and feel, 
 have become eternal. Farewell. ^ j -^l^ , 
 
 " The letter," continued L , struggling with 
 
 his emotions, " was dated from that village through 
 which I had so lately passed ; thither I repaired that 
 very night — Lucy had been buried the day before ! 
 I stood upon a green mound, and a few, few feet 
 below it, separated from me by a scanty portion of 
 earth, mouldered that heart which had loved me so 
 faithfully and so well ! 
 
 " What a difference throughout the whole of this 
 various and teeming earth a single death can effect ! 
 Sky, sun, air, the eloquent waters, the inspiring 
 mountain-tops, the murmuring and glossy woods, the 
 very 
 
 ' Glory in the grass, and splendour in the flower,' — 
 
 do these hold over us an eternal spell ? Are they as 
 a part and property of an unvarying course of nature ? 
 Have they aught which is unfailing, steady — sajne in 
 its effect ? One gap, invisible to all but ourself, in 
 the crowd and turmoil of the world, and everything 
 is changed. In a single hour, the whole process of 
 thought, the whole ebb and flow of emotion, may be 
 revulsed for the rest of an existence. Nothing can 
 ever seem to us as it did : it is a blow upon the fine 
 mechanism by which we think, and move, and have 
 our being — the pendulum vibrates aright no more —
 
 298 CONVEKSATIOXS W TI'II AX AMIUTIOFS STrDKXT. 
 
 tlie dial liatli no account witli time — the j^rocess goes 
 on, Imt it knows no syninietry nor oi-der ; it was a 
 single stroke tliat marred it, but tlie harmony is gone 
 for ever ! 
 
 " And yet I often tliiidc tliat tliat sliock which jars 
 on the niiiital, renders yet softer tlie fiplritual nature. 
 A death that is connected with love unites us by a 
 thousand remembrances to all who have mourned : it 
 l)uilds a bridge between the young and the old ; 
 it gives them in common the most touching of human 
 sym]>athies ; it steals from nature its glory and its 
 exhilaration, but not its tenderness. And what, 
 perhaps, is better than all, to mourn deeply for the 
 death of another, loosens from ourself the petty desii-e 
 for, and the animal adherence to, life. We have 
 gained the end of the philosopher, and view, without 
 shrinking, the coflin and the pall. 
 
 " For a year my mind did not return to its former 
 pursuits : my scholastic ambition was checked at once. 
 Hitherto I had said, ' If I gain distinction sJie will 
 know it:' now that object was no more. I could not 
 even bear the sight of Ixjoks : my thoughts had all 
 curdled into torpor^ — a melanclioly listlessness filled 
 and oppressed me ; tlie day chasing day without end 
 or ]irofit — the cloud swcejiing after cloud over the 
 barren j)lain — the breath after breath passing across 
 the unmoved mirror — these were the sole types and 
 images of my life. I had been expected by my friends 
 to attain some of the highest of academical rewards; 
 you may imagine that I deceived their expectations. 
 I left the university, and hastened to London. I was 
 just of age. I found myself courted, and I plunged 
 eagerly into society. The experiment was perilous ; 
 but in my case it answered. I left myself no time 
 for thought : gambling, intrigue, dissipation, these 
 are the occupatioiis of polished society ; they are 
 great resources to a wealthy mourner. The ' man ' 
 stirred again within me ; the weakness of my re- 
 pinings gradualh' melted away beneath the daily
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AJiIMTIOUS STUDENT. 299 
 
 trifles of life ; perpetual footsteps, though the foot- 
 steps of idlers, wore the inscription from the stone. 
 I said to my heart, ' Why mourn when mourning is 
 but vanity, and to regret is only to be weak ? — Let 
 me turn to what life has left, let me struggle to 
 
 " At first I was ill at ease in feigning attention 
 to frivolities ; by degrees frivolities grew into import- 
 ance. Society, like the stage, gives rewards intoxi- 
 cating in proportion as they are immediate : the man 
 who has but to appear behind the lamps of the 
 orchestra to be applauded, must find all other species 
 of fame distant and insipid. So with society, the wit 
 and the gallant can seldom covet praise, which, if 
 more lasting, is less 2:)resent than that which they com- 
 mand by a word and a glance. And having once 
 tasted the eclat of social power, they cannot resist the 
 struggle to preserve it. This, then, grew my case, 
 and it did me good, though it has done others evil. 
 I lived my summer day, — laughed, and loved, and 
 trifled with the herd. The objects I pursued were 
 petty, it is true ; but to have ani/ object was to re- 
 concile myself to life. And now the London season 
 was over : summer was upon us in all its later prodi- 
 gality. I was no longer mournful, but I was wearied. 
 Ambition, as I lived with the world, again dawned 
 upon me. I said, when I saw the distinction that 
 mediocrity acquired, ' Why content myself with sati- 
 rising the claim? — why not struggle against the 
 claimant ? ' In a word, I again thirsted for knowledge 
 and coveted its power. Now comes the main history 
 of the Student; — but I have fatigued you enough for 
 the present."
 
 300 coNvi:i:sATioNs with an amuitious studknt. 
 
 CONVERSATTOX THE FrFTTT. 
 
 TliQ History of L onitiiiucd in liis Iiilcllcctual Pursuits — Ud- 
 
 vetius — Uis faults aud merits — Tlie Materialists — Tlic Philosojtliv 
 of Faith. 
 
 " It was observed by Descartes," said L (as, a 
 
 day or two after our last conversation, we leiiewed 
 tlie theme we had then begun), " ' tliat in order to 
 improve the mind, we ought less to learn than to con- 
 template.' In this sentence lies the use of retirement. 
 There are certain moments when study is peculiai'ly 
 grateful to us : but in no season are we so likely to 
 profit Ijy it, as when we take a voluntary l)reathing- 
 time from tlie noise and hubbub of the world. Behold 
 me, then, within a long day's journey from London, 
 in a beautiful country, an old house, and a library 
 collected with great labour by one of my forefathers, 
 and augmented in more modern works by myself. 
 
 "The first branch of letters to which I directed 
 my ajiplication was Moral Philosophy ; and tlie first 
 book I seized upon was Helvetius. I know no work 
 so fascinating to a young thinker as the ' Discours de 
 TEsprit:' the variety, the anecdote, the illustration, 
 the graceful criticism, the solemn adjuration, the 
 brilliant jwint that characterise the work, and render 
 it so attractive, less as a treatise than as a com- 
 position, would alone make that writer delightful to 
 many who mistake the end of his system, and are 
 incapable of judging its wisdom in j3arts. 
 
 " His great metaphysical error is in supposing 
 all men born with the same capacity ; in resolving all 
 effects of character and genius to education. For, in 
 the first place, ihe weight of proof being thrown u])on 
 him, he does not ]irove the fact ; and, secondly, if he 
 did prove it, neither we nor his system would be a 
 whit the better for it : for the utmost human and 
 possible care in education cannot make all men
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 301 
 
 alike. Yet even this dogma, if unsound in itself, 
 has served to make clearer a truth important to the 
 conservation and to the progress of social communi- 
 ties. For the dispute it occasioned compelled men 
 to acknowledge how largely national character is 
 formed by ideas derived from specialities in the na- 
 tional culture. Let me illustrate my meaning. Take 
 any of the small commonwealths closely bordering 
 on each other in a region so comparatively limited 
 as ancient Greece : the Athenian differs from the 
 Corinthian, the Corinthian from the ^tolian, the 
 ^tolian from the Spartan : and though the differ- 
 ence may have originated in ancestral variations of 
 clan or tribe rather than of race, still more in varia- 
 tion of locality and circumstances, yet the main cause, 
 to which these lesser ones conspire, is clearly to be 
 traced to different habits of mind engendered by 
 different modes of education — meaning by the word 
 education whatever discipline or nurture tends to 
 form the ideas which constitute the mind of a man 
 out of the capacity to receive ideas which the Maker 
 has bestowed on the organization of a child. And 
 where all these petty commonwealths take a cha- 
 racter in common as Greeks, it is only where they 
 are united by such principles of culture as they all 
 agree in adopting — especially those that belong to 
 religious worship and belief — for there is nothing 
 wliich so amalgamates political societies as sympathy 
 in religious opinions. Assuming these propositions 
 to be true, it follows that, though no education can 
 render individuals alike, yet a family likeness, as it 
 were, is given to communities by the nature of their 
 culture ; and the idiosvncrasv of a nation is formed 
 by the ideas which the beings who compose it have 
 most in common. But the ideas w^hich the members 
 of a community have most in common are, obviously, 
 the ideas derived from their political and social insti- 
 tutions. Hence it is a merit in Helvetius that, more 
 distinctly than any modern pohtical reasoner before 
 
 VOL. II. X
 
 302 f;()NVEHSATI<.)NS Wl'l'II AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 Iiiiii, lio defines the virtue of an iiulividual "to be the 
 habit of directing liis actions to tlie ]nihlic p;ood;" 
 *' the love of" viitne," lie says, "is but the desire of 
 the jL!;cner!d li;i|))>iness ; virtuous actions are those 
 whieli contribute to iliat lia]ij)iness." And u])on this 
 definition he Imilds liis argument for those forms of 
 government in wliicli tlie largest number of men 
 may be raised to the highest moral standard, 
 
 A. I think his idea of a perfect state is that in 
 which the self-interest of each man is made to ad- 
 vance the interest of all men — do you believe in 
 the possibility of establishing so uniform a general 
 motive-power for the desires and actions of indivi- 
 dual ambition ? 
 
 L. Not to the extent to which llelvetius pushes 
 his enthusiasm for his system ; but there can be no 
 doubt that the desires and aims of individuals are 
 materially influenced by the opinion of the society in 
 which they live. And in proportion as that society 
 honours or neglects a virtue, that virtue will be cul- 
 tivated as a thing in fashion, or passed by as a thing 
 out of date. Thus, in tlie early youth of a warlike 
 people, the com})etition is for renown in valour; in 
 the maturity or decline of a commercial state the 
 competition will be for wealth, or the reputation ac- 
 corded to those directions of intellect by which wealth 
 may be obtained. Now, in each state the individual 
 self-interest follows the pul)lic opinion as to the in- 
 terest of the community. The young warlike state 
 thinks its chief interest as a body politic is in the 
 enforcement of valour — the mature commercial state 
 thinks its chief interest is in the accumulation of 
 weallh. Hence, it is clear that the ambition of 
 individuals is, for their own interest, insensibly led 
 towards the advancement of that to which the 
 community for the time being accords honour and 
 esteem for the sake of its own interest. Helvetius 
 argued that, in proportion as a whole community can 
 be l)rought to place its chief interest in the highest
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 303 
 
 standard of public virtue, individuals who would 
 otherwise be vicious, would be involuntarily led to- 
 wards the virtue they behold in such esteem. For 
 among the motive-powers of self-interest, none is so 
 strong' as the love of approbation. Thus, the society 
 by which Helvetius himself w^as surrounded — the 
 society of Parisian Saloons towards the close of the 
 last century — placed its chief interest in the culture 
 of the frivolous or sensual pleasures of life — it ac- 
 corded its approbation to the successful gallant — and 
 thus, men who would otherwise have been virtuous, 
 were led by the excitement of example into competi- 
 tion for the honours bestowed on vice — and grave 
 philosophers travestied themselves into gay deceivers. 
 Seeing then plainly before his eyes the operation of 
 social example on the corruption of individuals, it is 
 no wonder that a man of morals so pure as those 
 universally allowed to Helvetius, should have sought 
 to construct a social system which might be as potent 
 in redeeming the bad, as that in which he moved was 
 potent in vitiating the good. Enough of Helvetius ; 
 from whom I passed into the region of more abstract 
 metaphysics. But I soon grew chilled and dissatisfied 
 with the materialists. Helvetius had charmed my 
 fancy and sharpened my intellect— but he only dis- 
 quieted my soul. I was no better satisfied with Locke 
 and Condillac, and I need not therefore say how little 
 I could be contented with Hume, who pushes their 
 argument to that extreme from which start the re- 
 actionary schools of the Scottish Reid and the German 
 Kant. But Reid is rather an acute critic than a pro* 
 found metaphysician, and the very depth of Kant only 
 leaves us lost amidst the deeper abysses into which 
 Truth recedes in proportion as we dive to her home. 
 As a traveller left alone in the desert by his human 
 guides turns for guidance to the stars, so, abandoned 
 by the interpreters of Nature, I turned to Nature 
 herself in her plainest and most visible signs. Reason- 
 ing on tilings hidden, by analogv drawn from t]n'n,2:8 
 
 X 2
 
 304 CONVERSATIONS WITH AX AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 outward, I rebuilt my crumbliug faitli. Happy he 
 whose doubts resolve themselves, as mine did, into 
 that devout, confiding, immaterial liope, which pro- 
 mises in another life the key to all enigmas in this. 
 
 COX VERS AT lOX THE SIXTH. 
 
 Progress from Morals to History — A state of Doubt most favourable 
 to the study of the Past — Philosophical Historians dangerous — 
 Hume and Gibbon — The advantages of Tacitus and Polybins in 
 actual experience — History the Accuser of Mankind — The Greeks — 
 Patriotism and Philanthropy — The Errors of Old — The Divine Hope 
 of the Future. 
 
 " Slowly and reluctantly," continued L (resum- 
 ing the next day tlie thread of his intellectual 
 history), " did I turn from the consideration of mo- 
 tives to that of actions — from florals to History. 
 Yolney has said, in his lectures, that the proper 
 state of mind for the examination of history is that 
 in which we ' hold the judgment in suspense.' This 
 truth is evident; yet they who allow the doctrine 
 when couched in the above phrase, might demur if 
 the phrase were a little altered, and, instead of a 
 suspension of judgment, we spoke of a state of doubt. 
 It is true ! in this state — a state of investigating 
 doubt — history should be studied. In doubt, all the 
 faculties of the mind are aroused — we sift, we weigh, 
 we examine — every page is a trial to the energies 
 of the understanding. But confidence is sleepy and 
 inert. If we make up our minds beforehand to be- 
 lieve all we are about to read, the lecture glides down 
 the memory without awakening one thought by the 
 way. We may be stored with dates and legends; 
 we may be able to conclude our periods by a fable 
 about Rome ; but we do not feel that we have 
 reasoned as well as read. Our minds may be fuller, 
 but our intellects are not sharper than they were
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 305 
 
 before : we have studied, but not investigated : — to 
 what use investigation to those who are already per- 
 suaded ? There is the same difference in the advan- 
 tage of history to him who weighs, because he mis- 
 trusts, and to him who discriminates nothing, because 
 he beHeves all, as there is between the value of a 
 commonplace-book and a philosophical treatise. 
 The first may be more full of facts than the last, but 
 the last is facts turned to use. It is this state of 
 rational doubt which a metaphysical course of study 
 naturally induces. It is, therefore, after the investiga- 
 tion of Morals, that we should turn to History. Nor 
 is this all the advantage which we derive from the 
 previous study of morals. History would be, indeed, 
 an old almanack to him who knows neither what is 
 right nor what is wrong ; where governments have 
 been wise, where erroneous. History, regarded in 
 the light of political utility, is, to quote Yolney again, 
 "a vast collection of moral and social experiments, 
 which mankind make involuntarily and very expen- 
 sively on themselves." But we must know the prin- 
 ciples of the science before we can apply the experi- 
 ments. 
 
 A. And yet, while the real uses of history are 
 philosophical, a mere narrator of facts is often a 
 safer guide than a philosophical historian. 
 
 L. Because it is better to think for ourselves than 
 to suffer others to think for us. A philosopher has 
 a system ; he views things according to his theory ; 
 he is unavoidably partial ; and, like Lucian's painter, 
 he paints his one-eyed princes in profile. 
 
 A. I suppose it is for that reason that the philoso- 
 phical historians are more to be admired than trusted. 
 Hume is not to be relied upon for the conscientious 
 painstaking that aims at the accuracy of facts — 
 Gibbon, on the contrary, is always painstaking, and 
 therefore seldom inaccurate as to facts. Yet in the 
 way the facts are generalized, and in the deductions 
 drawn from them, Gibbon may mislead as much as
 
 30G CONVEHSATIONS WTlll AN AMIUTIOI'S STUDENT. 
 
 Hume — tliat is, Avlieiiever Gibbon w:nits to make tlie 
 facts of liistorv illustrate the views of (Jibboii. 
 
 /y. It may perba])s l»e said of liotli tliose great 
 wrilers, that tlifv liad verv little sym])athv with the 
 multitude; and lhou,ii,'h they write the History of 
 Nations, it seems as if we were reading the history of 
 the few, without any clear concejition of tlie state and 
 condition <•!" tlie many, Tliey both regard the ])ast 
 ages through which they traverse, as accomplished 
 and learned scholars, who had never ])articipated very 
 actively in the affairs of the world, and whose interest 
 is with the agencies that represent the brain and 
 intellect of an e])och, not Avith those that rej)resent 
 the warm-blooded })opular heart of it. Thns, neither 
 Hume nor Gibbon can ever miderstand the religious 
 impidse, which, when it moves the heart of a people, 
 is so nmch mightier in its efi'ect than any philosophic 
 dogma in the brain of a sage. With these historians 
 the religious impulse is either a superstition or a 
 fanaticism. Hume cannot overcome his hate of a 
 Puritan, nor Gibbon his contempt for a Christian. 
 And I repeat my belief that tlie reason for this want 
 of lacility to transport themselves to the past times 
 which they descrilie, with a sufficient comprehension 
 of the real character of those times so far as the 
 history of such times wns carried on by the peo})k', is 
 that they had never lived familiarly with the peo]»le 
 f>f their own time. Aiid this makes the difierence 
 between the philosophical historians of the modern 
 world, and those of the ancient world. 
 
 A. Such as ]?c>lybi"us and Tacitus. 
 
 L. Exactly. Both Tacitus aiid Polybius had not 
 only lived in a more turbulent age than our philo- 
 sophical historians, but they had a moi-e intense 
 sympathy with the passion and movement of their 
 age : their scholastic and sombre wisdom was the 
 fruit of an actual and terrible experience. Gibbon 
 bf»wsts of the benefit he derived to his History from 
 liiM militarv studies in the militia ; it was from
 
 CONVERSATIONS AVITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 307 
 
 no such holiday service that Polybius learned his 
 method of describing wars. As the Megalopolitan 
 passed through his stormy and bold career ; as he 
 took rough lessons from the camp, and imbued him- 
 self with the cold sagacity which the diplomatic 
 intrigues he shared both required and taught, he 
 was slowly acquiring that mass of observation, that 
 impartial judgment of characters and facts, wdiich 
 distinguish the fragments of his great history, and 
 elevate, what in other hands would have been but a 
 collection of military bulletins, into so inestimable 
 a manual for the statesman and the civilian. And 
 when we glance over the life of the more brilliant 
 because more imaginative Roman, we see no less 
 visibly how much the wisdom of the closet was won 
 by the stern nature of those fields of action in wliich 
 was cast the life of a Republican who had witnessed 
 the reign of a Domitian. When we grow charmed 
 to his page by the gloomy intenseness of his colour- 
 ings — when crime after crime, in all the living 
 blackness of those fearful days, arises before us — 
 when in his grasping aphorisms the fierce secrets 
 of Tyranny lie bared before us — when in every sen- 
 tence we shudder at a record— in every character 
 we mark a portent, yet a mirror, of the times, we 
 feel at once how necessary to that force and fidelity 
 must have been the severity and darkness of his 
 experience. Through action, toil, public danger, and 
 public honours, he sought his road to philosophy, 
 a road beset with rapine and slaughter ; every slave 
 that fell stamped on his heart a warning, every 
 horror he experienced animated and armed his 
 genius. Saturated with the spirit of his age, his 
 page has made that age incarnate to posterity — 
 actual, vivified, consummate, and entire. Time has 
 not resolved it into the dust of the charnel. The 
 Magician has preserved the race in their size and 
 posture; — motionless, breathless,— in all else, lifelike. 
 But, turning from these criticisms on historians
 
 308 CONVEHSATIONS WITH AN AMHITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 tu the effect wliicli History produces, 1 cannot but 
 think tliat its /general effect tends to liardeu tlie heart 
 against mankind. Its experience, so long, so con- 
 sistent, so unvarying, seems a silent and irresistible 
 accuser of the human species. Men have taken the 
 greatest care to preserve their most unanswerable 
 vilifier. All forms of government, however hostile 
 to each other, seem alike in one effect — the general 
 baseness of the governed. What differs the boasted 
 Greece from the contemned Persia ? — the former j)ro- 
 duces some hundred names which the latter cannot 
 equal. True ! But what are a few atoms culled 
 from the sea-sands ? — what the renown of a hundred 
 great men to the happiness of the millions? Are 
 not the Greek writers, the Greek sages, more than 
 all others, full of contempt for tlie masses around 
 them ? — the fraud, the ingratitude, the violence, the 
 meanness, the misery of their fellow-beings — do not 
 these make the favourite subject of ancient satire 
 and ancient declamation ? And even among their 
 great men, how few on whose merits History can at 
 once decide ! — how few unsullied, even by the con- 
 demnation of their own time ! Plutarch says that 
 the good citizens of Athens were the best men the 
 world ever produced ; but that her bad citizens were 
 unparalleled for their atrocities, their impiety, their 
 perfidy. 
 
 A. And even the best were but citizens of the 
 state — not citizens of the world. Philanthropy is the 
 only consistent species of public virtue. A mere 
 patriot may be honest in one thing, yet a knave in 
 all else. 
 
 L. It is only by Philanthropy, a word I would 
 avoid, because it has been so hackneyed and so abused 
 — but by what other word can I express Man's sym- 
 pathy for mankind in the abstract — on every soil, 
 and in every condition ? — it is only by philanthropy 
 that we can expand the narrowness of patriotism ; 
 only by acknowledging the brotherhood which the
 
 CONVEESATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 309 
 
 word implies, that we can reconcile that antagonism 
 between class and class, nation and nation, Ly which 
 the history of the past teaches us to despair of any 
 material amendment in the destinies of the future. 
 For why study the mysteries of Legislation and Go- 
 vernment, why ransack the past, and extend our fore- 
 sight to distant ages, if our skill can only improve, 
 as hitherto it has only improved, the condition of 
 oligarchies — if it can only give the purple and the 
 palace to the few — if it must leave in every state the 
 degraded many to toil, to sweat, to consume the day 
 in a harsh and sterile conflict with circumstance for 
 a bare subsistence ; their faculties dormant ; their 
 energies stifled in the cradle ; strangers to all that 
 ennobles, refines, exalts, — if, at every eifort to rise, 
 they are encountered by a law, and if with them 
 every enterprise darkens into a crime — if, when we 
 cast our eyes along the vast plains of life, we see 
 but one universal arena of labour, bounded on all 
 sides by the gibbet, the hulks, the prison ; all igno- 
 rance, prejudice, bloodshed, sin ; — if this state is to 
 endure for ever on earth, why struggle for a freedom 
 which the few only can enjoy — for an enlighten- 
 ment which can but call forth a few luminous sjDarks 
 from an atmosphere of gloom — for a political pros- 
 perity which props a throne, and gives steeds to a 
 triumphal car, and animates the winged words of 
 eloquence, or the lofty speculations of science — and 
 yet makes no calculable deduction from the sum of 
 human miseries ? Alas ! if this be the eternal doom 
 of mortality, let us close our books, let us shut the 
 avenues to our minds and hearts, let us despise 
 benevolence as a vanity, and speculation as a dream. 
 Let us play the Teian with life, think only of the 
 rose and vine ; and since our most earnest endea- 
 vours can efiect so little to others, let us not extend 
 our hopes and our enjoyments beyond the small and 
 safe circle of Self! No : man must either believe in 
 the perfectibility of his species, or virtue and the
 
 .'UU CUNVKRSATIUNS WITH AN AMBl'JIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 love of others are but tlie boyish day-dreams of an 
 ainiiablc entliiisiasiu. 
 
 ^1. A belief in the perfec'til)ility of our species, 
 that is, of the power conceded to niaidcind in general 
 to advance ])i-(>;:;ressively, not to perfection ior each 
 individual but, nioi'e and more towards it in the con- 
 dition of states and populations, is a creed so popuhir 
 that all candidates for power may subscribe to it on 
 the hustings. But do you think any Englishman of 
 good sense, whatever his political ]^arty — from the 
 extremest Tory to the extreraest lladical — accepts 
 that doctrine in his own secret heart ? 
 
 L. I cannot answer that question — I can only 
 speak for myself: until I believed in that doctrine 
 I saw nothing- in which the bulk of mankind had any 
 lively interest, whether in the examples which his- 
 tory adduces from the past, or in the speculations by 
 which political philosophy would disturb the present 
 for the i-ake of ameliorating the future. I must own 
 that, until it broke upon me, I saw nothing in learn- 
 ing l>ut despondency and gloom. As clouds across 
 the Heaven, darkening the light, and fading one 
 after the other into air, seemed the fleeting shadows 
 which Philosophy had called forth between the earth 
 and sun. If, day after day, in my solitary re- 
 treat, I pondered over the old aspirations of sages, 
 with the various jargon by which, in the pursuit of 
 truth, they have disguised error, I felt that it was 
 not to teach myself to be wise, but to learn to de- 
 spair of wisdom. Couple the records of Philosophy 
 with those of History ; couple the fallacies of the 
 wise w^itli the sorrows and the sulferings of the 
 multitude, and how dark and mournful is our know- 
 ledge of the past, and therefore our prospects of 
 the future! And how selfish does this sentiment 
 render our ambition for the present ! Plow vain 
 seem the mighty struggle and small fruit of those 
 around us ! Look at the agitation and ferment which 
 stir the world while we speak : on what pretence can
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 311 
 
 tliey who Lelieve tliat tlie Past is the mirror of the 
 Future, lash themselves into interest for any cause or 
 principle, save that immediately profitable to self? 
 To them, if deeply and honestly accpiainted with 
 history and the progress of knowledge — to them 
 how vain must seem the struggles and aspirations 
 of the crowd ! Why do the people imagine a vain 
 thing? Why the hope and the strife of the rest- 
 less Graul ; or the slow murmur that foretells irrup- 
 tion through the bright lands of Italy ? Why agi- 
 tate ourselves for a name — an ideal good? These 
 orations, and parchments, and meetings, and threats, 
 and prayers — this clamour for " reform," — how 
 miserable a delusion must they seem to him who 
 believes that the mass of men must for ever be " the 
 hewers of wood and drawers of water ! " To them 
 no change raises the level of existence ; famine still 
 urges on to labour — want still forbids knowledge. 
 What matters whether this law be passed, or that 
 fleet be launched, or that palace built — their condition 
 is the same ; the happiest concurrence of accident and 
 wisdom brings them but a greater certainty of labour. 
 A free state does not redeem them from toil, nor a pru- 
 dent despotism increase it. So long as the sun rises 
 and sets, so long must their bread be won with tra- 
 vail, and their life ' be rounded,' with the temptation 
 to crime. It seems, therefore, to me impossible for a 
 wise and well-learned man to feel sincerely, and with- 
 out self-interest, for the public good, unless he believe 
 that laws and increased knowledge will at length, 
 however gradually, devise some method of raising- 
 the great multitude to a nearer equality of comfort 
 and intelligence with the few ; that human nature is. 
 capable of a degree of amelioration which it seems 
 never hitherto to have reached ; and that the amelio- 
 ration will be felt from the surface to the depth of 
 the great social waters, over Avhich the spirit shall 
 move. The Republics of old never effected this- 
 object. To expect it, society must be altered as well
 
 312 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 as legislation. Tt is for tins reason that I feel glad 
 witli an in<2;enious ;nid admirable writer,* that even 
 theory is at work : I am glad tliat iiirniirv wanders, 
 even to fallacies and eliinueras. Out of that in(|iiiry 
 good may yet come ; and some future Bacon overturn 
 the axioms of an old school, ])()lluted, not redeemed, 
 by every new disciple. To the man who finds it 
 possible to entertain this hope, how different an 
 aspect the world wears ! Casting his glance for- 
 ward, how wondrous a light rests upon the future ! 
 the farther he extends his vision, the brighter the 
 light. Animated by a hope more snbHme than 
 wishes bounded to earth ever before inspired, he feels 
 armed with the courage to oppose surrounding preju- 
 dice, and the warfare of hostile customs. No secta- 
 rian advantage, no petty benefit is before him ; he 
 sees but the Regeneration of Mankind. It is with 
 this object that he links his ambition, that he unites 
 his efforts and his name ! From the disease, and the 
 famine, and the toil around, his spirit bursts into 
 prophecy, and dwells among future ages ; even if in 
 error, he luxuriates through life in the largest bene- 
 volence, and dies — if a visionary — the visionary of 
 the grandest dream ! 
 
 CONVERSATION THE SEVENTH. 
 
 Description of an English landscape — The animal enjoyment of life — 
 Solitary persons the least repining — Cowley on the Town and Country 
 
 — L 's mental progress from History to Works of Imagination — 
 
 He is inspired to emulation, nut by the Fame of Genius, but by the 
 Luxury of Composition — Genius is peculiarly susceptible of enjoy- 
 ment — It even enjoys Sadness — L- — -'s studios interrupted. 
 
 It is a singularly pretty spot in which L resides. 
 
 Perhaps some of the most picturesque scenery in 
 
 * The Author of ' Essays on the Publication of Oi>inion,' &c.
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 313 
 
 England is in the neighbourhood of London ; and as 
 I rode the other day, in the later April, along the 
 quiet lane which branches from the main road to 
 
 L 's house, Spring never seemed to me to smile 
 
 upon a lovelier prospect. The year had broken into 
 its youth as with a sudden and hilarious bound. A 
 little while before, I had passed along the same road 
 — all was sullen and wintry — the March wind had 
 swept along dry hedges and leafless trees — the only 
 birds I had encountered were two melancholy spar- 
 rows in the middle of the road — too dejected even to 
 chirp ; but now a glory had passed over the earth — 
 the trees were clad in that delicate and lively ver- 
 dure which we cannot look upon without feeling a 
 certain freshness creep over the heart. Here and 
 there thick blossoms burst in clusters from the fra- 
 grant hedge, and, as a schoolboy prankt out in the 
 finery of his grandsire, the whitethorn seemed to 
 mock at the past winter by assuming its garb. 
 Above, about, around — all was in motion, in pro- 
 gress, in joy — the birds, which have often seemed to 
 me like the messengers from earth to heaven — 
 charged with the homage and gratitude of Nature, 
 and gifted with the most eloquent of created voices 
 to fulfil the mission ; — the birds were upon every 
 spray, their music in every breath of air. Just 
 where the hedge opened to the left, I saw the 
 monarch of English rivers glide on his serene and 
 silver course ; and in the valley on the other side of 
 his waters, village, spiie, cottage, hall, and villa, looked 
 out among the luxuriant blossoms, and the vivid green 
 by which they were encircled. It was a thoroughly 
 English scene. For I have always thought that the 
 peculiar characteristic of English scenery is a certain 
 air of content. There is a happier smile on the face 
 of an English landscape than I have ever beheld, 
 even in the landscapes of the South : a happier 
 though a less voluptuous smile — as if Nature were 
 more at home.
 
 314 CONVKIJSATIOXS Willi AX AMIUTFOUS STUDKXT. 
 
 Present! V I came to tlio turn of the lune wliicli 
 
 led at once t<> Jj \s liouse ; in a lew minutes I was 
 
 at tl»e o-ate. Witliin, tlie grounds, tliougli not ex- 
 tensive, liave tlie appfarance of beinp^ so — tlie trees 
 are of o;reat size, and tlie turf is l)n)ken into many a. 
 dell and hollow, wliich g-ives the hxwii a wild and a 
 ])ark-like aj)pearance. The house is quaint and old- 
 fashioned ill its architecture; it seems to have been 
 begun at the latter period of the reign of James 
 the First, and to have undergone sundry altera- 
 tions, the latest of wliich might have occurred at 
 the time of Anne. The old brown bricks are three 
 ])arts covered with jessamine and ivy, and the room 
 
 in which L generally passes his day looks out 
 
 upon a grove of chesnut-trees, amidst which, at 
 every opening, are little clusters and parterres of 
 flowers. And in this spot, half wood, half garden, 
 I found my friend, seduced from his books by the 
 warmth and beauty of the day, seated on a rustic 
 beiicli, and surrounded by the numerous dogs that, 
 of all species and all sizes, he maintains in general 
 idleness and favour. 
 
 "I love," said L , speaking of tliese retainers, 
 
 " like old Montaigne, to have animal life around me. 
 The mere consciousness and sensation of existence 
 are so much stronger in brutes than in ourselves, 
 their joy in the common air and sun is so vivid and 
 buoyant, that I, who think we should sympathise 
 with all things, if we would but condescend to 
 rem.ark all things, feel a contagious exhilaration of 
 spirits in their susceptibility to pleasurable emotions. 
 And how happy the sentiment of life is! — how 
 glorious a calm we inhale in the warm sun ! — - 
 — how rapturous a gladness in the fresh winds ! — 
 how profound a meditation and delight in tlie still- 
 ness of tlie ' starry time ' ! — how sufficient alone to 
 make us happy is external nature, were it not for 
 those artificial cares whicli we create for ourselves! 
 Man would be happy but that he is forbidden to be
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 315 
 
 SO by men. The most solitary persons have always 
 been the least repining. 
 
 A. But then their complacency arises from the 
 stagnation of the intellect — it is indifference, not 
 happiness. 
 
 L. Pardon me, I cannot think so. How many 
 have found solitude not only, as Cicero calls it, the 
 pabulum of the mind, but the nurse of genius ! How 
 many of the world's most sacred oracles have been 
 uttered, like those of Dodona, from the silence of 
 deep woods ! Look over the lives of men of genius, 
 — how far the larger proportion of them have been 
 passed in loneliness ! Now, for my part, I think 
 solitude has its reward both for tlie dull and the 
 wise ; — the former are therein more sensible to the 
 mere animal enjoyment which is their only source of 
 happiness : the latter are not distracted from that 
 contemplation, and those pursuits, which constitute 
 the chief luxury of their life, by the irritation, the 
 jealousy, the weariness, the round of small cai-es, 
 which make up the existence of the crowd. There is 
 a feeling of escape, when a man who has cultivated 
 his faculties rather in thought than action, finds him- 
 self, after a long absence in cities, returned to the 
 spissa nemora domusque Nympharum, which none but 
 himself can comprehend. With what a deep and ear- 
 nest enthusiasm Cowley luxuriates in that essay of 
 his, perhaps the most eloquent in the language, — 
 although, as a poet, the author of the 'Davideis' was 
 idolised far beyond his merits by a courtly audience, 
 and tlierefore was not susceptible, like most of his 
 brethren, of that neglect by the crowd which disgusts 
 our heart by mortifying our vanity. How calm, how 
 august, and yet how profoundly joyful, is the vein 
 with which he dwells on the contrast of the Town 
 and the Country ! " We are here among the vast 
 and noble scenes of Nature ; we are there among 
 the pitiful shifts of policy. We walk here in the
 
 310 ("oXVKRSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 li<j^lit aiiil open ways of Divine bounty; we grope 
 
 there in the (hirk and contused labyrintlis of liuman 
 
 1 • I " 
 ma hoe . 
 
 A. Tlie passap^e yon quote is a beautiful illustra- 
 tion of that g-entle variety in literature which may 
 be classified as the poetry of sentiment. There are 
 critics who affect to despise it ; yet even a reasoner 
 witliout sentiment lacks the gift of persuasion. 
 
 L. I did not myself appreciate the worth of that 
 quality in genius to which you give the name of 
 sentiment, and which is as much opposed to senti- 
 mentality as tlie use of a thing is opposed to its 
 abuse, until — saddened by the contem[)lation of men in 
 their gloomiest and most repulsive aspect — that is, as 
 they appear in History — I turned to behold them in 
 their brightest and most attractive aspect — that is, as 
 they appear in Fiction. Then it seemed to me that 
 I best understood the character of a Time or a People 
 by examining the lighter literature which had been 
 engendered by the Time, and been familiarized to the 
 People. I make this distinction between the Time 
 and the People — for the Time has a short life and 
 the People a long one. It rarely happens that the 
 most popular writer for the time is the wiiter most 
 preserved by the people. Cowley, for the time, was 
 more popular than Milton ; Lilye, for the time, more 
 popular than Shakspeare. It is only in very rare 
 instances, such as Petrarch and Dante, that the taste 
 of the time unites w4tli the judgment of the genera- 
 tions that form a people as to the rank which a 
 nation accords to its poet — by poet, I mean a writer 
 who ex})resses truth through fiction, by the creation 
 of images which never existed, or the narrative of 
 events wdiich never happened — and in this essential 
 requisite of poetry in its highest form it has some- 
 times, though not often, happened that a poet dis- 
 pensed with the mechanism of verse. Is not Cer- 
 vantes a greater poet than Lope de Yega ? Is not
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 317 
 
 Rousseau a greater poet than De Lille ? Are not 
 Boccaccio, and Richardson, and Sterne, to be judged 
 as poets ? Is it not a doubt whether Scott be not a 
 greater poet in ' The Bride of Lammermoor ' than in 
 ' The Lady of the Lake ' ? But in the course of this 
 change of study my mind changed its objects of desire. 
 For the first time I conceived the ambition which ani- 
 mates an author. There is a northern legend of a man 
 who had resisted all the temptations the earth could 
 offer. The demon opened to his gaze the illusive 
 marvels of Elfland, in which mosses and leaves took 
 the semblance of gems and gold. The tempter suc- 
 ceeded, and the man who had not cared for the sub- 
 stantial treasures coveted the phantasmal. It was 
 thus I gazed on that world of Fiction, in which the 
 simplest things in Nature are transformed into such 
 riches in Art. How I envied even less the power of 
 Enchanters who could so transform, than the delight 
 which I conceived them to have felt in the exercise 
 of the power ! " Must not," I exclaimed, " must not 
 the rapture we ascribe to some happy soul, just set 
 free from the body, have been felt by him who 
 created the Ariel, employed or dismissed at his will ? 
 How light must have been his heart and how playful 
 his spirit on that midsummer night when he trans- 
 ported the Fairies into Greece, and Pallas was ban- 
 ished from her own violet-crowned city to make way 
 for Pease-blossom and Puck ! " Surely the essence 
 of Genius is in its exquisite sense of enjoyment. 
 Nay, even where its creations are sombre and mourn- 
 ful, does not the artist inwardly exult in his power to 
 bewitch into charm the very aspect of grief? 
 
 You see then that I was impressed, erroneously 
 or truly, with the belief, that in cultivating the ima- 
 gination I should cultivate my happiness. Yes, I 
 repeat I was envious, not so much of the fame of 
 the writers who have adorned the world with the 
 images they created, as of the enjoyment they must 
 have experienced in creating. I had hitherto been 
 
 VOL. IT. Y
 
 318 CONVEnSATIOXS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDFA'T. 
 
 covetous of leariiinc;. 1 now said, " Let me go forth 
 from tlie schools, and see if, from tlie outward nature 
 common to all, and the inward nature jieculiar to 
 myself, I cannot originate some new Ibi'm of art." 
 
 A. And did you find that luxury in imaginative 
 creation which you expected? 
 
 L. 1 might have done so, hut I stopjoed short in 
 ray apprenticeship. 
 
 A, And the cause? 
 
 L. One hright day in June, as I was sitting 
 alone in my room, I was suddenly aroused from my 
 reverie by a sharp and sudden pain that shot through 
 my breast, and when it left me I fainted away. 
 I was a little alarmed by this circumstance, but 
 thought the air might relieve me. I walked out, and 
 ascended a hill at the back of the house. My attention 
 being now aroused and directed towards myself, I 
 was startled to find my breath so short that I was 
 forced several times to stop in the ascent. A low, 
 short cough, which I had not heeded before, now 
 struck me as a warning, which I ought to prepare 
 myself to obey. That evening, as I looked in the 
 glass, for the first time for several weeks with any 
 care in the survey, I perceived that my apprehen- 
 sions were corroborated by the change in my appear- 
 ance. My cheeks were fallen, and I detected, in the 
 midst of their natural paleness, that hectic which 
 never betrays its augury. I saw that my days were 
 numbered, and I lay down on my pillow that night 
 with the resolve to prepare for death. The next day, 
 when I looked over my scattered papers ; when I 
 saw the mighty schemes I had commenced, and re- 
 called the long and earnest absorj)tion of all my 
 faculties which even that commencement had required, 
 I was seized with a sort of despair. It was evident 
 that I could now perform nothing great, and as for 
 trifles, ought they to occupy the mind of one whose 
 eye was on the grave ? There was but one answer 
 to this question. I committed my fragments to the
 
 CONVEESATIONS WITH AN A:\IBITI0US STUDENT. 319 
 
 flames ; and now, indeed, there came iij^on me a de- 
 spondency which I had not felt before. I saw niyself 
 in the condition of one who, after much travail in 
 the world, has found a retreat, and built a home, and 
 who, in the moment he says to his heart, " Now thou 
 shalt have rest ! " beholds himself summoned away. 
 I had obtained an object — it was torn from me — my 
 staff was broken, and it was only left to me to creep 
 to the tomb, without easing by any support the labour 
 of the way. I had coveted no petty aim — I had not 
 bowed my desires to the dust and mire of men's com- 
 mon wishes — I had bid my ambition single out a lofty 
 end and pursue it by generous means. , In the dreams 
 of my spirit, I had bound the joys of my existence to 
 this one aspiring hope, nor had I built that hope on the 
 slender foundations of a crude inexperience — I had 
 studied, I had thought, I had toiled, before I ventured 
 in my turn to produce. And now, between myself 
 and the fulfilment of schemes which I had formed 
 with no trivial care, and to which I looked for no 
 undue reward — there yawned the Eternal Grulf. It 
 seemed to me as if I were condemned to leave life, 
 at the moment I had given to life a worthy object. 
 These thoughts at first were very bitter. In vain 
 I said to my soul, " Why grieve ? — Death itself does 
 not appal thee. And, after all, what can life's 
 proudest objects bring thee better than rest ? " — But 
 we learn at last to conquer our destiny by surveying- 
 it firmly ; there is no regret which is not to be van- 
 quished by resolve. And now, when I saw myself 
 declining day by day, I turned to those more ele- 
 vating and less earthly meditations, which supply 
 us, as it were, with wings, when the feet fail. They 
 have become to me dearer than the dreams which 
 they succeeded, and they whisper to me of a brighter 
 immortalitv than that of Fame. 
 
 Y 2
 
 .120 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN A1\IRITI0US STUDENT, 
 
 CONVf:HSATION THE EIGHTH. 
 
 I, 's raiiiil decliiR' — Tlu' mc-mory Ix-coinfs more acute as \vc ai)i)roach 
 
 (Icaih — L 's olisirviitions on tlio sayiiij:; that " Life is a Ji-st" — 
 
 The vanity of Anil)ition — Our errors arise from our desire to 1x3 
 greater tlian we are — ThoUL'lKs on Superstition — Tiie early Astnv 
 lo-^crs — I'hilauthro])y — The fear of assislinj,' in Clian^'es of wliicii 
 the <,'Ood to a future generation may not comjiensiitc the evil to the 
 present — Contrast between the tranquil lives of men of genius and 
 the revolutions which their wf)rl<s eflect — The hope of intercourse with 
 great minds in a Future State — The sanctity of the Grave — The 
 • Pha-do' of Plato — The picture of the last moments of S(x;ratcs — 
 The unsatisfactory arfj;umcnts of the Heathen for the Immortality of 
 the Soul — l{e\t'aled Peligion has led men into more logical examina- 
 tion of the arguments suggested by Natural Theology — Dislx>lief 
 involves us in greater difficulties than Faith — Our doubts do not 
 
 dishearten us if we once believe in God — L 's last hours — 
 
 His farewell to Nature — His death. 
 
 It is with a melanclioly pleasure that I liave been 
 made sensible of the interest that these conversations 
 have excited in the gentler and more thoughtful of 
 the tribe of readers.* I have received more ano- 
 nymous letters than I care to name, complaining of 
 the long silence I have preserved, and urging me to 
 renew Dialogues, already so often repeated, that I 
 might well imagine (knowing how impatient the 
 readers of a periodical generally are of subjects conti- 
 nued in a series) that they had sufficiently exhausted 
 the indulgence of the public. To me individually 
 little or no credit is due for any interest which these 
 papers may have created. I am but the echo of 
 another man's voice ; or, to use an old and graceful 
 metaphor, I do l)ut furnish the string wliich keeps 
 the flowers together. Alas! the garland is now 
 complete, and I have only to place it on a tomb. 
 
 And now I saw L daily, for his disease in- 
 creased rapidly upon him, and I would not willingly 
 
 * I should here observe that these dialogues first appeared in a 
 detached shape in the ' New Monthly Magazine.'
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 321 
 
 have lost any rays of that sun which was so soon to 
 set for ever. Nothing creates in us so many confused 
 and strange sentiments as a conversation on those 
 lofty topics of life or nature — rarely jDleasing, except 
 to Wisdom which contemplates, and Genius which 
 imagines; — a conversation on such topics with one 
 whose lips are ahout to be eternally closed in the 
 world we know. There is something of solemnity in 
 the last w^ords of any man, even on common topics : 
 how much more in the last words of thoughtful genius 
 upon matters consecrated to our gravest thoughts and 
 our divinest hopes ! 
 
 The day was calm and cloudless as, towards the 
 
 end of August, I rode leisurely to L 's solitary 
 
 house ; his strength had so materially declined during 
 the few days past, that I felt a gloomy presentiment 
 that 1 was about to see him for the last time. He 
 had always resolved, and I beheve this is not uncom- 
 mon with persons in his disease, not to take to his 
 bed until absolutely compelled. His habitual amuse- 
 ments, few and tranquil, were such as he could 
 happily continue to the last ; and his powers of con- 
 versation, naturally so rich and various, were not 
 diminished by the approach of death : perhaps they 
 were only rendered more impressive by the lowered 
 tones of the sw^eetest of human voices, or the occa- 
 sional cough that mingled his theories on this w^orld 
 with a warning of the next. I have observed that, 
 as in old people the memory usually becomes the 
 strongest of the faculties,* so it also does with those 
 whom mortal sickness, equally with age, detaches from 
 the lengthened prospects of the future. Forbidden 
 to seek objects from without, the mind turns within 
 for its occupation, and the thoughts, formerly impelled 
 towards hope, nourish themselves on retrospection. 
 
 * That is, pro]wrly speaking, the memory so far as it embraces early 
 acquisitions or transactions. It is a common observation, that old people 
 remember what happened fifty years ago, and forget what happened 
 yesterday. 'I'heir souls have gone back to Youth as the fitting port for the. 
 voyage to Immortality.
 
 M22 CONVERSATIONS Wnil AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 Once 1 hail nut Jioted in L the extraordinary 
 
 streng'tli ot" memory and the ready co))iou.sne8s of its 
 stores wliieli be now seemed to dis])lay. His ima- 
 gination liad been more perceptible than liis learning 
 — now, every snbject on which we conversed elicited 
 hoards of knowledge, always extensive and often 
 minute, of which perlia])s lie himself had been pre- 
 viously unconscious. It is a beautiful sight, even in 
 the midst of its melancholy, the gradual passing away 
 of one of the better order of souls — the passions lulled 
 as the mind awakens, and a thousand graces of for- 
 titude and gentleness called fortli by the infirmities 
 of the declining frame. 
 
 Full of these reflections I arrived at the house of 
 my dying friend. " My master, sir," said the old 
 servant, " has passed but a poor night ; he seems in 
 low spirits this morning, and I think he will be glad 
 to see you, for he has inquired repeatedly what 
 o'clock it was, as if time passed heavily with him." 
 The old man wiped his eyes as he spoke, and I fol- 
 lowed him into L s study. The countenance of 
 
 the sufferer was greatly changed even since I last saw 
 him. The eyes seemed more sunken, and the usual 
 flush of his coni[)laint had subsided into a deep but 
 transparent paleness. I took his hand, and he shook 
 his head gently as I did so. " The goal is nearly won ! " 
 said he faintly, but with a slight smile. I did not 
 answer, and he proceeded after a short pause^" It 
 has been said that ' life is a jest;' if so it is a very sorry 
 one, and, like bad jests in general, its dulness is the 
 greater as we near the close. At the end of a long- 
 illness it is only the dregs of a man's spirit that are left 
 to him. People talk of the moral pangs which attend 
 the death-bed of a sinner — as well might they talk 
 of the physical weakness of a dying wrestler. The 
 mental and the physical powers are too nearly allied 
 for us fairly to speculate on the fidelity of the one 
 when we can have no doubt as to the treason of the 
 other. Happy in my case that the endurance if not
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITU AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 323 
 
 the elasticity of my mind lingers with me to the last ! 
 This morning I was looking over some papers not 
 destroyed with the rest, and full of my early visions, 
 aspirations of fame, and longings after earthly immor- 
 tality. I am fortunate that time is not allowed me 
 to sacrifice happiness to these phantoms. A man's 
 heart must be very frivolous if the possession of fame 
 rewards the labour to attain it. And, after all, how 
 few writers have had any real enjoyment in the 
 reputation they acquired while in life ! No doubt 
 there are numbers who praise them behind their 
 backs, and thank them for priceless hours of in- 
 struction or delight ; yet scarcely a murmur of such 
 praise or such gratitude ever travels to their ears. 
 But wherever some other man envies or hates, ca- 
 lumniates or reviles them, his voice they are sure 
 to hear ! 
 
 A. Still, there is the reward of our own heart 
 which none can take away — our proud self-esteem, 
 and, if you will, our fond appeal to the justice of an 
 after-age. 
 
 X. But our self-esteem, or I'ather our self-acquittal, 
 may be equally, j)erhaps more securely, won in ob- 
 scurity than in fame ; and as to posterity, what philo- 
 sophical, what moderately wise man can seriously 
 find pleasure for the present in reflecting on the 
 praises he can never hear ? No, say what we will, 
 you may be sure that ambition is an error : — its wear 
 and tear of heart is never recompensed — it steals 
 away the freshness of life — it deadens its vivid and 
 social enjoyments — it shuts our soul to our own 
 3^outh — and we are old ere we find that we have 
 made a fever and a labour of our raciest years. 
 There is, and we cannot deny it, a certain weary, 
 stale, unprofitable flatness in all things appertain- 
 ing to life ; and what is worse, the more we en- 
 deavour to lift ourselves from the beaten level, the 
 keener is our disappointment. It is thus that true 
 philosophers have wisely told us to cultivate our
 
 324 t'uNVEKSATlU.NS Wl'lll AN A.MIUTIOl'S STUDENT. 
 
 reason ratlitT tlian mir feelings — iur reason reconciles 
 lis to the (lailv lliino-s of existence — our feelings 
 teacli us to yearn after the fai-, the diflicult, tlie 
 unseen, 
 
 " Clotliirig the palpable and the familiar- 
 AVitli golJun exhalations from tlic da^vn." 
 
 But "the golden exhalations" vanish as noon 
 advances ; — Fancy is the opium of our life, it bestows 
 the rapture and the vision — the languor and the 
 anguish. But what, when we come deeply to con- 
 sider of it — what a singular fatality is that which 
 makes it unwise to cultivate our divinest emotions ! 
 "We bear within us the seeds of greatness ; but suffer 
 them to spring up, and their growth overshadows 
 both our sense and our liappiness ! Note tlie errors 
 of mankind; how mysteriously have they arisen from 
 the desire to be higher than we are ! As the banyan- 
 tree soars aloft only to return to the mire, we would 
 climb to the heaven, and find ourselves once more in 
 the dust. Thus, looking up to the starred and solemn 
 heavens girt with the vast solitudes of unpeoi)led 
 Nature — Tiearkening to the ' live thunder,' or suffer- 
 ing the miglity winds to fill their hcar.ts with a thou- 
 sand mysterious voices — mankind in the early time 
 felt the inspiration of something above them : they 
 bowed to the dark afflatus; they nourished the un- 
 earthly dream ; and they produced — what ? — Super- 
 STiTiox! The darkest and foulest of moral Demons 
 sprang from the desire of men to shape forth a God, 
 and their successors made earth a Hell by their efforts 
 to preserve the mysteries and repeat the commands of 
 Heaven ! 
 
 How beautiful, how high were those desires in 
 man's heart which lifted it up to the old Chaldean 
 falsehoods of Astrology ! Who can read at this day 
 of those ancient seers, striving to w^in from the love- 
 liest and most glorious objects given to our survey, 
 the secrets of empires, the i»rodigies of time, the
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 325 
 
 destinies of the universe, — without a solemn and 
 kindhng awe, an admiration at the vast conception 
 even of so unwise a dream ? Who first thought of 
 conning the great page of Heaven ? — who first thought 
 that in those still, and cold, and melancholy orbs, our 
 chronicles were writ ? Whoever it was, his must 
 have been a daring and unearthly soul ; but the very 
 loftiness of its faculties produced ages of delusion, and 
 priestcraft, and error to the world. Leave for one 
 moment the chain of the petty known — give wings 
 to the Mind — let the as23iration loose — and what may 
 be the result? How rarely gain! — how rarely 
 aught but a splendid folly ! As the fireworks that 
 children send forth against a dark sky, our ambition 
 burns, and mounts, and illumes for one moment the 
 dim vault of the uncomprehended space, but falls to 
 the earth spoiled of its lustre — Ijrilliant, but useless — 
 ascending, but, exploring not — a toy to all, and a light 
 to none. 
 
 " There is one ambition," said I, " which you do 
 not mean thus to characterise — the ambition of philan- 
 throjDy — the desire more 
 
 ' to raise tlie wretched than to rise ;' 
 
 and you, who believe in human perfectibility, can ap- 
 preciate at its proper value that order of ambition," 
 
 " You kindly remind me," said L , " of one of 
 
 the greatest consolations with which a man, who has 
 any warmth or benevolence of heart, can depart this 
 world — the persuasion that he leaves his species 
 gradually advancing towards that completer virtue 
 and more catholic happiness which his noblest ambi- 
 tion would desire for them. Night, according to the 
 old Egyptian creed, is the dark Mother of all things ; 
 as ages leave her, they approach the light. That 
 which the superficial dread, is in reality the Yivifier 
 of the world — I mean the everlasting Spirit of Change. 
 And, figuring forth unconsciously to themselves this 
 truth, the Egyptians, we are told by Porphyry, repre-
 
 32G COXVEUSATIONS WITH AX AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 sented their (.lemons as floatiiifi; upon tlie waters — 'for 
 ever restless and evoking- the «2;reat series of Mut^i- 
 biHties.' Yet wlio liiilitly cares to take upon liiniself 
 the fearful responsibility of shaking the throned 
 opinions of his generation, knowing that centuries 
 may pass before the good that is worked shall com- 
 pensate for the evil done ? This fear, this timidity of 
 conscience it is, that makes us cowards to the Present, 
 and leaves the great souls that should lead on lieform 
 inert and sluggish, while the smaller spirits, the 
 journeymen of Time, just creep up inch by inch to the 
 exact height which Necessity demands, leaving the 
 world ages and ages behind that far goal which 
 the few, in heart, and eye, and speculation, have 
 already reached." 
 
 A. One of the strange things that happen daily is 
 this : men who the most stir the lives of others, lead 
 themselves the most silent and tranquil life. It is 
 curious to read how Kant, than whom Philosophy 
 never knew a bolder revolutionist, himself lived on 
 from day to day, the mere creature of his habits. 
 As some old Italian proverb has it, ' Tlie candle shines 
 far, but it shields itself in a small lantern.' So Avith 
 philosophers and poets generally — how wonderful 
 the contrast between the quiet of their existence 
 and the turbulent effects they produce ! Tliis, per- 
 haps secretly to ourselves, makes the great charm in 
 visiting the calm and still retreats whence the oracles 
 of the world have issued — the hermitage of Ei menon- 
 ville — the fortress of AVartenburg ; the one where 
 Pousseau fed his immortal fancies — the other whence 
 burst, from the fiery soul of Luther, the light that 
 yet lives along the world : — what reflections must the 
 silence and the mouldering stone awaken, as we re- 
 member the vivid and overflowing hearts of the old 
 inhabitants ! Plato and his C'ave are, to all ages, the 
 type of the Philosopher and his Life. 
 
 L. What lofty and divine hopes spring out of 
 the belief in immortality ! One of the purest of
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 327 
 
 these is the expectation of a more entii'e intelli- 
 gence — of the great gift of conversing with all who 
 have lived before us — of questioning the past ages 
 and unravelling their dark wisdom. How much 
 in every man's heart dies away unuttered ! How 
 little of what the sage knows does the sage pro- 
 mulgate ! How many chords of the lyre within the 
 poet's heart have been dumb to the world's ear ! All 
 this untold, uncommunicated, undreamed-of store of 
 wisdom and of harmony, it may be the privilege 
 of our immortality to learn. The best part of genius, 
 the world often knows not ; — the Plato buries much 
 of his lore within his Cave — and this, the High 
 Unknown, is the humblest man's inheritance. With 
 
 these thoughts," continued L , " you see how easy 
 
 it is for the parting soul to beautify and adorn Death ! 
 Nay, if we begin betimes, we can learn to make the 
 prospect of the grave the most seductive of human 
 visions — ^by little and little we wean from its contem- 
 plation all that is gloomy and abhorrent — by little 
 and little we hoard therein all that is brightest and 
 most alluring in the multiform images of life. As 
 the neglected genius whispers to his muse, ' Pos- 
 terity shall know thee, and thou shalt live when I 
 am no more,' so we find in this hallowed and all- 
 promising future, a recompense for every mortifica- 
 tion, for every disappointment in the present. It is 
 the belief of the Arabs, that to the earliest place of 
 human worship there clings a guardian sanctity — 
 there the wild bird rests not, there the wild beast may 
 not wander ; it is the blessed spot on which the eye 
 of God dwells, and which man's deepest memories 
 joreserve. As with the earliest place of worship, so is 
 it with the latest haven of repose — as with the spot 
 where our first imperfect adoration was offered up, our 
 first glimpses of divinity indulged, so should it be 
 with that where our full knowledge of the Arch-Cause 
 begins, and we can pour forth a gratitude no longer 
 checked and darkened by the troubles and cares of
 
 328 CONVKIISATIUNS WITH A\ AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 earth. Surely, if any spot in tlie world be sacred, it 
 is that small ^•reen moiiiid in wliirli ^-rief ceases, and 
 from wliieli, iftlie liai'monies oi" rieatioii, iftlie voice 
 within our hearts, it" the im})ulse which makes man so 
 ready a heliever in a world to come, — if these mock 
 and fool us not witli an everlasting lie, we spring up 
 on the untiring wings of a pangless and seraphic life 
 — those whom we loved, around us; the asjtirings 
 that we nursed, fulfilled ; our nature, imiversal intel- 
 ligence ; our atmosphere, eternal love ! " 
 
 Some time afterwards, observing a volume of Plato 
 on tlie table, our conversation fell upon that divine 
 philoso] )her, and on his dialogue of the ' Phiedo ' in 
 particular. 
 
 " Of all the Dialogues of Plato," said L , " the 
 
 'Phfedo' has been perlr.ips the most read, and may 
 be considered the most interesting. It is the most 
 interesting, partly from its accurate account of the last 
 hours of Socrates, and partly from our absorbing 
 curiosity to know the opinions of the wisest of the 
 ancients respecting the immortality of the soul. Per- 
 haps there is no part of our studies which bequeathes 
 a more delightful and enduring memory. It lives 
 within us like the recollection of some southern 
 landscape, wherein the colouring of the heavens forms 
 the prominent beauty — which we were too intoxicated 
 to examine in detail, but in which every separate 
 feature is confused and blended into one dim and 
 delicious whole. Each of Plato's Dialogues has more 
 or less of the dramatic sj^irit — but the 'Pliiudo' is 
 the most dramatic of all. It is a jjicture of extraor- 
 dinary sweetness and grandeur, in wdiicli the figures 
 are distinct and lifelike. We see the crowd of dis- 
 ciples, some Athenians, some Foreigners, waiting in 
 the early morning of their master's last day by the 
 gates of the prison — tlie ship of Theseus * having now 
 returned — its stern crowned with flowers — as in token 
 
 * No criminal could Ix; executed uutil its return.
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 329 
 
 at once of sacrifice and festival. Within, while they 
 wait, the magistrates are freeing Socrates from his 
 bonds. There the disciples stand, monrnful hut not 
 despondent — exalted by the former teachings of their 
 guide — inflnenced by ' that wonderful passion — not 
 of pity,' — which Plato has so beautifully described — in 
 which grief at their master's death is mingled with all 
 the sweet and musical consolations inspired by his past 
 converse. The gaoler appears — the door opens — they 
 are with Socrates. The manner in which, after dis- 
 missing the loud sorrow of Xantippe, the conversation 
 glides into its glorious topics, is singularly natural 
 and simple. We see Socrates ' sitting upright on his 
 bed,' and moralising gaily on the relief from his 
 fetters — till, one thought begetting another, he comes 
 to his celebrated explanation of the causes why one 
 ' who has rightly studied philosoj)hy should be bold 
 when about to die.' The little incidental and graphic 
 touches with which, here and there, Plato breaks the 
 dialogue, render it peculiarly living and effective ; and 
 the individuality of Socrates, in that mixture of easy 
 gaiety and lofty thought, which divides his listeners 
 between weeping and laughter — that patient con- 
 fidence with which he is wont to hear objections — and 
 the art with which he draws on the speaker to answer 
 himself, make the character as distinctly and appro- 
 priately marked as a personage in one of Shakspeare's 
 plays. The utter want of any rhetorical attempt to 
 excite an effeminate compassion — the plain and homely 
 simplicity with which the whole tragedy is told, from 
 the time when, stroking the limb wdiich the fetters 
 had galled, Socrates observes smilingly how the pain- 
 ful had been supplied by pleasurable sensations — or his 
 caressingly touching the long hair of the su2:>posed nar- 
 rator, who sat on a low stool beside him — to the close, 
 when, returned from the bath — after embracing for 
 the last time his children, he sits down again amidst his 
 friends, and ' did not speak much afterwards : ' ' and
 
 .'330 CONVERSATIONS W I'll I AN AMHI'lIOirS STUDENT. 
 
 it was now near the settin*^ of tlie snn ;'* tlie weep- 
 ing- servant of tlie map:istrate, comiiia- t(j l)id liini fare- 
 well — tlie request of Soerates to hid them l>iiii<^ the 
 poison — the answer of Crito, * Nay, the snn yet 
 lino^ers on the monntains' — the uinlaunted ^aze of 
 Socrates on the countenance of his executioner (so 
 unti'anslatahly exju'esseil in the woid ravftijcou) as he 
 took the fat;i] (liau,c;ht; — the sudden hurst of sorrow 
 from his disei])les, which a few words from the dying 
 man causes them to hlusli for ; — the melanclioly walk 
 to and fro tlint narroAvcell, for the hetter o]ieration of 
 the ]X)ison; — the homely expression, and ' when lie felt 
 his liml)8 grow heavy, he laid himself down to die ; ' 
 — the portrait of the executioner pressing his foot 
 strongly and asking if he felt the pressure, of which, 
 alas ! he was unconscious ; — the gradual progress of 
 the numbing potion from the feet to the nobler parts, 
 as Socrates himself points out to those around his bed, 
 how the limljs stiffen and grow cold — adding, in that 
 phrase of unconscious pathos, ' When it reaches my 
 heart I shall leave you ; ' — that last and mystic com- 
 mand (which the later Platonists have endeavoured to 
 explain as an emblematic desire of purification and 
 healing) to sacrifice to iEsculapius ; — the inquiry of 
 Crito, ' Hast thou no other bidding ?' — the quiet sor- 
 row of wliat follows — ' To this he made no reply, 
 but, after he had been a short time still, he moved, 
 and the man covered him, and his eyes grew fixed. 
 
 * " How watclieil liis better sons the farewell ray 
 That closed their murdered sage's latest day ! 
 Not yet — not yet — Sol pauses on the hill. 
 The precious hour of parting lingers still," &c. 
 
 It is a pity that Byron injured the whole of this beautiful passage by 
 the epithet in the following line — 
 
 " But sad his light to agonizing eyes." 
 
 There was no agony in the tears that his pupils shed for Socrates. " The 
 sadness was," as Plato says, " not wholly unpleasing." The death of a man 
 thoroughly great and good does not alkiw the terror and the prostration 
 of agony.
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 331 
 
 And Crito perceived it, and closed his eyes and 
 mouth. — This, Echecrates, was the end of our com- 
 panion ; ' — the whole of this picture is, I say, so great 
 a masterpiece of truth and tenderness — the presenta- 
 tion of so sublime a spectacle, that in itself it would 
 render the ' Phaedo ' one of the most valuable of the 
 possessions we derive from the golden Past. P>ut 
 how much more thrilling and divine it becomes, when 
 this, the last scene of such a life, is coloured with all 
 the hopes and auguries of the departing soul — when 
 the passage from this world is smoothed by august 
 conjectures on the world to be — and the Sage lavishes 
 his wisdom on the glorious aphorism that to die is to 
 be immortal ! 
 
 We do not wish to disturb the thoughts which this 
 dialogue bequeathes us, by criticising the details — 
 we would rather number its recollection among our 
 feelings than submit it coldly to the test of our rea- 
 sonings. Alas ! if we do the latter, the effect begins 
 gloomily to fade away. For I must own that, amidst 
 all the poetry of the allusions — amidst all the inge- 
 nuity of the arguments — I feel, when I fix the mind 
 rather than the imagination or the heart upon the 
 conclusions of the great heathen, that they fail to 
 convince. Almost every argument he uses for the 
 immortality of man is equally applicable to the hum- 
 blest of the brutes — the least visible of the ^nimalcul^ 
 in a drop of water. Such, for instance, as this, which 
 is the least obscure, perhaps, of all his propositions, 
 and which, nevertheless, is almost a scholastic frivolity. 
 ' A contrary cannot receive a contrary, nor the con- 
 trary of that which it introduces. What is that 
 which, when in the body, renders the body living ? — 
 The soul. Soul therefore introduces life to that which 
 it occupies. What is the contrary of life ? — Death. 
 But the soul cannot receive the contrary of what it 
 introduces — it cannot therefore receive death. But 
 what do we call that which does not receive death ? — 
 Immortal.' Such is one among the most intelligible
 
 332 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMRITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 arp^Timents of tlie wisest of tlic lieathcns. 0;in we 
 wonder wlieu we are told tliat Socrates and Plato 
 made l»nt few converts in Athens to the immortality 
 of the soul ? Adopt the arii^ument, and the fly at 
 the window, the spider wliich is now watching it 
 — nay, the very tree waving ])efore us green and 
 living, have, equally with myself, that which intro- 
 duces life, and cannot receive the contrary to that 
 which it introduces — its soul is tlierefore immortal as 
 my own. 
 
 But a graver objection to the whole reasoning 
 is, that the question is begged, when Socrates atlfirms 
 that that which gives life is the soul. •This is the 
 exact point at issue between the materialist and our- 
 selves. What can be so bewiLlering as the more 
 subtle refinements about ' harmony ' and ' parity,' 
 and the previous existence of the soul ? — on which last, 
 however, the Sage's arguments are less vague than 
 they are with respect to its existence hereafter, and 
 which yet, if true, would destroy the whole blessing 
 of limnortality : for if the soul has existed ere it 
 yet entered our body — if our seeming acquisitions 
 are rather dim reminiscences of what we knew before 
 — if the delight that follows upon our discovery 
 of a truth is nothing more than the recognition, the 
 refinding, as it were, something formerly familiar and 
 allied to i\^ — where is that perfect self-identity which 
 can alone render a new existence a blessing that we 
 ourselves can feel ? What comfort is it to me to 
 think that my soul may live again under other 
 shapes ; but / — my sentient faculty — my memory 
 and perception, not feel the renewed existence ? 
 This would not be a continuance of myself, but a 
 
 * Ileid's assertion of the inherent disixjsition to Truth, or " instinctive 
 prescience of human actions which makes us rely on the testimony of our 
 fellow-creatures," has been preceded hy the 'Pha^do' — thouf;h the remark 
 is intended to apply to the pre-existence of the soul ; and the fantastic 
 notion that learning is but reminiscence, " The truth of this," says Cebes, 
 " is manifested by a m<jst beautiful argument. Men, when interrogated 
 properly, will sjieak of everything just as it is: could they do this unless 
 science and right reason resided (or were inherent) in them?"
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 333 
 
 lapse into another as distinct from myself — as Soci'ates 
 from Newton. No — there is nothing in the ' Phcedo ' 
 that could convince a modern unheliever ; but there 
 is everything that can charm and delight one who 
 already believes — who desires only to embellish his 
 belief with beautiful thoughts, — and who from the 
 Pisgah of his conviction looks down on those who 
 have strayed, erring, but with faith, over the glim- 
 mering and uncertain wastes of the past Desert. 
 All our later upholders of Natural Religion have, 
 even if sceptics in Revealed, been more successful in 
 their reasonings tlian this lofty ancient. It has been 
 among the peculiar blessings of Revealed Religion 
 that it has led men more logically and deliberately 
 to the arguments for Natural Theology. Its very 
 enemies have, in dissenting from its principles, con- 
 firmed its most grand conclusions. ■ Revelation made 
 the eternity of the soul a grave and settled doctrine, 
 which scholars could not bandy about according to 
 their fantasies. It attracted the solemn attention of 
 sages to all the arguments for and against it. And 
 out of a thousand disputes have proceeded the reason- 
 ings upon which it has found its basis. When our 
 Lord said, ' I am the light of the world,' he uttered 
 one of the sublimest of his prophecies. Christian faith 
 has called forth the countless luminaries of Truth ; 
 not only the Reformers, who in examining Religion 
 established Liberty, but the Philosophers, who, in 
 advancing to the realm of doubt, have extended the 
 empire of thought — they penetrated lands which we 
 have since converted — they discovered the shadowy 
 regions of uncertainty since colonized with truths : 
 and darkness has produced our guides and constella- 
 tions, as night awakes the stars. Instead of check- 
 ing Philosophy, Faith has made it yet more searching 
 and severe. If speculations indeed remain which our 
 understanding cannot solve — if the Origin of Evil 
 yet perplex and sadden us — if we cannot guess how 
 the soul enters nor why departs — nor know the 
 
 VOL. II. z
 
 334 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMHri'IGUS STUDENT. 
 
 secret of *tliG liarmonv of" the Ivie;'* — we can Btill 
 full back upon the restinc;-|)laces wc; have «2^ained, 
 and not sulVer our i<j:;norance to he the judrre hecause 
 it fails to become the witness. Satisfied that, if 
 Faith has its enif>:mas, ])islirlief is yet more ob- 
 scure, we learn the JMiilosophy of IIo]^e, — and, 
 when the soul shrinks back, appalled, from the 
 wilderness of space around it, and the dazzle of 
 the sun, we may trust yet that He who gifted it 
 with its wings may hereafter increase its strength, 
 guide its M'anderiiigs, and enable it to face the in- 
 tolerable lustre which now blinds its gaze. Once 
 convinced that tliere is a God, and we annihilate 
 Despair ! — we may still have our doubts and our 
 desires — our sorrows and our cares — but it is enough 
 to know that we are destined to survive them. And 
 when we are weary of our vain wanderings, w^e 
 remember that Thought can find its home with God, 
 and it is on a Father's bosom that we hush ourselves 
 to rest!" 
 
 In discourses of this sort, the day w^ore to its close, 
 and when will the remembrance of that day ever 
 depart from me ? It seemed to me, as we sat by the 
 window, the sun sinking through the still summer 
 air, the leaves at rest, but liow full of life, the motes 
 dancing in the beam, the birds with their hymns 
 of love, and every now and then the chirp of the 
 grasshopper — 
 
 " That evening reveller who makes 
 His life an infancy and sings his fill ;" — 
 
 it seemed to me, as w^e so sat, and, looking upon the 
 huslied face of our mother Nnture, I listened to the 
 accents of that impassioned wisdom, so full of high 
 conjecture, and burning vision, and golden illustra- 
 tion, which belonged to him for whom life was 
 closing, as if I could have fancied that the world 
 
 * The; Iicautiful simile in tlic ' PIltcIo.'
 
 CONVEESA'JIONS WITH AN AMP.ITIOUS STUI)EN1\ 335 
 
 was younger by some two thousand years, and that 
 it Avas not one of this trite and dull age's cliildren 
 who was taking his farewell of life, but rather some 
 enthusiast of that day when knowledge was both 
 a passion and a dream, when the mysteries of the 
 universe and the life-to-come were thought the most 
 alluring of human themes, and when, in the beautiful 
 climates of the West, the sons of Wisdom crept out 
 to die among the trees they had peopled with divini- 
 ties, and yielded their own spirits to the Great Soul 
 of which they were a part, and which their mys- 
 terious faith had made the Life and Ruler of the 
 world.* 
 
 And now the sun sank, and 
 
 " Maro's shepherd star 
 Watched the soft silence with a loving eye." 
 
 (( 
 
 Do you remember," said L , " a story in one 
 
 of the old English Chronicles, how a bird flew into 
 the king's chamber, when the king was conversing 
 with some sage upon the nature of the soul ? ' Be- 
 hold !' said the sage, 'it is like that bird while 
 within this room ; you can note its flight and motions, 
 but you know not whence it came ere it entei^ed, nor 
 can ye guess whither it shall fly when it leaves this 
 momentary lodging.' " 
 
 It chanced that, as L spoke, a small bird 
 
 — I know not of what name or tribe — suddenly 
 alighted on the turf beneath the window, and, 
 though all its fellow-songsters were already hushed, 
 poured forth a long, loud, sweet lay, that came, 
 in the general silence, almost startlingly upon the 
 
 ear. " Poor bird ! " said L , musingly, " it is 
 
 thy farewell to one who, perhaps, has given thee 
 food for thy little ones. And," continued he, after 
 
 * But Phornutus, by Jupiter, uuderstands tlie ^oul of the world, he 
 Avriting thus concerning him : aajrep Se jjeis, &c. " As we oiu'sclves are 
 governed by a soul, so hath the world, in like manner, a soul that con- 
 taineth it, and this is called Zeus, being the cause of life to all things that 
 live," &c. — CuDwoKTH, vol. i. p. 529. 
 
 z 2
 
 336 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 
 
 a sliort pause — and liftin*;- up liis eyes, lie p^azed 
 lone: and earnestly around tUe scene, now bathed in 
 all tlie darkening but tender hues of the sunnner 
 night — "and shall I be ungrateful to that Power 
 which has, since my boyhood, fed my thoughts — 
 have / no farewell for that Nature whom, perhaps, 
 I behold for the last time? O, unseen Spirit of 
 Creation ! that watchest over all things — the desert 
 and the rock, no less than the fresli water bound- 
 ing on like a hunter on his path, when his heart 
 is in his step — or the valley girded by the glad 
 woods, and rippling with the yellow corn — to me, 
 thus sad and balHed, thou hast ministered as to the 
 happiest of thy children! — thou hast whispered 
 tidings of unutterable comfort to a heart which 
 the world sated while it deceived ! thou gavest me a 
 music, sweeter than that of palaces, in the mountain 
 wind! — thou badest the flowers and the common 
 grass smile up to me as children to the face of their 
 father ! — Like the eye of a woman first loved to the 
 soul of the poet, was the face of every soft and never- 
 silent star to me ! Nature ! my mother Nature ! as 
 the infant in the harsh slavery of schools pines for 
 home, I yearned within the dark walls of cities, 
 and amidst the hum of unfinniliar men, for thy sweet 
 embrace, and thy bosom whereon to lay my head, 
 and weep wild tears at my will ! I thank thee. 
 Nature, that thou art round and with me to the last ! 
 Not in the close thoroughfares of toil and traffic — 
 not tethered to a couch, whence my eyes, asking for 
 thee, would behold only those dim walls which are 
 the dying, man's worst dungeon, or catch through the 
 lattice the busy signs and crowded tenements of the 
 unsympathising herd ; — not thus shall my last sigh 
 be rendered up to the Great Fount of Life ! To the 
 mystic moment when the breath flutters and departs, 
 thy presence will be round me, and the sentiment of 
 thy freedom bathe my soul like a fresh air ! Fare- 
 well thou, and thy thousand ministrants and children !
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 337 
 
 — every leaf that quivers on the bough — every dew- 
 drop that sparkles from the grass — every breeze that 
 animates the veins of earth, are as friends, that I 
 would rather know around my death-bed than the 
 hollow hearts and ungenial sympathies of my kind ! 
 O Nature, farewell ! if we are reunited, can I feel in 
 a future being thy power, and thy beauty, and thy 
 
 presence, more intensely than I have done in this ? " 
 ***** 
 
 ***** 
 
 ***** 
 
 When I was about to take leave of L for the 
 
 night, he asked me, in a meaning voice, to stay with 
 him a little longer : " The fact is," said he, " that 
 
 Dr. implies a doubt whether I shall see another 
 
 day ; so be with me, at least, till I fall asleep. I 
 mean," added he, smiling, " not in the metaphorical, 
 but the literal sense of the word." 
 
 Accordingly, when he retired for the night, I sat 
 by his bedside, and we continued to converse, for he 
 wished it, though but by fits and starts : he gave me 
 several instructions as to his burial, and as to various 
 little bequests, not mentioned in his formal testament. 
 While indifferent to the companionship of men, he 
 had never been ungrateful for their affection : the 
 least kindness affected him sensibly, and he was 
 willing in deatli to show that he had not forgotten 
 it. Indeed I have observed, that the more we live 
 out of the world, the more little courtesies, such as 
 in the crowd are unheeded, are magnified into favours : 
 true that the same process of exaggeration occurs 
 in respect to petty affronts or inconsiderate slights. 
 The heart never attains the independence of the 
 mind. 
 
 Before the window, which looked out into the 
 garden, the dark tops of the trees waved mournfully 
 to and fro ; and above, in deep relief, was the sky, 
 utterly cloudless, and alive with stars. " My eyes 
 are very heavy," said L ; " close the curtains
 
 338 CONVKKSATIONS WITH AX AMRT'I'IOUS STUDENT. 
 
 romid my liciul. ' 1 did so, and crept softly into tlie 
 next room, wlierc the nurse sat dozing in a large 
 chair hy the fireside. 
 
 "Does he sleep, sir?" said she, waking up as 1 
 a})proached. 
 
 " He will shortly," said I : " he seems inclined 
 to it." 
 
 " Poor gentleman ! ho will soon be out of his 
 sufferings," said the nurse; and she therewltli took a 
 huge pinch of snuff. 
 
 Yes ! this is the world's notion. With what 
 wondrous ingenuity they shift off the pain of regret ! 
 A friend, a brother, a husband, a son, dies — they 
 thank Grod he is out of his afllictions ! In one sense 
 they are right. They make the best of their own 
 short summer, and do not ask the cloud to stay longer 
 than suffices to call up the flowers or refresh the soil. 
 Yet this is a narrow view of the subject of death. 
 A bright genius disappears, a warm heart is stilled, 
 and we think only (wlien we console ourselves) of 
 the escape of the individual from his bed of pain. 
 But ought we not to think of the loss that the world, 
 that our whole race, sustains ? I believe so. How 
 many thoughts which might have preached conviction 
 to the universe will be stricken for ever duml) by the 
 early death of one human being ! What services 
 to earth might have l^een effected by that inquisitive, 
 ardent, tender spirit, which to-morrow will be known 
 upon earth no more ! 
 
 " Poor gentleman ! "' quoth the nurse, " he will 
 soon be out of his sufferings ! " and therewith she 
 took a huge pinch of snuff. — What self-comforters 
 we are ! 
 
 " He is a good gentleman ! " said she again, turn- 
 ing round to the fire ; " and so fond of dumb animals. 
 Caesar, sir, the dog Caesar, is at the foot of the bed, 
 as usual ? — ay, I warrant he lies there, sir, as still as 
 a mouse. I am sure them creturs know when we are 
 sick or not. Ah ! sir, how the dog will take on,
 
 CONVERSATIONS WITH AN AMBITIOUS STUDENT. 339 
 
 when " and the nurse, breaking off, applied again 
 
 to her snuff-box - 
 
 I could not bear to hear the woman talk thus, 
 and I soon stole again into the next room. What a 
 stillness there was in it ! It seemed palpable. Still- 
 ness is not silent, at least to the heart. Hushing 
 my own breath, I passed on to the curtained bed. 
 
 L 's hand was flung over the pillow. I took 
 
 it into mine — the pulse was almost imperceptibly 
 low, but it fluttered nevertheless. I was about to 
 
 drop the hand, when L half turned round, 
 
 and that hand gently pressed my own. I heard 
 a slight sigh, and, fancying he was awake, I 
 bent over to look into his face. The light from 
 the window came full upon it, and I was awed by 
 the exceeding beauty of the smile that rested on the 
 lips. But those lips had fallen from each other ! 
 I pressed the pulse again. No — the fluttering was 
 gone. I started away with an unutterable tightness 
 at my heart. I moved to the door, and called to 
 the inirse. She came quickly ; yet I thought an 
 hour had passed before she crossed the threshold. 
 We went once more to the bed — and there, by his 
 master's face, sat the poor dog. He had crept softly 
 up from his usual resting-place ; and when he saw 
 us draw aside the curtain, he looked at us so wist- 
 fully, that no, I cannot go on ! — The tale is told.
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE 
 
 UPON' 
 
 LITEKATURE AND HEAL LIFE. 
 
 [Not before published. Written in 1862.]
 
 UPON 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE 
 
 UPON 
 
 LITERATUKE AND liEAL LIFE. 
 
 INTEODUCTION. 
 
 There is a spot of dressed ground, a little apart from 
 the more formal gardens attached to my old country- 
 house, that seems especially to please any poet or 
 artist who may chance to grace my home with his 
 presence. 
 
 After quitting terraces stiff with statues in mea- 
 sured rows and parterres in geometrical symmetry, 
 a path, skirting one side of an old-fashioned bowl- 
 ing-green, winds under an arch formed artificially 
 by the trunks of large pollard-trees covered with ivy. 
 From the mouth of this arch a view breaks upon the 
 eye with that pleasing effect which belongs to what 
 some describer of landscape scenery calls " The art of 
 gardenesque surprise." 
 
 For the place seems almost as if it had been dis- 
 buried — as if it belonged to another age, and had 
 been the haunt of another race. Nature, I must own, 
 has not done much for it ; and the art to which it 
 owes the effect produced is far from being either very 
 pure in itself or very liberal in the recourse to costly 
 accessories. Originally it was but a miniature valley 
 of level turf filched from the park, with a little pond 
 and a few ancient oak-trees. But it so happened that,
 
 344 TFIK iNFi.rKxrE OF r,nvK vpns 
 
 some winters ago, I Iki'I taken to a passionate stndy 
 of Horace, and was meditating' a version of his Ddes 
 upon what I flattered ni\ self was a new principle in 
 the translation of Latin l\ rics. I had a hiist of the 
 j)oet made in terra-cotta, taken from tlie engraving of 
 an antique gem ; and this hust originated the decora- 
 tion of the ground I now so coinj)lacently descrihe. 
 For when I had got it, I found 1 did not know where 
 to place it. A friend said to me, *' Place it near the 
 little pond, close by the pine-grove." "But," I 
 answered, pettishly, " nothing there is in character 
 witli the classic age ! " " True," said my friend ; 
 " but the spot at least will be out of sight of your 
 Gothic turrets and your mediaeval terraces ; and since 
 there is nothing to unmake, ^ve can surely make out 
 of turf and water somethino; in character with anv 
 age you select. Give me your general idea — leave 
 the details to me. We will invent an Horatian Gar- 
 den." " Excellent! " cried I, with enthusiasm. " We 
 cannot, indeed, make a garden in the least resembling 
 any in which Horace wandered, whether in his Sabine 
 valley or amid the orchards of Tivoli ; but I shall be 
 amply contented if we can humour the rough ground 
 into a spot not unfittingly hallowed to his memory by 
 a descendant of tlie barbarian whom, in prophetic 
 rapture, he promised after death to visit ; a resting- 
 place for the glorious singing-bird — canonis alex — 
 when, in flights unci rcumscri bed by Stygian wave, 
 winging way to Dacian and Scyth, and drinkers of 
 the Rhone,* he swerves aside to hear us murmur his 
 melodious warbles in the isle of the Father-Celt." 
 
 So my friend and I set to work. I suggested the 
 designs ; he seized their idea with the quickness of a 
 man of poetic taste and ])ractical knowledge of pic- 
 turesque effect ; and, thanks to him, we liave made 
 a sort of scenery wliich, viewed indulgently — as 
 visitors view what their liost shows them with an aii- 
 of triunijdi — is always called classical by those who 
 
 * Herat, lib. ii. Ode xx.
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 345 
 
 "have never studied the classics, and by those who 
 have studied them is admitted, v^ith a gracious smile, 
 to be pretty and original. The poor little pond, 
 alas ! resembles no Bandusian fountain ; but we have 
 so curved its grassy banks, that, by a stretch of 
 fancy, one might suppose it some quiet pool formed, 
 through subterranean springs, by the babbling rivu- 
 let. Near the margin, to the left, extends a rude 
 sort of grotto, which by courtesy may be called 
 Dionsean. At all events, it is guarded by a statue 
 of Dione, copied from that charming image of the 
 goddess called the A^enus of Ostia. Though, in the 
 recesses of this grotto — which is formed of mossed 
 roots, and the trunks of trees that had perhaps come 
 to their prime before Horace was known in England 
 — there be no beds of roses, such as those on which a 
 Pyrrha reclined ; yet still the rose itself, in many 
 a living cluster, wreathes its blooms round the sylvan 
 columns. On the opposite bank of this honoured pool 
 there runs a trellice for vines in the way vines are 
 still trained in Italy. On the farther side of the 
 grotto is a stiff yew-hedge, belting an alley of sward, 
 and relieved by the busts of those whose immortal 
 names come to our lips when we think of Horace ; — 
 Augustus, Msecenas, Brutus, Yirgil. Niches formed 
 by the yews hold statues symbolical of the Rural 
 Muse and Urban Muse, Horace being an equal 
 favourite with both. Under the Rural Muse, who 
 is crowned with flowers, are inscribed these lines : — 
 
 " The Muse of Rural Life, I link the races. 
 
 Kature renews her seasons with my Mays ; 
 To thee the lark sings as it sung to Horace, 
 And here, as in Ustica, Horace sings." 
 
 The statue of the Urban Muse, who bears in her hand 
 a lamp, takes also an inscription, which runs thus : — 
 
 " The Muse of Social Life, I link the races. 
 
 Clear through the night of time, the lamp I bear 
 Shows man as man was ever ! thy last poet 
 Is not so modern as my Horace is."
 
 346 Tin: influence of love upon 
 
 Farther on, is a statue of Diana, standing out 
 from a seniicircnlar fane of rustic pillars ; a few yards 
 beyond, an ;nitiqne marble image of Fannus, which I 
 was fortunate enough to find in 'J'uscany, and which 
 artists opine to be of the age of Fhidias. The same 
 artists tell me it ought not to be left exposed to the 
 rains and frosts of our climate ; probably they are 
 right. But Horace sacrificed toFaunus; I sacrifice 
 Faunus to Horace. Within a nook, in reinoto gra- 
 niine, is the bust of Horace himself, under which are 
 engraved these rhymeless verses, in a poor attempt at 
 an English ada})tation of Horace's favourite Alcaic 
 metre, humouring the metre so that in English it 
 could be really lyrical — that is, sung to simple string- 
 instruments in a tripping sort of measure : — 
 
 " Vowed to thee whom the chonis of wood-nymph and satyr 
 Lured apart fiom the crowd, he this shade and still water, 
 And the grot that admits of the rose, 
 
 But is safe, thank the gods, from a P^Trha ! 
 
 Vowed to thee be the respite to-day may affV)rd us 
 From cares hid as yet out of sight in the morrow, 
 \\'hile the wind and the wave are at peace, 
 And the ash is as calm as the cypress. 
 
 Kightly called, leave thy haunts in the old Sahine valley, 
 Hither, as to Ijucretilis, charm lively Faunus : 
 Let us dream that we hear by thy side 
 His reed echoed back from Ustic^." 
 
 I spare the reader the ta^diura of further descrip- 
 tioii : I have said enough to give a general idea of 
 the place. But no doubt its chief attraction is that 
 which it is scarcely possible to describe — an air of 
 seclusion and remoteness ; it is so enclosed and shut 
 out from the landscape round it by sloping grass 
 mounds or thickly planted trees ; it seems so distinct 
 from the habitation to which it is nevertheless so 
 near; it is so unlike the usual imitations of classic 
 gardens, and yet in each detail it so suggests a like- 
 ness to bits of scenic effect in Pompeian frescoes, that
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 347 
 
 wlierever its quaint strangeness is familiarised by a 
 vague reminiscence, the reminiscence is like that 
 of a dream, and a dream of the bygone sensuous 
 heathen life. 
 
 Here, sometimes, in summer noons, we shun the 
 dog-star, spread the turf with such light refection of 
 fresh fruits and cooling wines as suit time and place ; 
 and though we crown not our brows with floral 
 wreaths, nor anoint ourselves with Malobathran balms, 
 we talk of men and things much, I daresay, as the 
 ancients did in their hours of holiday. If, by happy 
 chance, the party boast of some tuneful voice or 
 sprightly lute, I look towards the still image of 
 Faunus, and imagine I am listening to the song of 
 Tyndaris. 
 
 Hither, too, when conversing with some wiser 
 visitor on themes that disport round the borders of 
 philosophy, instinctively I direct his steps. Many 
 a golden hour have I thus spent, gathering in food 
 for after-meditation, when left alone with thought and 
 memory. 
 
 In the place thus described, and seated near the 
 cool shade which the arches of the grotto and the 
 boughs of neighbouring trees throw over the sward, 
 during one of those English July noons, when the sun 
 is too powerful for active exercise, and yet the sky 
 so pure, and Nature so attractive, that it seems a 
 waste of life to seek occupation within doors, I found 
 myself, not long since, between two friends, who had 
 come with me from London the day before. I will 
 designate these guests by the names of Metellus and 
 Gallus : pardon the affectation, seeming or real, of 
 classic names in connection with a spot devoted to 
 classic association. 
 
 Metellus is a man of high birth and large fortune, 
 of mature years, and stored with rich acquisitions both 
 from books and experience of mankind. He enjoys 
 in the world a dignified and solid reputation. His
 
 348 TIIK IXFLIKNCK ( )F T.DVK VVoS 
 
 talk is full of matter, sometimes adorned !•}• (.luqueiice, 
 sometimes relieved by sul^dued and quiet irony, 
 thouf^h perhaps too much overlaid with a learning 
 which even the ease of his manner does not entirely 
 divest from an a]>j>earance of pedantry — I say ap- 
 pearance, for, in reality, no man is less of a pedant. 
 lie is fond of subjects tliat invite arp;umcntative dis- 
 cussion, but he is much more li-ood-tempered under 
 contradiction than the lovers of disputation generally 
 are. It is natural to the serene loltiness of his 
 character to be invariably urbane and well-bred. He 
 has been, and indeed still is, singularly handsome, 
 a great favourite with ladies — especially with ladies 
 who cultivate their minds ; but he has never married, 
 although he recommends marriage earnestly to all his 
 bachelor friends, and considers himself in his solitary 
 lot a warning, not an example. And hence the 
 name herein assigned to him is suggested by that of 
 the Roman Censor, Metellus, wdio made a memorable 
 speech, which was extremely discouraging to those 
 ideas of wedlock wdiich lovers usually cherish, but 
 nevertheless extremely urgent in commendation of 
 wedlock, as one of tlie dangerous but honourable 
 duties wliich a brave man should not decline to 
 fulfil. 
 
 Metellus, when pressed to })ractise what he 
 preaches, says, " Age is exonerated from the perils 
 that belong to youth ; I am too old for marriage." 
 I know many young ladies who do not consider him 
 too old for them. He is forty-five. It is only when 
 fi'iendship advises, or beauty tempts, him to marry, 
 that he affects to be eighty. Gallus is the younger 
 son of a small country squire. He has his w^ay to 
 make in life. He is nominally destined for the bar, 
 and has talent enough to win his way even in that 
 overcrowded profession ; but at present, though now 
 in his twenty-fifth year, he continues to indulge 
 a boyish passion for romance and poetry, which it is
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 340 
 
 proverbially difficult to reconcile with a sedulous 
 devotion to Themis. He has not yet published any- 
 thing in his own name, but he is suspected to be the 
 author of sundry j^ieces in prose and verse, which 
 have appeared anonymously in popular periodicals, 
 and attracted much favourable notice. Such small 
 poems (chiefly love poems, not unnaturally at twenty- 
 five) as I know to be his, having been allowed to see 
 them in MS., are full of promise ; they have fervour 
 and passion, and an original hardihood of form. 
 Some day or other, if the strong current of practical 
 life do not draw him into its vortex, I predict that 
 he will disappoint his parents and delight the public 
 as a poet professed. 
 
 Some of my readers will now see why I give to 
 my young friend the name of Gallus, a Latin poet as 
 well as orator, whose genius we take somewhat on 
 trust, for we have no remains either of his poems or 
 his orations ; but some critics have assigned to him — 
 though not, alas ! upon authority allowed by finer 
 judges — one of the most charming hymns in homage 
 to love which the Roman Muse has bequeathed to us. 
 
 Grallus is small in stature and delicately formed, 
 with irregular mobile features lit up by animation, 
 and gaining a beauty of their own from an exjoression 
 of countenance that strikes and interests at the first 
 glance ; for it is at once thoughtful and hopeful — a 
 rare combination. His eye in repose looks upward ; 
 his lips in silence part slightly, with a sanguine 
 haughty smile ; his hair, which at any quick move- 
 ment of his head he flings back from his temples, is 
 luxuriant with careless curls of a chesnut brown — 
 catching a golden tinge when a sunbeam falls on 
 them. He has not lived much in the great world, 
 and his manners have not the polish which graces the 
 bearing of Metellus. As his character is proud, im- 
 petuous, unhesitatingly fearless, so his manner is 
 abrupt, decisive — sometimes rude. He is gentle 
 
 VOL. 11. 2 A
 
 350 TIIK INFLUENCE UF LOVE UPON 
 
 indeed to women, to cdiildren, to inferiors; but lie 
 liolds servility in sncli disdain that he lacks the due 
 respect which youth is tau<^ht to pay to men of" high 
 station or established repute. In short, he is not 
 without that arrogance ot" bearing which is common 
 enough in young men of great power and daring 
 spirit, who, ere they have won deference for them- 
 selves, do not comprehend the deference which society 
 pays to others. The same men become gracious when 
 they become great. For, with all but the vulgar and 
 malevolent, courtesy grows out of the consciousness 
 of undisputed station. I need scarcely say that 
 Gallus has made many enemies, because he has 
 wounded many self-loves: and if his talents are ex- 
 tolled by the young, they meet with little encourage- 
 ment from the old. Still, to those who know him 
 well, there is in his nature so much manly gene- 
 rosity and impulsive nobleness, so vivid a warmth of 
 heart, so chivalrous a sense of honour, and such deeps 
 of latent tenderness and sweetness, that, though the 
 enmities he creates are keen and stubborn, the friend- 
 shi})s he inspires are profound and lasting. Metellus, 
 who is the most tolerant of sages and the most afiable 
 of grandees, holds Gallus in great affection, and likes 
 him, I believe, the better because he is the only verv 
 
 7 7 fc' •/ 
 
 young man whom the reputation of Metellus does not 
 a little awe. 
 
 Now, as we were thus seated, or rather indolently 
 stretched upon the grass, talking on subjects started 
 by the sight of the Roman busts — of which we caught 
 a sidelong view down the shaded alley in which they 
 rest on their pedestals ; and a propos of some quotation 
 which Gallus made from Ovid, Metellus threw out a 
 remark upon the tendency of poets to exaggerate the 
 influence of love upon human destinies. This called 
 forth from Gallus a contradiction so blunt and brisk, 
 that I said, rebukingly, " P^ie, Gallus ! suffer me to 
 hear, without interruption, the opinions of Metellus
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 351 
 
 upon a subject in which it may be supposed that his 
 experience is larger and his philoso^^hy deeper than 
 yours. You, gracilis puer^ have scarcely yet met with 
 your first Pyrrha, and Metellus has, I dare be sworn, 
 hung more than a dozen votive tablets in Neptune's 
 temple, commemorating escape from a dozen ship- 
 wrecks." 
 
 " Nay," quoth Metellus, " you should be the last 
 man to chide Gallus for having unwittingly saved 
 you from one of those inflictions which authors dread 
 the most. You must know that I brought with me 
 to your house the manuscript of a couple of essays, or 
 rather of one essay under two divisions, on which I 
 meditated asking your opinion, in some propitious 
 hour lazy as the present. Knowing, too, that Gallus 
 sets up for a critic, 1 should also have pressed him 
 into the council. To let you into a secret, I have the 
 manuscript at this moment in my pocket ; and I had 
 an artful desion, in the remarks which Gallus has so 
 passionately contradicted, to sound my way, and see 
 how far I could expect to find in both of you friendly 
 or hostile listeners for the lucubration I wished to 
 read to you ; but Gallus has so honestly shown what 
 I should expect from his judgment, that I think it 
 prudent not to hazard a similar reception from your- 
 self. I shall return with my manuscript unrevealed." 
 
 " Not so ! " cried I ; " punish me not for Gallus's 
 ■offence of taste and good manners. Read the manu- 
 script to me exclusively ; let Gallus penitential ly 
 withdraw, and initiate his lips into the discipline of 
 silence by betaking himself to fishing." 
 
 " On the contrary," said Metellus, " if I should 
 yield to the amiable solicitations 1 have insidiously 
 provoked, it must be on the express stipulation that 
 Gallus shall have full liberty to stay and reply, pro- 
 vided only, but provided always, that he enter into a 
 solemn engagement not to interrupt me in the course 
 of my argument even by a groan. I will observe a 
 
 2 A 2
 
 352 THE INl-LUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 similar forbearance towards himself when it comes to 
 his turn to be tedious." 
 
 " Af^recd," said Galliis ; " I accept the challenge. 
 It will be practice for the bar, if ever I get a brief." 
 
 Metellus, after modestly warning me that he 
 had contrived out of a very exciting subject to make 
 a dissertation so sober, that I might find it erpmlly 
 tame and tedious, drew forth a very neat-looking 
 manuscript, and began to read in a pleasant voice, 
 attuned to the familiar key of conversation, the essay 
 which he has permitted me to submit herein to a 
 wider audience.
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 353 
 
 LOVE, IN ITS INFLUENCE UrON LITERATURE. 
 
 METELLUS. 
 
 " The passion of love forms the prevalent theme 
 of imaginative literature ; and to three parts of that 
 literature is the Be-all and End-all. When the Muse 
 enters the realm of fiction, Love greets her at the 
 threshold ; and while she remains in Fable-Land, 
 this image so absorbs her attention that she recites 
 its attributes and describes its form, to mortals in the 
 hard world of reality, with as much minuteness as if 
 she were communicating to her listeners the discovery 
 of something they could never of themselves expe- 
 rience ; or, on the other hand, favouring them with 
 critical suggestions for the improvement of an art on 
 which their livelihood depended. Yet the fact is — 
 firstly, that most of us know more about Love than 
 the Muse can tell us ; and, secondly, that with very 
 few of us does Love hold more than a restrained and 
 subordinate rank in that social life in which the Muse 
 represents him as the indisputable universal autocrat. 
 
 Strange to say, it is that class of imaginative lite- 
 rature which professes to represent to us, with the 
 most careful fidelity, the picture of this actual world 
 in which we cultivate our acres, ply our looms, liti- 
 gate and fight, talk, think, act — anything but love — 
 for at least nine-tenths of the long interval between 
 the registry of our births and the epitaphs on our 
 tombs ; — strange to say, it is that class of literature 
 which, with the most uniform and audacious impu- 
 dence, converts all this vast panorama of being into 
 the mere background for the same naked little Cupid 
 with the same silly little bow. 
 
 If any class of imaginative literature should give
 
 MM Tin: INI'LrFA'CK OF T,nVK TTpOX 
 
 lis some trutlil'ul ])ictiire of life as it rciilly is, we 
 iiiio-lit surely look for it in lliu Novel tliat professes 
 to delineate our everyday manners, or in the (-omedy 
 that affects to hold up the mirror to our humours, 
 and lii;-ht us to self-knowledge hy a smile. Yet the 
 novel and the comedy, in proportion as they pretend 
 to be orthodox novel and comedy, are precisely the 
 works in which the whole action of life is most com- 
 monly reduced to the machinery of a love-plot, and 
 its span contracted to the vicissitudes of an amorous 
 courtship. Nay, the moment it is understood that 
 the hero and heroine are to be married, the author 
 seems to think that the whole end for which they 
 were created is fulfilled ; and as the Provencal house- 
 wife, when the silk-worms she has warmed in her 
 bosom turn into white moths, does not allow them to 
 flutter out their brief being amidst the sunshine, in 
 return for all the silk they have sjDun her, but con- 
 signs them at once to the craws of her poultry, so, 
 when the lovers get out of the entanglements which 
 they weave around themselves, and we say, " Now 
 let us see how they sport on the wing," the author 
 terminates their existence, and dismisses them to be 
 digested by the critics. 
 
 It is also worthy of notice, that, though we of the 
 North might not unreasonably be supposed to have a 
 far more vivid conception of all that constitutes the 
 poetry of love than the nations of the East, in which, 
 since women are secluded in harems, there seems 
 small compai'ative scope for the adventures of court- 
 ship, and the delicacies of chivalrous sentiment — yet 
 critical autliorities are now pretty well agreed that 
 we must look to the East for the origin of that erotic 
 literature which we so proudly regard as indigenous 
 to our own native soil. The Anglo-Saxon poets, 
 when indulging in gentler strains than those dedi- 
 cated to warlike deeds and adventures, delighted 
 either in moral allegories, such as the ' Hymn to the 
 Phoenix,' which mysteriouslv illustrates the destinies
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 355 
 
 of the soul, or in 'Monitory Poems,' which (as we 
 may see in Mr. Wright's popular and pleasant pages*) 
 seem to have warned the listeners less of the torments 
 of love than of the dangers engendered by beer. And 
 towards the close of the Anglo-Saxon monarchy, the 
 holiness of chastity in contrast to the errors of passion 
 becomes the chosen theme of the austere fabulist and 
 moralising glee-man. 
 
 The Scandinavian Scalds, among whom the fierce 
 creed of Odin was in force to a later date than it 
 retained in the muse of the Anglo-Saxons, are of a 
 sterner and darker character. Their mysteries are 
 not refined to the spiritual types of Christianity, but 
 are grim with the spells of witches riding along the 
 sea on the backs of wolves ; not the ragged and 
 mumbling crones of Anglo-Saxon superstition, but 
 incarnate Powers of no earth-born race. The witches 
 of Macbeth are purely Scandinavian ; and Shaks- 
 peare must have found his conception of their grand 
 and terrible attributes among the Danish part of 
 our population. So also the Danish battle-songs are 
 more intensely ferocious than the Anglo-Saxon. 
 They seem composed in the intoxication of wine 
 literally drunk out of the skulls of foes. And even 
 where Love is admitted, less as the prime agent of 
 mortal life than as one among its disturbing and fatal 
 influences, it is certainly unlike the Love whose " foot- 
 steps are to be traced by the blossoms it lets fall."f 
 The Scandinavian Venus is a grisly giantess, who, 
 in the language of the ' Edda,' " rides to the battle, 
 and hath one-half of the slain." 
 
 Neither is the genuine Welsh Poetry, before it 
 was adulterated, by the romances of Brittany, with 
 chivalrous legends of Lancelot and Guenever, more 
 erotic than that of our Danish and Saxon forefathers. 
 The original Bardism appears to have been employed 
 as the organ of that which the Druids, who dictated 
 
 * ' History of Domestic Manners and Sentiments in England during; 
 the Middle Ages,' p. 38. t Schiller.
 
 35(5 TIIK INFLrENCE OF LOVK ri'OX 
 
 its teachings, declnred to be TiUTn : ethical doctrines 
 in laconic forms; adages and proverbs. The next 
 era in Welsh poetry is identified with tlie enchanter 
 Merlin. This mysterious personage, according to 
 national tradition, was a matlK-niatician. His ])oetry 
 is not extant, but, if it resembled his architecture (he 
 is said to have built Stonehenge), it could scarcely 
 have been a bower for the Loves to nestle in. Aneurin 
 and Taliessin are warlike and patriotic. In their 
 time of stern struggle and sorrow there could have 
 been Httle leisure for courtship. Somewhat later, 
 Merdyn the Wild predicts the woes to befall his race 
 in melancholy stanzas addressed, not to his lady, Imt 
 — his pig.* In 'Owen and his Ravens' (published 
 in the ' Mabinogion '), which appears to me the most 
 ancient of all the Welsh narrative myths, Fancy 
 invents a fable without the slightest assistance from 
 Love. 
 
 " Gallantry," observes Mr. Hallam, " in the sense 
 of a general homage to the fair, a respectful deference 
 to woman independent of personal attachment, seems 
 to have first become a perceptible element of European 
 manners in the south of France, and probably not 
 later than the end of the tenth century ; it was not 
 at all in unison with the rough habits of the Orlovin- 
 gian Franks, or of the Anglo-Saxons. There is little, 
 or, as far as I know, nothing of it in the poem of 
 Beowulf, or in that upon Attila, or in the oldest 
 Teutonic fragments, or in the Niebelungen Lied. 
 Love may appear as a natural passion, but not as a 
 conventional idolatry."! But when the Crusaders 
 returned from the East, and when the Moors had 
 settled in Spain, a new spirit was breathed into the 
 old genius of the North. Love, alike in the extra- 
 vagance of its passion and the gallantry of its sen- 
 timent, inspired the lays of the Troubadour; and 
 
 * See an excellent article in the • Quarterly Keview,' 'On tiie Welsh 
 and their Literature,' vol. cix. p. 38. 
 
 t Hallam : ' Literature of Europe,' part i. c. ii. j). 127.
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 357 
 
 erotic Romance, heightened by additional spells on 
 the fancy, in legendary fables of Oriental enchant- 
 ment accommodated to Christian manners by French 
 imitators, came to our island as a stranger, to settle 
 as a native, like its Norman patrons. Then the 
 Cymrian bards tune their harps to light airs never 
 known to the Druids ; the amorous court of King 
 Arthur supersedes the myths of Hu-Gadarn and the 
 hazy traditions of Defrobani ; and, towards the close 
 of the thirteenth century, Dafyd-ab-Gwylim gives an 
 Ovid to Wales. Then the Anglo-Saxon transfers his 
 metaphysical tendency from mystic Allegory to the 
 refining subtleties and dainty conceits which are bred 
 from Fancy when it broods on Passion. Then, in 
 our northern provinces, where (as Palgrave has so 
 lucidly shown) the population was almost wholly of 
 Danish origin, sprang up the Border Minstrelsy, in 
 which the hardy Scandinavian genius yields, thougli 
 not without retaining the honours of war, to its soft 
 invader. In the legends of Scandinavia proper. 
 Love also now begins to assume a more mild and 
 benignant aspect than he did under the auspices of 
 the earlier Freya. 
 
 However remote, however unborrowed from si- 
 milar European legends, may be the origin of some 
 of the ' Norse Tales ' recently familiarised to English 
 readers by the masterly translation of Mr. Dasent — 
 most of those in which Love plays an important part 
 appear to me of comparatively recent adaptation from 
 foreign myths. 
 
 It is amusing to see, in the Norse story ' East o' 
 the Sun and West o' the Moon,' the legend of Cupid 
 and Psyche stripped of its Hellenic elegance, and 
 reduced to the homely taste of Scandinavian listeners. 
 Instead of the drop which trickles from the lamp as 
 the G-reek Psyche bends over the sleeping god, it is 
 three drops from a tallow candle which the Norse 
 Psyche lets fall upon the shirt of the beautiful prince, 
 whom she had married as a white bear; and for
 
 358 Tin: ixfluen-ce of love upon 
 
 denouement of llie storv, tlic J>ride waslies tlic spots 
 out of the shirt. 
 
 Still there is a warm, household, hninaii interest 
 in the Norse Psyche, which in some degree compen- 
 sates for her deficiency in the poetic grace which 
 beautifies and exalts the Hellenic. But whether the 
 Scandinavian myth be borrowed second-hand from 
 the story of Apuleius — which was among the earliest 
 classic works the invention of ])rinting familiarised to 
 scholars — or whether, as Mr. Dasent (according to 
 the theory for whicli he argues in his learned and 
 eloquent introduction) would probably contend, it 
 came down to the Scandinavian races from remote 
 originals, common alike to Greek and to Norseman 
 — it has equally its source in Asiatic Fable. 
 
 Nor is it only in the poetry of modern Europe 
 that the chaste Cama?na3 have been corrupted into 
 wanton singing-girls by intercourse with the amorous 
 East. 
 
 Those Hellenic legends, in whicli Love l')lays 
 much the same part that he does in the fantastic 
 literature of chivalry — such as the stories of Belle- 
 rophon, of Perseus, of the Colchian enchantress Medea 
 — are clearly of Asiatic origin. It is true that Homer 
 avails himself largely of the agency of Love ; but, 
 setting aside all such reasons as have been urged by 
 critical schokn-s for believing that Homer was himself 
 Asiatic by origin, or was largely indebted to Asiatic 
 poets, whose names and works are lost to us, Homer 
 does not represent lovemaking as tliat main occu- 
 pation of the human race, to which poetry, as the 
 voice of the human heart, should modulate all its 
 keys. He is not like those later rhapsodists in verse 
 or in prose, whose birds only sing in the season of 
 coupling. Thougli the siege of Troy has its origin 
 in the elopement or rape of Helen, and though 
 Achilles retires to his tents on being unjustly de- 
 prived of Briseis, still the entire poem is not devoted 
 to the guilt, the sorrows, or the wrongs of those ira-
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 359 
 
 mortal lovers. Though the wrath of Achilles is " the 
 direful spring of woes unnumbered," Briseis, that 
 fair cause of his wrath, is very much kept in the 
 background. We hear more of the hero's friend than 
 we do of his mistress ; and it is the fate of his friend 
 and not of his mistress that exercises over his actions 
 the potential effect which makes him, as the destroyer 
 of Hector, the prominent hero of the Epic. 
 
 In the adventures of Ulysses the fascinations of 
 Circe form but an episode ; and that hero, the first in 
 whom intellect is made more prominent than valour, 
 grieves more for the death of his dog Argus, than he 
 does for his separation from the Crystal Queen of the 
 
 Sea. 
 
 The example of Homer, even to the limited degree 
 in which he sought materials of interest in amorous 
 narrative, does not appear to have been readily adopted 
 in those states of Greece wherein we look for the 
 purer developments of the Hellenic genius. Though 
 we are told that Homer was really the parent of 
 Athenian tragedy, and though the Athenian tragic 
 poets took their favourite characters from his Epic, 
 yet certainly neither ^schylus nor Sophocles selects 
 from Homer those passages which would best furnish 
 a modern dramatist with pathetic love-plots. ^Eschylus 
 only exhibits the form of love in order to punish its 
 crimes ; Sophocles, it is true, calls forth our tears for 
 Haemon and Antigone; but still their love is ex- 
 pressed with austere reserve, and our pity for the 
 death of H^emon is left subordinate to our awe of 
 the retribution which it inflicts on the cruelty of 
 Creon. 
 
 If we are to find among the Dorians the earliest 
 and purest type of the Hellenic mind, we cannot 
 suppose that, in those Dorian states which preserved 
 the longest their ethnical idiosyncrasies, the Muses 
 were the handmaids of Aphrodite. Crete, which 
 exhibits the most primitive development of the true 
 Dorian character, and to Avhicli Midler assigns the
 
 3G0 THE IXFLITENX'E OF LOVE UPON 
 
 oi-i_i;-in of tlic rcli<^i()us poetry ami music of" tlie Doric 
 race,* has left us one of its popular cliaiits, dating 
 from a very remote antiquity. Of this song, justly 
 admired hy scholars, 1 will cite a spirited translation 
 by the late Sir D. K. Sandford, which may at least 
 serve to show how little the Cretan Mars was subdued 
 by a Cretan A'enus. 
 
 IlIE SONG OF IIYBRIAS THE CRETAN. 
 
 " My wealth is here — the sword, the spear, the breast-defending 
 
 shiukl ; 
 With this 1 pluiigli, with this I sow, with this I reap the 
 
 fiehl, 
 ^^'ith this I tread the luscious grape and drink the Llood-red 
 
 wine ! 
 And slaves around in order wait, and all are counted mine. 
 
 But he that will not rear the lance upon the battle-field, 
 Nor sway the sword, nor stand behind the breast-defending 
 
 shield, 
 On lowly knee must worship me, with sei'vile kiss adored, 
 And peaJ the cry of homage high, and hail me mighty lord." 
 
 The Spartans, in whom we recognise the most 
 illustrious representatives of the Doric race, were little 
 likely to adapt to amorous madrigals their national 
 music, "which," saith their erudite and eulogistic 
 historian (Midler), " was calculated to strengthen the 
 mind against the attacks of passion." Their soil did 
 not grow love-singers ; when they wanted one, they 
 borrowed him. Alcman was by birth a Lydian of 
 Sardis : brought very young into Laconia as a slave, 
 his master discovered his genius, and emancipated 
 him ; and among his poems, of which but fragments 
 remain, there w^ere many devoted to love, by no 
 means " calculated to strengthen the mind against 
 the attacks of passion." But he seems to have been 
 as ardently addicted to eating and driidving as he 
 was to love. Enough of his verse remains to show 
 that he was fond of confectionary, and enjoyed an 
 
 * MiilUr'.s 'Dorians,' Oxfonl translutioii, vol. ii. p. 343.
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 361 
 
 excellent digestion. Indeed, lie boasts of deserving 
 the epithet " voracious." Nevertheless, the solemn 
 Spartans not only delighted in this jovial sensualist, 
 but were anxious to appropriate to their land the 
 honour of producing him. The Sardian slave was 
 naturalised, and styled emphatically " the Laconian 
 Poet." Milller, who accommodates his great learning, 
 and still greater intellect, to his systematic desire of 
 dignifying the Spartan genius somewhat overmuch 
 at the expense of the Athenian, though allowing, 
 indeed, that Alcman was of Lydian origin, decides 
 with a curtness altogether Laconian against the judg- 
 ment of most of the best authorities, " corroborated 
 incidentally," says Colonel Mure, very truly, " by 
 Alcman himself," that Sparta had really produced 
 this classical minne-singer, to whom, so far as we 
 know, not one attribute generical to Spartan cha- 
 racter can be assigned. 
 
 But how reconcile the Lydian's poetry to the 
 Spartan's taste ? Colonel Mure, a man of the world 
 as well as a scholar, which is more likely to be the 
 case with an English colonel than a German pro- 
 fessor, suggests that the Spartans probably enjoyed 
 on the sly much which they sanctimoniously rebuked 
 in public. Says the Colonel, speaking out like a man 
 who has equally known the discipline of a drill and 
 the social ease of a mess-table, " From all this it 
 w^ould appear that the ascetic contempt for sensual 
 indulgence, on which the Spartans afterwards prided 
 themselves, had not yet been fully matured ; or that 
 the legislative rigour of their public morality was 
 compatible, in the days of Alcman, with much freedom 
 of social habits." * Not only in the days of Alcman, 
 but I suspect as long as Sparta was Sparta ! A people 
 constitutionally grave like the relief of a pleasantry. 
 No people at this day are more sincerely and more 
 seriously moral than the Scotch, and no people on 
 
 * Mure's ' Critical History of the Language and Literature of Ancient 
 Greece,' vol. iii. p. 201 (on Alcman).
 
 3r;2 Tin: INFM'HXCK UF I.dVK CrON 
 
 this earth more Irniikly relisli a joke; if the joke be 
 good, not tlie less l)ecaiise it is broad. Tlie wliy is 
 sufficiently clear — a grave people is haiif^hty. Ac- 
 cording to Ilobhes, the soin-ce of laughter must be 
 sought in the sense of superiority. The grave, there- 
 fore, laugh at the levities to which they feel them- 
 selves superior, and the gravest nations will always 
 have the liveliest sense of humour. If there be a 
 nation in Europe in modern days graver than the 
 British, it is the Spanish ; and the only nation in 
 Europe that equals, and perhaps excels, the British 
 in luxuriance of humour (witness Quevedo, Cervantes, 
 and indeed the popular language, stuffed full with 
 hmnorous proverbs), is the Spanish. 
 
 But if, in spite of his cognomen as the "Laconinn 
 poet," Alcman was no native of Sparta, I am inclined 
 to assign to that commonwealth of soldiers the soldierly 
 poet, far more akin to its national character ; and, to 
 judge by the fragments extant, of far higher worth 
 in himself both as poet and man ; I believe that 
 Tyrta3us was really the son of " rocky Laconia." We 
 may dismiss, with approval of all the best recent 
 critics, English and German, the myth that Tyrtceus 
 w^as a lame schoolmaster at Aj^hidnte in Attica. His 
 progenitors might very probably belong to Aphidna) 
 (with which Sparta had connection) ; but it seems to 
 me impossible to read what remains of Tyrtasus himself, 
 and not come to the conclusion that verses so ardently 
 patriotic, and so impressed with the special attributes 
 of the Spartan character, must have been composed by 
 a })orn Lacedaemonian.* But Tyrtfeus tells us to look 
 for human beauty oti the face, not of the living mistress, 
 but of the youth who has died for his native land. 
 
 Alca^us, Anacreon, Sajipho, among the earlier 
 Greek poets, were sufficiently erotic ; but they were 
 natives of lands coloured by Oriental skies, and they 
 
 * Sec an able article on Tyrta'us, summing up with m-oat fairness the 
 pros and cons of his Laconian origin, in Dr. Hmilli's 'Dictionary of 
 Grecian and Roman Biography and Mythology.'
 
 LITERATUEE AND REAL LIFE. 363 
 
 had the Asiatic temperament if they had the Hellenic 
 genius. 
 
 If we look to Athens as representing the most 
 purely European type of the poetic and intellectual 
 development of Greece, it is not till the Athenians 
 passed under the influence of the East — not till the 
 generation succeeding the men who had fought at 
 Marathon had acquired familiar acquaintance with 
 Oriental modes of thought, and the Hetseras, adventur- 
 ous ladies chiefly from the colonies of Asia Minor, had 
 risen into a power amidst the social circles of grey 
 philosojohy, as well as of youtliful fashion- — that Love 
 began to take an authority in classic fiction akin to 
 that which he now usurps in the modern. 
 
 With Euripides commences the important distinc- 
 tion, in the analysis of which all the most refined and 
 intellectual of modern erotic literature consists — viz., 
 the distinction between love as a passion and love as 
 a sentiment. Even in Sappho, love is but a vehe- 
 ment emotion of the heart or the senses — with Euri- 
 pides it is something more ; it is an occupation of the 
 intellect — it is a mystery to fathom — a proljlem to 
 solve. Love with him not only feels, but it reasons — 
 reasons perhaps ov-ermuch. Be that as it may, he is 
 the first of the Hellenic poets who interests us intel- 
 lectually in the antagonism and affinity between the 
 sexes. He seems to have made a study of woman. 
 Nor is it true (as has often been inconsiderately said) 
 that he libels what he had studied. It is the height 
 of assurance in Aristophanes to prefer that charge 
 specially against him in a comedy that comprises the 
 most truculent satire against the sex. Indeed, not 
 our own wittiest woman-hater. Swift himself, has 
 offered insults so gross -to the dignity of woman, so 
 barbarouslv caricatured the ideal likeness in which 
 she is limned by the Muse, so foully bespattered the 
 charmed veil in which she is half concealed by the 
 Grace, as has been done by the accuser of Euripides 
 in the riotous sport of his mighty and merciless
 
 304 TllK LNFLUEXCE Ol- J.UVE UPON 
 
 genius. Eui-ipides presents to us in Alcestis tlie 
 loveliest ideul of womanly devotion, tliouf^li he also 
 presents to us in ^Medea a jiieture of the fiend to 
 whicli jealousy converts a woman. Still he is care- 
 ful to preserve, even to Meilea, all her himian ex- 
 cuses, and .to leave her a fi:randeur which Hatters 
 her sex, in spite of the tragic atrocities with which 
 she avenges her wrongs upon ours. This, in iiict, 
 is the compliment that Euripides pays to wnnnen ; 
 and for this, in his own age, he was probably the 
 most blamed — viz., tliat he is the first poet who lifts 
 woman up to an intellectual equality with man ; nay, 
 indeed, sometimes assigns to her intellectually the 
 superior rank, wdiether for good or for evil. Beside 
 Medea, Jason is a miserable wretch, who excuses his 
 infideHty by tlie paltriest motives. He could not do 
 a better worldly thing, being an exile, than marry a 
 king s daughter ! — it would be so good for the chil- 
 dren ! — they could be so much better educated ! He 
 disowns every kind of passion — he has no hate for 
 Medea, no love for another. He hints that it would 
 be a great blessing 'if men could be born without any 
 help from women at all (an idea which Shakspeare, 
 ^lilton, and Sir Thomas Browne have very eloquently 
 re-echoed) ; and declares that Medea would not cen- 
 sure him for so prudent a mode of getting on in the 
 world if she were not a woman — but all women are 
 so unreasonable ! Certainly here Jason is not heroic 
 — Medea is. So, in the ' Alcestis,' the woman plays 
 a much sublimer part than the man. Alcestis, a 
 cliaste and charming wife, yields herself to Death in 
 order to save the life of her husl)and. Such a wnfe 
 might reconcile Shakspeare, Milton, and even Sir 
 Thomas Browne, to the dispensation of Providence, 
 who did create 
 
 " This fair defect 
 Of Nature ; and not fill the world at first 
 With men, as angels, without feminine." * 
 
 * Milton.
 
 LITERATUEE AND REAL LIFE. 365 
 
 According'ly, Death carries off Alcestis. Her 
 hnsbancl, Admetiis, mourns for her, deeply, tenderly ; 
 but still he accepts the sacrifice, and consoles himself 
 by accusing liis father, in the rudest terms, for not 
 having saved his daughter-in-law by offering himself 
 to Death. An argument thereon ensues, in wliich 
 his father has much the best of it. In short, in these 
 two dramas we have woman's love at its best and its 
 worst ; in both, the woman is exceedingly grand, and 
 in both the man is exceedingly vulgar. 
 
 Being a man myself, I venture humbly to doubt 
 whetlier, in this contrast, Euripides has rendered to 
 his own sex impartial justice ; but I do not doubt 
 that, in the dignity with which, be she good or bad, 
 woman is here invested, Euripides revolutionised the 
 character of all previous love-poetry — represented a 
 highly civilized age, in which woman had become ex- 
 tremely accomplished ; and that in this we must trace 
 the main reason why, though inferior to ^Eschylus 
 and Sophocles as a poet, Euripides has exercised, and 
 ever will exercise, a much more immediate influence 
 over the dramatic literature of civilized nations. In 
 ^schylus speak the Demigods — in Sophocles speak 
 the Greeks, Euripides, amidst many j)hilosophical pe- 
 dantries, many pohtical impertinences, — amidst much 
 that is positively anti-poetic, still, with the beat of a 
 heart that had known great sorrows, with the thought 
 of a brain informed by magnificent teachers, represents 
 civilized man and civilized woman in all lands and in 
 all ages — passionate in the midst of reason — reasoning 
 in the midst of passion. And hence, perhaps, it was 
 that the Delphian oracle said, " wise ^schylus, wiser 
 Sophocles, wisest Euripides ! " Wisest he certainly 
 was, because he dealt most with humanity ; beyond 
 humanity no human wisdom can reach. Above it 
 we may soar, but not through wisdom ; solely through 
 that which every child comprehends in his heart. 
 The influence which Love had thus acquired on the 
 
 VOL. II. 2 B
 
 ..<>'! 'I'm; iNTiA'KNfK or i,oyi- ttox 
 
 tragic stagv, soon ]»ecame yet nioie l:niiili:iily visildc 
 on the comic. 
 
 A Mniander was tlie iiicvital)lc consequence of 
 an Knri))i(les. Anil, t(; jndj^e of" tlie eflect wliicli tin's 
 aniialtle l>iit tronMesomc deity liad Ity tliat time at- 
 taineil in Athenian society, we must look, not, alas ! 
 to Mrnander himself — for of him oidy fjaf^'ments 
 remain — l)Ut to that politest of the Latin poets, in 
 whom modern comedy acknowledges its most ])opular 
 model, and who is styled by Cicero " Menandei-'s in- 
 terpreter " — viz. T E RE X CE . 
 
 That author has, no doubt, exercised his discretion 
 ill altering, not always, perhaps, for the better, the 
 j)lots of Menander and Apollodorus ; but he has left 
 unchanged the passions and the manners transferred 
 from the Greek originals. His comedies, without 
 a single exception, turn upon love. Love is made 
 the great business of the young man's life. He feels 
 its power with far more intensity, and far more devo- 
 tion of faith, than the heroes of Congreve, Farquhar, 
 or even Slieridan. Pampliilus, in the ' Andrian,' 
 will not desert Gly cerium, " though he make all 
 mankind his foes." ••' Farewell those," he exclaims, 
 " who would put us asunder. Death, only death 
 shall part us." * When he learns that Glycerium 
 is an Athenian citizen, and that his marriage with 
 her is sanctioned and legitimate, he exclaims, in that 
 true and earnest poetry of passion which demands 
 extravagance of expression to express extravagance 
 of emotion — " that as the eternity of the gods is 
 proved by the permanence of their joys, my soul 
 hath its content so absolute, that I too am im- 
 mortal ! " f 
 
 * ' And.' act iv. scene 2. 
 
 t ' And.' act v. scene 5. This passage is taken from the ' Eunuch ' of 
 Mcnaiider, and transferred by Terence to the ' An<lrian ' by the same 
 author. — Donatus. In the text 1 have iM^rrowed from Cohnan's translation, 
 in which he elegantly adapts a line from Othello to Lis version of the 
 passionate burst, " Nam mihi immortalitas parfa 'st."
 
 LITEEATURE AND EEAL LIFE. 367 
 
 Nothing in the modern drama is more im- 
 passioned than Phaadria's parting admonition to 
 Thais:— 
 
 " All night and day love me, still long for me ; 
 Dream, ponder still of me ; wish, hope for me, 
 Delight in me ; be all in all with me. 
 Give your whole heart for mine — all yours to me." * 
 
 I avail myself of Colman's translation, but it 
 does not do justice to the strength of the closing 
 line : — 
 
 " Meus fac sis postremo animus, quando ego sum tuus." 
 
 The excess of passion in the Greek original, Terence 
 has sometimes tamed to the more sober taste of his 
 Eoman audience. Thus, in the Adelphi (act ii. 
 scene 5), Ctesipho, being crossed in love, would fly 
 his country. In Menander, the lover was about to 
 destroy himself. 
 
 The contrast between love pure and faithful, and 
 love transient and mercenary, is exquisitely sketched 
 by Bacchis, the Hetagra, to the modest and charming 
 Antiphilaf — 
 
 " Bacchis. Our gallants. 
 
 Charmed by our beaiity, court us but for that, 
 Which fading, they transfer their love to others. 
 If then, meanwhile, we look not to ourselves, 
 We live forlorn, deserted, and distressed ; 
 You, when you've once agreed to pass your life 
 Bound to one man whose temper suits with yours, 
 He, too, attaches his whole heart to you. 
 Thus mutual friendship draws you each to each ; 
 Nothing can part you — nothing shake your love. 
 
 Antiphila. — I know not others. For myself I know 
 From his content I ever drew my own." — Colman. 
 
 In the very remarkable play of the ' Stepmother,' 
 which appears to have been, yet more rigidly and 
 verbally than the other Latin comedies quoted, a 
 copy from the Greek, the whole passion is entirely 
 
 * ' Eun.' act i. scene 1. f ' Heautont.' act ii. scene 3. 
 
 2 B 2
 
 3G8 TIIK IN'FLUKNCK OF LOVE UPON 
 
 domestic, resting- solely between hiislaiid and wife. 
 And the generosity of the Imsbaiul, who conceals, 
 from ]>ity and afl'ection and a consciousness of his 
 own earlier wrongs to his wife, an ap])arent dis- 
 grace that slie has })ronght on liim, and ]irefers 
 rather to seem himself to l)lame, creates a situation 
 of i^nre sentiment not exceeded by any on the 
 German stage. 
 
 The more ancient developments of the Latin 
 Muse, apart from the stage, when unborrowed from 
 tlie Greek, were certaiidy not exhibited in narratives 
 of love. Neither Ennius nor Lucretius is a love poet ; 
 and though the last has a beautiful and glowing in- 
 vocation to Yenus, it occupies but a small numljcr of 
 verses compared with those no less elaborate which 
 he devotes to a description of the Plague. 
 
 Plautus borrows less from the Greek than Terence, 
 and his love - plots are more coarsely humorous. 
 They express a good deal of noisy headstrong animal 
 passion, but rarely exhibit tlie grace and tenderness 
 of sentiment which is to be found in his rival. In- 
 deed the comedy in whicli he most invests human 
 affection with the heroic dignity of devotion and self- 
 sacrifice (' The Captives '), is the only one of his 
 extant comedies in which no woman at all is in- 
 troduced. The affection described, and which forms 
 his plot, is that of a slave who perils himself to eflect 
 the liberty of his master. 
 
 Just before the outbreak of the civil wars by 
 which the Roman Republic was destroyed, when 
 manners had acquired a voluptuous softness, when 
 Julius Caesar and Clodius had made their bonnes 
 fortunes the town talk, and Flora, a want(3n more 
 cynical tlian Lais, boasted that she had left tlie mark 
 of her teeth among the scars of the majestic Pompey, 
 we perceive in Catullus that Love was beginning to 
 aspire to that insolent pre-eminence which he obtained 
 somewhat later in the verse of Tibiillus, Ovid, and
 
 LITEEATURE AND EEAL LIFE. 369 
 
 Propertiiis. With Propertiiis, indeed, Love is all 
 
 in all. 
 
 " Non hfec Calliope, non hsec milii cantat Apollo, 
 Ingeniiim nobis ipsa puella facit." 
 
 " Tliese songs inspire not Phoebtis nor Calliope ; 
 The girl I sing, herself creates the singer ! " 
 
 Peopeut. lib. i. el. 1. 
 
 And, again, what intense and absolute devotion in 
 the following lines ! — 
 
 " Tn mihi sola domns, tu, Cynthia, sola parentes, 
 Omnia tn nostraa tempora laetitiaj. 
 Sen tristis veniam, sen contra la3tus aniicis 
 Quidquid ero, — dicam ' Cynthia causa fuit ! ' " 
 
 " To me, home, kindred, thon — thou only art ! 
 Cynthia, in thee all joy's returning seasons ; 
 Grieving or glad, whate'er I henceforth be, 
 
 If asked the cause, take ' Cynthia ' for the answer." 
 
 With Yirgil, however. Love is only one power amongst 
 many. The passion of Dido has but little influence 
 on the fortunes of ^neas. Horace, the wisest of 
 the Latin poets — the one in whom knowledge of civi- 
 lized life is perhaps, indeed, more conspicuously dis 
 played than in any lyrical poet in any language — 
 Horace evidently regards love as the relaxation and 
 not as the business of mortal existence ; and it is 
 diflicult to believe that he ever passed through any 
 serious or absorbing emotion in all his alleged flirta- 
 tions with Glycera, Lydia, or Chloe. A very affec- 
 tionate man, he is said to have died of grief, not for 
 the perfidies of P^'rrha, but for the loss of Meecenas. 
 
 In the later poets of the empire, love appears to 
 have passed into that incurable disease of perverted 
 imagination, which is the retributive infirmity of 
 decrepit debauche's. We are only revolted at the 
 pictures he presents to us in the satire of Juvenal 
 and the novel which, if ascribed without sufficient 
 evidence to Petronius Arbiter, is generally held to 
 have been composed not later than the reign of
 
 3.70 THK INFLUENCE OV LOVE I' POX 
 
 Iliulriiin. Anioiij^- tlie poems attril)ntL'(l t(^ Pctroiiius 
 Arbiter, altliouj^li it is coiisidered douljtlul wlietlier 
 lie ever ^vrote any of them, tliere is, liowever, one 
 exquisite love-strain, wliich some modern poets of 
 eminence (inclndiiii:^ Beaumont and Fletcher) liaA^e 
 imitated, hut failed to e(iual — viz. " Lydia, hella 
 puella,"' c^c* 
 
 One ])rose fiction, indeed, the later ]{oman empire 
 can boast, — 'The Golden Ass' of Apuleiiis, which 
 contains, in the episode of Cupid and Psyche, the 
 most beautiful allegory, veiling love not sensual but 
 spiritual, that has ever been composed. In that tale, 
 all which has been said by the most refining novelists 
 of modern times, in homage to a love heaven-born 
 and eternal, is symbolised with a delicacy of senti- 
 ment, compared to which De Stael's ' Corinne ' is 
 commonplace, and Rousseau's ' Julie ' prosaic. But 
 A]')uleius was no native of Europe — he was an 
 African ; and as he confessedly did but paraphrase 
 and enlarge his general fiction from others much 
 more ancient, so I have no doubt that he himself 
 never invented, and probably did not even improve, 
 the wonderful legend of Cupid and Psyche, which 
 forms the loveliest part of his story ; that that legend 
 is of far earlier date, and contains the germ of Asiatic 
 fable, cultivated as an exotic by the Platonists of 
 Egypt. I have read with some care all the ext^ant 
 works of Apuleius, and, though they are not with- 
 out talent, and are sufiiciently amusing in parts, yet 
 they contain not a spark of the dazzling fancy, not 
 a trace of the elevated philosophy, which combine in 
 the myth that narrates the love, the severance, the 
 trials, and the celestial reunion of Sense and Soul. It 
 has been considered, with plausibility, that the story 
 of Cupid and Psyche was among the lost novels of 
 
 * This poem has also been ascriljcd to Callus — though it boars evi- 
 dence of much later date — and is perhaps of the same period as tlie " Per- 
 vigilium Veneris," which the earlier scholars assigned some to Gallus, some 
 to Catullus, but which later critics incline to suppose a composition of the 
 time of Hadrian, and proliably liy Aniueus Florus.
 
 LITERATUEE AND REAL LIFE. 371 
 
 Miletus, tlmt flower of the early culture of Asia 
 Minor. 
 
 To tlie East, then, we must generally look for the 
 origin of erotic literature. There it still flourishes, 
 not only among the polite societies of Persia, not 
 only among the tented tribes of the melancholy 
 Arab, but in still greater vigour where manners have 
 been the least subjected to change. To judge by all 
 that we know of the literature of the Chinese from 
 translation or the report of competent scholars, love is 
 the prevalent theme of their poetry, their drama, their 
 novels. If there be any truth in the surmise of the 
 learned Jesuit, who, comparing Chinese with Egyptian 
 customs, came to the conclusion that the Chinese were 
 a colony from Egypt, we may perhaps find in Chinese 
 literature fragments of tales which deli2:hted the lei- 
 sure of the Pharaohs, nay, perhaps attracted swarthy 
 listeners on the banks of Nile before the Pyramids 
 were built. 
 
 Into our own land Love, then, penetrated into our 
 poetry, as, in Greek legend^ Evian first appeared upon 
 Parnassus — fresh from the Land of the Morn, flushed 
 with a divine inebriety, taming the panthers and 
 maddening the nymphs. Chaucer receives him from 
 the Proven9al and the Italian, as they had received 
 him from the Saracen and Arab. Where Chaucer, 
 however, appears to write most from his own Anglo- 
 Norman inspiration, love is not very serious. His 
 native Yenus is, like that of Horace, accompanied by 
 Jest and Whim.* Not till the time of Elizabeth can 
 Love be said to have attained to that solemn authority 
 in imaginative literature which poet and novelist now 
 accord to his sway. He is on his throne in Arcadia 
 with Sir Philij^ Sidney. His brows are girt with 
 the halo of Apollo, his locks glistening with the 
 purest dews of Castaly, in the faery song of Spenser. 
 
 Shakspeare, however, deals with him most as the 
 
 * I need scarcely say that the table of ' Palaniou and Arcitc ' is bur- 
 rowed from an Italian oriainal.
 
 372 niE INFLUENCE OF LOVE U1\)N 
 
 iiiiui \\]u) liaJ really known liim ; known liim in his 
 })l:iyt"ul laii<»;htL'i', in his clesj)airing tears — in his awi'ul 
 tL']ii|K'st, in his celestial sunshine. 
 
 We may douht whether (MiaiK-<.'r experienced in 
 his own life more of actual love than ;i chivalrous 
 fantasy or a light intrigue : we may doubt whether 
 the Florimel that really subdued Spenser were not 
 a Florimel of snow. Ijut no man whose heart has 
 beat with a genuine passion can read Shakspeai'e 
 and doubt that Shakspeare bad felt what he de- 
 scribes. He might imagine the love of a Miranda 
 and a Ferdinand ; but the extravagance of a Romeo, 
 the jealousy of an Othello, have the vitality of remi- 
 niscence. Hence Shakspeare's profound knowledge 
 of the many varieties in Woman — a knowledge in 
 which he is not only unapproached by, but almost 
 solitary amidst, his contemporaries and predecessors. 
 The heroines of Beaumont and F'letcher have but 
 little of the genuine woman ; the female characters 
 in Ben Jonson might be drawn by a man who only 
 knew woman by the descriptions he had read of her in 
 the ancients. And tlierefore Shakspeare, while allow- 
 ing to Love all his true power over life, and clothing 
 that power in all its manifold pomp of attributes, still 
 maintains the due rank of the other great movers of 
 the world — pride and ambition ; the desire of fame ; 
 the sense of duty ; the thirst of revenge ; the cravings 
 of ill-regulated intellect ; the philosophy of sated pas- 
 sions ; the sophistry of tempted conscience. When 
 the Drama returned to a place in our literature with 
 the restoration of the Stuarts, it is needless to describe 
 the profligate swagger with which Love remounts 
 his throne, and reigns without even a check from that 
 noble sentiment by which Shakspeare had curbed 
 his tendency to a sensual despotism. Since then, his 
 excesses have been limited by the prudent decorum 
 of an age less tolerant to tyrants ; but still he has 
 l)een established as a monarch on the stage by popular 
 sufirage quite as firmly as if seated there in riglit
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 373 
 
 divine ; and I know not whether his power be not 
 really tlie greater for the restraints imjDosed upon its 
 licentious exercise. 
 
 In our English literature, it was long before Love 
 extended his dominion from Song and the Stage to 
 the wide and variegated realm of the Novel. By- 
 Novel I mean not the prose poem of purely imagi- 
 native romance, like the ' Arcadia,' but the repre- 
 sentation of contemporary life and manners. With 
 Smollett and Fielding there is much lusty gallantry, 
 but very feeble love. One cannot persuade one's self 
 that Sopliy and Narcissa exercise a dominant in- 
 fluence over the lives and characters of Tom Jones 
 and Roderick Random. 
 
 Richardson is the first of our novelists who set 
 the fashion of concentrating all the interest of human 
 life upon the war between man and woman. With 
 what wondrous patience he depicts the siege of Clarissa 
 and the stratagems of Lovelace ! In that narrative, 
 so full and so long, there is no other interest for 
 a moment but this, " What will Lovelace do with 
 Clarissa, and what will Clarissa do with Lovelace ?" 
 
 The effect thus produced by Richardson on the 
 craft of the novelist has been general and durable. 
 Of all our novelists, with the single exception of Scott, 
 he is the one whose influence has been the most pro- 
 found and the most pervading on the literature of 
 foreign nations. I doubt whether even the ' Werther ' 
 of Goethe or the ' Nouvelle Heloise ' of Rousseau 
 would ever have been written if ' Clarissa Harlowe ' 
 had not laid the trains of thought that led to their 
 composition. In France, more especially, even to 
 this day, three-fourths of the novels that treat ex- 
 clusively of the Tempter and the Tempted may be as 
 clearly traced to Richardson as three-fourths of the 
 metaphysical works that inculcate materialism may 
 be traced to Locke ; — so true is that aphorism in 
 Tacitus, " The worst is the corruption of the best." 
 Johnson says, " That Richardson taught the passions
 
 374 THE INFLUENCE OF f-OVE TI'ON 
 
 to move at tlie cominaiid of virtue." 'J'lie savini:; is 
 imposiiio-j luit it will not hear exainiiiatiuii. Jiicli- 
 aidson taught a sin<j;le passion to move towards tlie 
 deposition of all tlie other grand passions by w^hich, 
 in a man of Lovelace's exquisite genius, we might 
 sup]")Osc that one passion to be counter.'icted and con- 
 trolled. And when passion is adorned with all that 
 wit, courage, grace, youth, and beauty can bestow on 
 it, and moves against viitue, virtue docs not command 
 passion because it has the riglit to reprove, and may 
 have the authority to punish it. Moralists in Bolt 
 Court may feel tliat no admiration for Lovelace can 
 lessen their solemn sympathy wnth virtue ; but drop 
 Lovelace down in Mayfair or the Chaiissee d'Antin — 
 nay, in any rural village green, where some guileless 
 Clarissa is just fresh from the Sunday school — and, 
 let Lovelace move against Virtue, Lovelace will win 
 the day. The fault of Richardson, however, is not 
 in having made a criminal hero extremely interesting, 
 for that every true artist in fiction must necessarily 
 do whenever he employs criminal heroes for aesthetic 
 ends, and Shakspeare has no heroes who interest an 
 audience more than his criminals do : Richardson's 
 fault is in making, throughout so minute a record of 
 liuman existence, the main object of a clever man's 
 life to be the siege of a woman's virtue, and the main 
 object of a clever woman's life to be her defence from 
 the unprincipled but charming invader. But if this 
 be a fault of conception (]KThaps it is hypercritical 
 to call it one), the fault vanishes amidst the splendours 
 of art and genius with wdiicli the execution of the 
 design is accomplished. 
 
 While Richardson has been thus influential over 
 the greatest authors of prose fiction on the Continent, 
 he has been no less potent over the very feeblest of 
 such writers as we in England read but do not boast 
 of. Certainly few of our fashionable novelists have 
 ever read Richardson, but nine-tenths of r)ur fashion- 
 able novelists are exclusively erotic. Take the love-
 
 LITEKATUEE AND REAL LIFE. 375 
 
 story away from their plots, and, insipid though the 
 love-story be, nothing of a plot would remain. Now, 
 those nine-tenths of our fashionable novelists would 
 never have been erotic if Richardson, whom they 
 have never read, had not written. Men always 
 borrow the most from the writers they have not 
 read. Any one you meet between Pail-Mall and 
 Temple Bar will say, if you so humour your talk 
 with him, something about the law of gravitation ; 
 but you will not meet one man in a hundred thousand 
 who has ever read Newton. Thought travels like 
 light, and you can no more trace thought to one 
 author than you can trace light to one star. 
 
 It must, however, be admitted that the most 
 eminent of our novelists in the present day, while 
 they have not perhaps analysed Love less profoundly, 
 nor depicted it less vividly, than their predecessors 
 in England, or even their brilliant contemporaries in 
 France, have yet limited its sway more justly to its 
 normal and ordinary influence over human life. The 
 reason for this must be sought in the manners of our 
 land and time. And having thus treated of the in- 
 fluence of Love upon imaginative literature, so it is 
 necessary to the completion of the task I have rashly 
 undertaken, that I should hazard some speculative 
 suggestions as to that proportionate place and rank 
 which the passion of Love really occupies in practical 
 Hfe." 
 
 Here Metellus paused a moment, and then 
 modestly said, after the usu[d fashion of lengthy 
 speakers, " I fear that I have shamefully abused the 
 pledge of self-restraint imposed upon G-allus, whose 
 impatience I have more than once perceived ; but it 
 was necessary to clear my way to the higher, and, I 
 hope, more interesting division of my subject, by a 
 variety of critical illustrations extending over a very 
 wide surface. Shall I proceed and finish at once all 
 I have to say, or shall we adjourn the debate ? "
 
 37G THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 To a question tliiis decidedly ])Ut J, as host to tlie 
 lecturer, eoiild make Init one answer. "Pray proceed. 
 It is not till I lia\ (' lieard tlie second part of your 
 erudite essay that I can clearly understand the aim 
 of your purpose in the first. Besides, I am anxious 
 to learn, when Gallus asserts his ]>rivilege of reply, 
 what part of a discourse that appeared to me the 
 reverse of exciting, and, indeed, singularly inoffensive 
 and unprovocative, should have roused within him 
 the indignation which is still visible in his lowering 
 countenance ! " " Inoffensive ! unprovocative ! " ex- 
 claimed Gallus ; " you apply those epithets to the 
 discourse of Metellus ! you, who have pretended to 
 describe love, and would, I daresay, pretend to have 
 felt it!" "Gallus, be not personal," said I. "Mind 
 your own business, which is to answer Metellus if 
 you can. Meanwhile, I repeat, let him proceed." 
 Gallus folded his arms, closed his eyes, and resigned 
 himself, muttering, "Horace, like Shakspeare, is 
 quotable on every occasion of life — 
 
 ' Dunini : sed levius fit paticntia.' "
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 377 
 
 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON THE GENERAL 
 CONDITIONS OF HUMAN LIFE. 
 
 Metellus thus resumed : — 
 
 " Providence has placed in the human heart a 
 disposition intimately connected with the instinct of 
 the senses, hut still plainly distinguishable from their 
 mere animal law — viz., a tendency to selection and 
 preference of one human being apart from the rest of 
 his sex or hers ; with whom, while the preference 
 last, it seems as if joj^s were doubled and griefs 
 were halved. 
 
 This preference, both in its early stages and in its 
 lengthened duration, may be, and commonly is, either 
 wholly independent of the instinct I have referred 
 to, or, if affected by it, the influence is not discern- 
 ible. The new-born reverence which the youth feels 
 for the virgin to whom his heart is unaccountably 
 attached at first sight, and the first favouring thought 
 that the virgin bestows on him from whose gaze her 
 own eyes fall confused, are certainly as pure from 
 any consciousness of ignobler passion as, in the Per- 
 sian poetry, is the attraction of the nightingale to 
 the rose. And, supposing this strange and mutual 
 preference to be followed by nuptial union, long 
 years afterwards, in the winter of old age, it may 
 still as serenely cheer the atmosphere around it, 
 though its light be no longer fused in the colours 
 that it took from the senses. At the verge of the 
 grave it will regain the purity which distinguished 
 its image when it first revealed itself on earth, chaste 
 in its native tenderness, like a gentle visitant from 
 heaven. 
 
 Nor is this preference necessarily, nor even 
 usually, caused by those attributes which, a physio-
 
 378 'I'lIK IXFLUEXCK OF LOVE UPON 
 
 log:ist might tell us, ajipeal the most f()rcil)ly to the 
 intelligence of the senses. !Men do not choose their 
 helpmates as the Spartan kings were ordained to 
 choose their wives — from the sujieriority of strength 
 and stature which may lit them to be robust wives 
 and teeming mothers. Nor, despite all that is said, 
 and said truly, in commendation of beauty, is beauty 
 essential to that mysterious preference which singles 
 out one human being from the rest of earth. 
 
 Descartes — who had known love, and who treats 
 of it witli a quaint eclecticism of romantic sentiment 
 and surgical anatomy — tells us that he found himself 
 especially attracted by a squint in the female face ; 
 and, pondering upon the cause of that effect on his 
 heart, traced it to his boyish fancy for a girl wdio had 
 a cast in her eye. But, always a philosopher, even 
 in his weaknesses, when he had once thus solved, by 
 the law of association, the mystery of strabismal 
 fascination, he conquered the fascination itself, and 
 the magical squint lost its charm. Unquestionably, 
 however, it is common enough to us all to feel a 
 peculiar impulsion of the heart towards some general 
 type of countenance or some specialty of feature, not 
 on account of its beauty, but on account of its resem- 
 blance to the first woman-face by which the heart 
 was troubled and charmed. The trains of emotion 
 return to their former tracks according as the image 
 which caused their first movement is brought back to 
 us, though but in dreams. 
 
 Beauty is the rarest of earthly gifts — incompar- 
 ably more rare than even genius; and if only the 
 beautiful were loved, lovers would form not a popular 
 Republic but an invidious Oligarchy. Perhaps, on 
 tlie contrary, persons eminently beautiful, if the most 
 flattered, are the least loved. And there is a certain 
 degree of truth in a current af)horism, " That no 
 afiection is so lasting as that for an ngly woman." 
 
 A great deal of acquired vanity, rather than im- 
 pulsive preference, goes to the courtship men render
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 379 
 
 to an acknowledged beauty. It is a great thing to 
 have at one's hearth, as on one's wall, a picture that 
 all will admire. Real and lasting preference is in 
 proportion to its freedom from all corrupting motives 
 in its choice — all admixture from vanity and pride, 
 as well as from avarice or ambition. Nine-tenths of 
 what passes for the love of another are but the re- 
 flections of self-love. Thus no men are so courted 
 by women as those who are distinguished for some- 
 thing which the world admires in men as it admires 
 beauty in women ; for instance, fame, no matter how 
 little women can comprehend the qualities by wdiich 
 the fame be achieved. It is said that Sir Humphry 
 Davy received more love-letters in a day than any 
 handsome young Guardsman would receive in a 
 year, and that the Hero of Waterloo was favoured 
 with more declarations of passionate attachment when 
 he had passed the age of eighty than had ever greeted 
 him when in the prime of life as the comparatively 
 obscure Colonel Wellesley. 
 
 Men thus are often moved to pay courtship to 
 beauty as women make advances to fame ; — seeking 
 less to appropriate to themselves that which they 
 love than that which is admired. 
 
 There is a pleasant anecdote, in Tallamant's Me- 
 moirs, of the -Due de Gruise (son of Balafre'), who, 
 after a long courtship, prevailed upon a fashionable 
 beauty to grant him a private interview. The lady, 
 observing him very restless, asked what ailed him. 
 " Ah, Madame," answered the gallant, " I ought to 
 have been off long ago to communicate my good 
 fortune to all my friends." Men often marry cele- 
 brated beauties as the most decorous way of flattering 
 their vanity by parading a honne fortune. 
 
 But what is it that really attracts the heart of the 
 one human being towards the other, apart from the 
 qualities that allure the senses or inflame the vanity? 
 That is the insoluble enigma. Well does the Latin 
 elegiast say, " In love there is no wherefore," " Quare
 
 380 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 non lial)ot. iillns amor," — a tlioii^^lit, wliicli lias ])een 
 thus prettily expaiided by one of our old j)oets : — 
 
 "Keason and wisdom iuc to love lii<^Ii tiea«uii, 
 
 Nor can ho ti-uly lovo 
 
 ^Vhosr flame's not far above 
 And far Leyond his art or reason. 
 Tlien ask no reason for my files, 
 For infinite arc my desires. 
 Somethinj:; tlicre is mnvos mo to lovo ; and I 
 Do know 1 love, Imt know not liow or wliy ! " * 
 
 A clever man sees a girl in wliom no one else 
 recognises attraction, and falls in lovo witli her. A 
 charming woman sees a man to whom others can 
 concede nothing to captivate the eye or win the 
 fancy, and falls in love with him : — 
 
 " "Why did she love him? Cnrions f(Xtl, lie still ; — 
 Ls human love the growth of human will ? " 
 
 So sings the poet of our time, to whom Nature 
 gave all tliat we can suppose most captivating to the 
 eye, the fancy, and the heart of woman, and who 
 never seems to have been heartily loved by any 
 one woman out of the many whom he wooed, tlioug'h 
 he united a Ijeauty more haunting than Raffaele's, 
 with the melody of a song more eloquent than 
 Petrarch's. 
 
 I remember a lady in the great world who ap- 
 peared the inanest mere woman of fasliion, to whom 
 satire would ascribe "no character at all." She had 
 rank, wealth, that social station which in itself is, 
 through pride, a ju'eservative of virtue ; she had that 
 personal liberty for the gratification of every whim, 
 which the most indulgent of husbands has not often 
 the temper to concede or the opulence to afford. 
 One night, at a provincial ball, in which she was the 
 greatest personage, a female friend, on whose arm 
 she was leaning, felt her hand tremble, and said, in 
 surprise and alarm, "• AVhat ails you ? " 
 
 * Alexander Bionie.
 
 LITEEATUEE AND EEAL LIFE. 381 
 
 She answered, faintly, " I see my fate." 
 
 " What do you mean ? " 
 
 " Look there ! " The friend looked where the 
 fine lady directed her eye, and saw, entering the 
 room, a small man with a large nose. 
 
 " Your fate ? " she said, puzzled. " That rather 
 ugly gentleman ? — Do you know him ? " 
 
 " I never saw him before." 
 
 A little while after, that poor lady fled from her 
 splendid home, and she died in a jail to which his 
 debts condemned her seducer. 
 
 I do not palliate the offence of this lady, by 
 pleading the excuse that she would have made for it. 
 No thoughtful mind can accept fate as an excuse for 
 conduct. Conduct is fate all the world over ; and, 
 if it were not, the world, for its own safety, must 
 say that it is. But that preference of which I speak, 
 and which has no wherefore, may sometimes pass 
 through a critical stage in which all the force of 
 reason and conscience is needed to restrain it from 
 that terrible descent into Avernus whence there is 
 no ujDward return. What is that critical stage ? 
 Happily it is not the first, and happily for woman, to 
 whom the punishment is the more awful, it can never 
 come except through her own abandonment of all 
 the outworks which society raises up for her defence. 
 Not one man in a million ever went farther after a 
 decided and contemptuous "No!"; but a Half No 
 from a woman is her most tempting solicitation to 
 man. 
 
 Now, if Love be thus potent during that part of 
 his reign in which he is neither romantic sentiment 
 nor serene affection, but an absorbing monopolising 
 passion. Providence benignly admits, and the social 
 world wisely raises up, ninnerous checks to a tyranny 
 that would otherwise be destructive to moral order 
 and domestic security. A great German poet has 
 said that, in spite of all the laws of philosophy, the 
 world goes on its everlasting way through the two 
 VOL. II. 2 c
 
 382 'llli: INFIXFA'CR OF LOVE ITOX 
 
 master ajxt^ncies, Iliuiij^er and Love. Not so. Tlianks 
 to tlic laws of pliilosopliy, or to tlie })liilosopliy of 
 laws, the world is iiiaintaiiied in its progress l)y the 
 vii;-ilant safeguards and sentinels ini])Osed on the in- 
 vading irruptions of Love and of Hunger. Were all 
 who are hungrv let loose upon pr()})erty, men would 
 soon have nothing to eat unless they devoured each 
 other. Therefore, the common sense of the common 
 interest, by opposing law to the instinct of hunger, 
 and impelling hunger to work, to think, to serve, 
 and to save, for its daily bread, protects the life of 
 all organized societies; and hunger itself becomes 
 thus gradually reduced to a quiet, orderly, and not 
 very visible ministrant to that accumulated wealth 
 by which communities are fed. A poor mechanic, 
 in a civilized state, is rarely stung by hunger to help 
 himself by fraud or by force to the stores of another. 
 He has kept himself from the pressure of a want by 
 the habitual exercise of a virtue. He has forestalled 
 the solicitations of hunger by tlie provident exertion 
 of industry. Li like manner, the common sense of 
 the common interest has protected the social world 
 against the frenzy of love ; and the checks outwardly 
 placed on its excesses have served, like those upon 
 hunger, to correct, regulate, and disci]iline the 
 natural cravings of the instinct within. Thus love, 
 in a very civilized state, is refined, or kept back, 
 by a thousand counteracting suggestions, not of 
 honour and conscience alone, but of calculation, cus- 
 tom, convention. Li our nineteenth century. King 
 Cophetua might certaiidy fall in love with a beggar- 
 girl, but His Majesty would discreetly argue himself 
 very soon out of that unbecoming predilection, and 
 his " preference " would at least never become the 
 admiring theme of the popular ballad-singer. A 
 page might certainly fall in love with King Cophe- 
 tua's daughter, but his " preference " would never go 
 far enough to make him a deserving subject for the 
 Tragic Muse. And so, in the large intermediate
 
 LITEEATURE AND REAL LIFE. 383 
 
 space between monarchs and beggar-girls, in propor- 
 tion as a society higbly educated presents to fancy and 
 aspiration diversified objects and counter-irritants of 
 emotion, Love relaxes his practical bold upon tlie fate 
 of bis votaries ; and vs^ben bis fever comes to tbe crisis, 
 tbe crisis is very soon over, and tbe patient in ordinary 
 cases finds tbat " to bear is to conquer our fate." 
 
 It is fortunate tbat, as society becomes refined 
 and instructed, it should thus engender of itself op- 
 posing agencies to the very passion which would 
 otherwise gain a fatal ])reponclerance in tbe ampler 
 leisure, tbe freer intercourse, the more cultured 
 graces, of communities smoothed into charm by their 
 own frivolities, as diamonds are polished by their 
 own dust. Unquestionably, if we could image to 
 ourselves the picture of a wealthy and luxurious 
 commonwealth, in which there was no other food for 
 excitement, no other vent for those strong emotions 
 of hope and fear which have been called tbe " winds 
 of the soul," than the single occupation of falling in 
 love and falling out of it, we should know that the 
 doom of that commonwealth was sealed. To use 
 the language of astrologers — Yenus and Saturn 
 would be joint-malefics in the House of Death, sub- 
 jected to the direct opposition of Jove. The whole 
 substance of tbe body politic would become cor- 
 rupted : masculine dignity, womanly honour, would 
 disappear ; and love itself, in the emancipation from 
 all salutary control, would, like other liberty carried 
 to excess, lose amid the licence of anarchy the virtues 
 it had acquired under tbe discipline of restraint. 
 
 Indeed, when we look to the old Eastern nations, 
 in which we have sought the origin of tbat exag- 
 gerated influence which love has obtained in the 
 romance of Europe, we may see tbat it was the 
 mal-ora'anization of their society which concentred 
 upon the single idea of love the prurient varieties of 
 imagination diseased. 
 
 Those magnificent satraps had no masculine 
 
 2 c 2
 
 384 TIIK IXFI.rENCR OF LOVE ITON 
 
 career : wliatevcr intellig'cncc tliey possessed, wliat- 
 ever excitement tliey sought, was directed to the 
 o-ratification of sense. And to tlie taste of" those 
 mao:nificent satraps the poet naturally modulated his 
 strains, and the tale-teller adapted his inventions. 
 
 That, in spite of the seclusion of the seraglio, 
 woman found scope for the exercise of that |)ower 
 which it is her strongest tendency to acquire over 
 man, is evident from the anecdotes scattered through 
 Herodotus. And among tlie ladies of the harem 
 were concocted the intrigues by which sultans pe- 
 rished, thouirh beirirt with armaments whose march 
 liad exhausted rivers. Indeed, the Sacred AVritings 
 furnish abundant instances of the influence which 
 women obtained over their Oriental lords; though 
 the lightness of this essay will not allow of illustra- 
 tion from so solemn a source. 
 
 So in the courts of our European mediasval kings, 
 wherein intellectual culture had introduced wants, 
 unsatisfied by tedious conquests or martial forays ; 
 while, being confined to the comparative few, it 
 had not yet stimulated those manlier forces which 
 require the scope and competition that free inter- 
 course with multitudes alone can give — Love, cor- 
 rupted into profligacy, occupied the leisure and 
 inflamed the genius. In France, from the reign of 
 Francis I. to the death of Louis XV., we have the 
 records of a silken circle, in which clever men and 
 accomplished women had little else to do but to de- 
 moralise eacli other. Nay, it is remarkable that 
 wherever intellect is denied, by political laws, the 
 field and the freedom which it is permitted without 
 question to seek in the privileged Saturnalia of 
 Love, there, the more elaborate the cidture, the more 
 polished the refinement — the more the object which 
 our existent philosophy seeks in knowledge becomes 
 defeated, and Vice, instead of being expelled by the 
 Muses, is elected their arbitrary sovereign. 
 
 Glance over the Correspondence which reveals the
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 385 
 
 manners of nobles and scholars, nnited each to each, 
 in the age of the Medici, by a learning so exquisite 
 and a depravity so profound — the sty of Epicurus 
 adorned with the marbles of Phidias — the garbage 
 of a hogwash served up in vessels of silver ! What 
 a type of a whole society in Aretin ! — what a blot 
 upon manhood and scholarship is that personation 
 of intellect corrupted and fancy debauched ! 
 
 In our time, the immense accumulation of images 
 which knowledge, diffused among the many, and 
 expanded therefore to the practical interests of the 
 many, presents to the cultivated mind ; the adapta- 
 tion of sciences to the familiar uses of life ; the ad- 
 mission of political speculation which, even in des- 
 potism, engages men's thoughts, though forbidden to 
 determine their actions ; the numerous fields opened 
 up to the pursuit of wealth and of honours ; the 
 infinite subdivisions of mental labour which have 
 branched out of new competitions and new rewards ; 
 that vast opulence of idea, that teeming variety of 
 life which are brought before us every day in the 
 pages of our newspapers ; — all tend to counteract 
 the autocracy of a single passion, and the morbid 
 indulgence of a single fancy. 
 
 Thus the works of imagination, in which the 
 character of our time has been most faithfully repre- 
 sented, have sought many other sources of interest 
 than that which springs out of a mere love-plot. 
 And although, in writers of inferior genius, Fiction 
 has laboured hard to preserve on its page that arbi- 
 trary Cupid which it took from the Paphos of an 
 exploded mythology, the poor urchin has already a 
 faded old-fashioned air. Readers find that the little 
 archer, " whose arrows no breast can escape, and 
 whose wounds no balsam can heal," is not now-a-days 
 that despot in practical life, ruling " court and camp 
 and grove," which he might have been in days gone 
 by. Perhaps they do not positively say so — for in 
 all superstitions a belief passes away long before men
 
 38G THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 acknowledp^e it lias ])asse(l ; but tliey yawn in tlie face 
 ot'tlic Cupid in wliose smiles or frowns tlieir ancestors 
 revered the mightiest vicissitudes of Fate. 
 
 Docs this seem a melancholy dogma to the young 
 and ardent? Docs it ]>rov(>ke scornful refutation 
 from the lover, who would hlot from his life all the 
 hours that nmst pass ere he see Aminta again? from 
 the maid who believes that all liglit will be gone 
 evermore from the sun, if Phaon prove false to his 
 vows ? Pause and reflect, Aminta ! Phaon ! my 
 moral, when fairly examined, is less mournful and 
 cold than you deem it. In those times and lands 
 wherein love really seems to have been the main 
 spring of existence, was that love worth the having ? 
 Was it the love which would bid the heart yield its 
 life-blood to save from a pang the beloved, and which 
 the soul may bear away without stain when it soars 
 to the realm of the angels? Dost thou, child of 
 our land and our age, honour the love that held sway 
 in the Median seraglios ? in the Pare aux Cerfs of the 
 Bourbon? Ilie love that taints the rose-garden of 
 Aretin with the breath of a cynical devil ? 
 
 Thou sayst "No," with contempt or in shudder ! 
 But these were the times andtlie circles in which love 
 boasted to be the soft despot wliom thou tin nicest I 
 degrade in reducing his sway to the rule of the limited 
 monarch. And if in concrete societies love would 
 cease to be true love were he not held in check ; so, 
 in life, individual love would cease to be true love 
 had he no law but his owai tyrannous will. 
 
 In the course of my career I have had acquaintance 
 with men who have adopted the craft of love-making 
 as their exclusive profession, and among them I have 
 never met one who had known love in good earnest. 
 They might tell you in May that life was a blank 
 without Chloe : meet them in June, and they tell you 
 the blank is filled up. What ! with Chloe ? " Pooh, 
 C'hloe ! — that baggage ! — No. With the nymph I 
 saw yesterday, Daphne ! "
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 387 
 
 In fine, I believe it to be with prosaic Lotharios 
 as with poetic Anacreons — they wlio are always 
 making, and they who are always writing, love, are 
 the last persons likely to have an intimate acquaint- 
 ance with the god. 
 
 For in real love, as in perfect music, there must 
 be a certain duration of time. Constancy is not its 
 merit, but its necessity. If the one person be solemnly 
 chosen out of the millions, the millions, though each 
 were a Yenus stepped down from her pedestal, would 
 be but a gallery of statues. "Love," says Sir John 
 Suckling in one of his letters — " love is of the nature 
 of a burning-glass, which, kept in one place, fireth ; 
 changed often, it doth nothing." 
 
 This for the Lotharios. As for the Anacreons, 
 Love is by temperament silent. He is too nobly 
 jealous of the beloved to make her the property of 
 the public ; his heart is filled with a poetry too ex- 
 travagant for artistic verse. He keeps it to himself 
 till it become calmly subordinate to the genius over 
 which for a time it is tumultuously supreme. A love 
 remembered will, in due season, if known by a poet, 
 find in verse or in fiction some adequate symbols that 
 shadow forth the emotions past ; but love felt at the 
 moment cannot chronicle its sighs in odes. Cowley 
 wrote a long series of amorous j^oems called the 
 ' Mistress ; ' but of all men in the reign of Charles II., 
 Cowley was jDcrhaps the one most innocent of a 
 mistress except in a poem. Yery possibly, if we had 
 an authentic biography of Anacreon himself, we 
 should find that the great German scholar, who 
 contends that the Teian poet was a man of tem- 
 perate habits and moral character, is quite in the 
 right, and that the real Anacreon was a sober, 
 shamefaced old gentleman, much too careful of his 
 health and his peace to be fevered by Bacchus or 
 stung by Cupid. 
 
 The true influence of Love over human beings in 
 the civilized communities of our time and country I
 
 388 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 conceive, then, to be very miioli tin's : the great 
 majority of men know love in its first intuitive ])re- 
 ference ; a very lar^'c j^rojiortion know love in its 
 later staple of aft'cctionate custom ; and it is only a 
 very small perccntarrc that have ever known love in 
 all the intensity, and throughout the duration, of its 
 solemn and absolute passion. 
 
 It is this love of wliich Rochefoucauld speaks 
 when he compares true love to apparitions and j^'hosts, 
 of which every one talks, and which very few have 
 seen. Nor is it without justice that he says else- 
 where, "There are a great many people who would 
 never have been in love if they had not heard love 
 so much spoken of." 
 
 In the hnmbler classes, the peasant or the artisan 
 selects the sweetheart of his own rank and degree. 
 He has very seldom to encounter those grave obstacles 
 which strengthen the current of the love they oppose. 
 He does not much trouble himself with the thought 
 how he can maintain a wife ; he relics on the strength 
 of his own arm to bear the weicrht of the sliti'liter 
 form that leans on it. And so peasant and mechanic 
 will ever do, desjoite all that political economists may 
 preach to them. It is one of the grandest advantages 
 they have over those above them, that they are justi- 
 fied, even by prudence, in adding the most steadfast 
 and the sweetest of all motives to that industry 
 through which, humble though it seem, they are the 
 founders of commonwealths and the mainsprings that 
 move the civilization of the world. As a certain 
 amount of taxation is the best and surest means to 
 stimulate the energies of the community that must 
 bear the burden, so a certain additional weight on an 
 individual's industry only gives more force to his 
 sinews and infuses a higher spirit into his heart. 
 
 The workman has seldom to comjDlain of a crossed 
 attachment. When it is crossed, the pain of his dis- 
 a])|)ointment has seldom much effect on his fate. It 
 is oidy in very poor novels, written by authors who
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 389 
 
 knew nothing of his class, that the loss of his love 
 makes the peasant enlist as a soldier, or sneak into 
 the skulking craft of a poacher, in Byronic disgust of 
 this " wrong world." He usually marries in youth, 
 which is proof sufficient for all ordinary reasonings 
 that he has known no love-grief so bitter as to turn 
 his honest affections into gall. After marriage, there 
 is little leisure, in his way of life, for that illicit Eros, 
 whose torch is only lighted by idleness. Exceptions 
 of course there are, especially in large towns. Some- 
 times a workman ^\^ll run away with another man's 
 wife ; sometimes an artisan or even peasant (though 
 very seldom, indeed, in England) will be maddened 
 by jealousy into homicide. But we do not look to 
 the Police Court, nor to the Old Bailey, for the 
 average specimens of humanity. The exceptions do 
 not invalidate the general truth which all who know 
 much of the working-class will readily own — viz., 
 that, whatever the errors love may tempt them to 
 commit, those errors do not last over the wedding-day 
 — that amongst them the sanctity of the marriage- 
 hearth is quietly preserved ; and tliat the labourer, 
 having once installed in his cottage the girl he has 
 won to be his good woman, is not troubled by hopes 
 and fears for any other daughter of Eve to the end of 
 his days. 
 
 In agricultural districts the peasant's wife is 
 generally of better education and quicker mind than 
 her husband : she has been kept longer at the village 
 school ; she has, perhaps, been in service in houses 
 where she has acquired a sharper knowledge of cha- 
 racter and life. Generally she obtains a certain as- 
 cendency over her helpmate, and, if she ever have a 
 rival, it is the sign of the public-house. 
 
 In manufacturing towns, on the contrary, the 
 mechanic is usually possessed of mental acquirements 
 far superior to those of his wife ; he has read more, 
 he has thought more. But man is by nature the 
 most domestic of all animals ; and if the mechanic
 
 390 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 aii<l Ill's wife are botli so])er, tlie eliaiices are that tliey 
 will aii^ree very coinfortaMy tof^etlior ; and that, in 
 s])ite of liis superior culture, tlie wife will <rov('rn 
 the liusband in the onlinarv affairs of life. I lis 
 lemptatious, ]>oor fellow ! are often sharj) enou^-h, l)ut 
 lawless love is not one of them ; and if he shatter his 
 houseliold i::ods, it is probahly by a strike for the 
 wages which he would devote to their service. 
 
 We may presume, tlien, that among the humbler 
 classes there is less to thwart the preference, and, the 
 (ibject of selection won, less to lead the affections 
 illicitly astray, than in those ranks commencing with 
 the poorer grade of an as])iring middle class up t(j 
 the loftiest spheres of aristocracy, in w^hicli the choice 
 of the heart is necessarily curljed by conventional 
 prejudices and the vagaries of the senses perpetually 
 tempted by the leisure that indulges their caprice, 
 and the wealth that secures their gratification. 
 
 And thus love, in the humbler classes, is ordinarily 
 bounded to the quiet preference inflamed by no ob- 
 stacles, and the domestic attachment disturbed by no 
 jioignant jealousies. AYitli them (at least in our 
 northern climates), it escapes the critical interval of 
 that absorbing passion in which fiction chiefly delights 
 to j)resent its power. 
 
 So we shall find that in those classes constituting 
 the majority of our race, though the influence of 
 woman over man's condition and fate is immense, and 
 can scarcely be exaggerated, it is not the influence 
 which fiction ascribes to the passion of Love. Only 
 in idyls do shepherds neglect their flocks to carve 
 the name of Phyllis on the rind of their master's 
 trees. 
 
 What is, then, the influence of woman ? The 
 answer is, that which we shall find predominant in 
 all classes of Christian Europe, — the Domestic In- 
 fluence. 
 
 Tlie influence which really sways man's destiny, 
 affects his character, mingles unconsciously ^vith three
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 391 
 
 j^arts of his thouglits, dictates mechanically three 
 parts of his actions, is one that grows not out of his 
 love, but out of his marriage — the subtle comjolexity, 
 the binding endurance, of " Family ties." I shall 
 attempt to make tins truth more perceptible before 
 I close. 
 
 Glance now over Love in his influence over the 
 more educated classes — classes familiar with his lite- 
 rature and plastic to his sentiment. 
 
 In these classes how very seldom it happens that 
 the instinctive preference to which tlie soul is myste- 
 riously attracted attains the possession of its object ! 
 How few can say that they ever won the idol of their 
 first love ! Circumstances, infinitely more numerous 
 and hostile now than in the time of ShaksjDeare, rise 
 up, not only to fret the course of true love, but to 
 intercept its rush at the fountain-head. 
 
 Who of my readers, from the clerk to the prince, 
 has not seen a face that irresistibly charmed him, — ■ 
 felt while he gazed on it as if some young dream had 
 come into life, — as if with that face by his side he 
 could be blessed in a desert ? And the face fades away 
 amidst the crowd, to be seen, perhaps, ncA^er more ; — 
 or, grant it be seen again and again, he has been 
 forced to steel his heart against its witchery. He 
 might as well love a bright particular star. Hope is 
 out of the question. There is some overwhelming 
 reason, in the conditions of the world itself, why 
 that face can never shed its smile over the world 
 for him. 
 
 That romance of a vague unaccountable preference 
 — stopped at the onset, and yet remembered by the old 
 man as he sits with his eye upon dying embers, and his 
 mind gazing into former years — that romance I believe 
 to be far more common than the vehemence of fatal 
 passion 
 
 " Which frets its hour upon the stage, 
 And then is heard no more ! " 
 
 Yet the ^vague preference has had no real effect on
 
 3i)2 THE INFLUENCH OF LOVE UPON 
 
 the ^rcat drama of social life. Tlie man lias married 
 another, ac(iiiired or wasted fortune, o^rovelI< d or 
 soured, laii_ii:lie(l or wept, just as he would have done 
 if tli;it face had never /^'lanced along- his path. 
 
 l]ut suppose the ])reference has <!;-one farther ; — 
 suppose it has found favourinf;^ occasion, and has 
 ri})ened into ]-»assionate love. AVell ! hut how maiiy 
 in every liundi-ed men marry her willi whom tlie'y 
 have been most in love ? Among the educated classes 
 in Ein'opean society, are there ten in a Innidi-ed ? 
 Are there five? — I doubt it. The opposition of 
 parents, the incrpialitics of fortune, an untow\ard 
 quarrel, a vain nn'sunderstanding, an infinite variety 
 of circumstances not foreseen on earth, and ascribed 
 by astrologers to the stars, interpose between the 
 2)lighted hearts, even if both are fond and loyal. But 
 sometimes it happens that the love is unreturned, or 
 the beloved unworthy, and the fault of one breaks the 
 bond that seemed insoluble to the other. 
 
 Where, therefore, love has been really felt, and 
 felt as the poet describes, it has seldom, in our day, 
 come to the ] )lay-writer's denouement of marriage. 
 
 But thus blighted or broken oft", has the memory of 
 it left a very effective and permanent influence over 
 the lover's destiny and character ? In a few cases, 
 yes ; in the great majority of cases, decidedly no. 
 
 Grant, however, for argument's sake, that a man 
 at the age of fifty can, on looking back, trace some 
 distinct and lasting influence on his nature and 
 actions, in the sorrow he once felt for the loss of lier 
 whose haggard charms could not now raise his pulse 
 by a beat, — how trivial that influence, at the utmost, 
 compared to the effect which has been made on his 
 life by marriage ! By marriage, not jDcrhaps with 
 the object of a romantic preference, nor of an ardent 
 love — marriage, whether happy or unhappy, whether 
 formed lightly or with due forethought — marriage, 
 ])er se — marriage, the indissoluble adamantine bond ! 
 
 ^o far from life closing its golden seas,on at the
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 393 
 
 gates of Hjanen, and vanishing into shade behind 
 the recesses of the altar, as dramatists and novehsts 
 so audaciously infer, it is from marriage that, with 
 most men, the uses of life commence, — nay, from 
 that date that, with most men, the heart enters upon 
 its deepest and fondest record of incident and affec- 
 tion. The man, before idle, begins to work in earnest 
 when he has wife and children to provide for. Before 
 extravagant, he grows thrifty ; before of loose moral 
 code, and careless of the world's opinion, the depth 
 of his interest in the sanctity of the home he has 
 acquired, insensibly leads him now to respect all the 
 safeguards by which homes are surrounded. Affec- 
 tions, before desultory and roving, become concen- 
 tred and developed in the quiet daily demand on 
 them. He may not have known for his wife, before 
 wedlock, the preference or the passion I have de- 
 scribed, but after wedlock it is generally her fault if 
 she do not become dear to him. Even if he be a 
 selfish man, is she not a part of himself ? their for- 
 tunes, their names, their social position, are one. The 
 husband converses with the wife, heart-open, as he 
 can converse with no other human being ; and the 
 children gathering round him expand his views 
 beyond the present hour. They connect him with 
 their mother by the links of the past, lengthening on 
 to his farthest ends in the future. Thus the lives of 
 few men have been seriously affected by a previous 
 love not cemented by marriage ; but the lives of most 
 men, whether they have previously loved or not, are 
 seriously affected by marriage ; and Hymen has the 
 force of that destinv which the fictionists ascribe to 
 Cu^wd. 
 
 The old adage tells us that in wedlock there is no 
 medium — it is a blessing or a curse. We must take 
 this adage with a certain reserve. Marriage, indeed, 
 is a curse among the darkest, where the result is the 
 inconsolable misery of dishonour — where the heart is 
 crushed--the objects that attach our intellect to the
 
 394 TIIK IXFLUKXCH OF LOVE UPON 
 
 world sliiverod and .scattered far and wide l)y the 
 ruin tliat falls on tlie licaitlistone. But sucli dire 
 calamity is a lot seMoni drawn Ironi the iiii]>tial urn. 
 On tlie otlier liand, when wedlock is said to be a 
 blessing-, it has still the character of otlier blessings 
 on earth, — 
 
 " Where joys and griefs liavo turns alternative ; " * 
 
 or, as a poet niucli moi-e unread than Ilen-ick has 
 said, with a depth of sadness more i)rofound, — 
 
 " "What thiiiji; 80 <i;iio(l but wliat some harm may bring? — 
 Ec'n to he Itapprj is a dantjcrons iMn<j."'\ 
 
 Perhaps we must acknowledge, despite the adage, 
 that, in the average of marriages, the habitual relation 
 between husband and wife is neither supremely blessed 
 nor insupportably wretched ; it is alloyed and dis- 
 turbed less by want of affection than want of respect ; 
 sufficient care is not taken to preserve custom from 
 that familiarity which breeds contempt. And whereas 
 there is no relation of life in which there should be 
 so delicate a care not to wound the amour propre, 
 there is none in which, by a hasty word, the amour 
 propre is so frequently galled. But even where this 
 is the case, and the consequence is a snapping or a 
 sullenness between man and wife which would be 
 wholly unknown to two well-bred acquaintances 
 living under the same roof, there are many things 
 in the settled married state which counterbalance the 
 discomfort of "faults on both sides." There is the 
 routine of emj^loyments, which the regularity of 
 domestic mechanism has established, to take off the 
 mind from brooding over petty annoyances ; there 
 is the unity of interests which, in course of time, 
 compels some amalgamation in the differences of 
 temper ; there are the bonds of children ; above 
 all, there is the silent operation of Habit — that 
 
 * Herrick. f Earl of Stirling's ' Darius.'
 
 LITERATUEE AND REAL LIFE. 395 
 
 great i-econciler of man to the fate that he cannot 
 change. 
 
 And if the Benedick find many Httle tliorns in 
 his bed wliich he did not count npon when he first 
 took his Beatrice for better or for worse, still, at the 
 end of ten years, he w411 own that he has also many 
 adequate compensations, if but in the development of 
 his own faculties and resources, which needed the 
 fixity and concentration of mind that home bestows. 
 And Home ! what a wonderful thing Home is ! Man 
 may have a splendid palace, a comfortable lodging, 
 nay, even a pleasant house — but man has no home 
 where the Home has no Mistress. 
 
 Nor, since I have quoted the authority of old 
 poets little read, in warning against too credulous a 
 belief in a happiness not given to mortals, should I 
 here omit to give the exquisite picture which a poet, 
 who deserves to be read more than those I have 
 quoted, has left of the bright side of marriage. He 
 speaks with a hearty enthusiasm, as if he had seen 
 what he describes. Let us try and believe him : — 
 
 " How near am I now to a happiness 
 That earth exceeds not. Not another like it. 
 The treasures of the deep are not so precious 
 As are the concealed comforts of a man 
 Locked up in woman's love. I scent the air 
 Of blessing's when I come hut near the house. 
 What a delicious breath marriage sends forth ! 
 The violet-bed's not sweeter ! Honest wedlock 
 Is like a banqueting-house built in a garden, 
 On which the spring's chaste flowers take delight 
 To cast their modest odours ; when base lust, 
 With all her powder, paintings, and pert pride, 
 Is but a fair hoixse built by a ditch-side." * 
 
 Thus, then, it is not that love which the poets 
 chiefly delight in describing, but rather that state of 
 marriage into which the poets as rarely follow the 
 stejjs of mortals, as they presume to trace the soul's 
 
 * Middleton, — ' Women beware of Women.'
 
 39G THE INFLUENCE OF I.OVK UPON 
 
 journey on \\\v otlier side of" tlio gruve, that mostly 
 afiects tlie cliaractei- ami destiny of man. And if 
 Love lias presiMed over lliat state, and eontinues his 
 sway to the last, then how infinitely more connected 
 with all that becomes and adoiiis the divine .attri- 
 butes of our being he is in the nninn than he was in 
 the wooing ! 
 
 For we have said, with the Latin poet, " Li love 
 there is no wherefore." The ]ireference selects, the 
 passion illumes, its object, without much, if any, 
 need of qualities of the beloved, apart from the mystic 
 charm with which she has bound the heart and blinded 
 the judgment. We may love without having dis- 
 covered any excellence of imderstanding, any ele- 
 vation of soul, any generosity of heart — nay, any 
 surpassing beauteousness of form. And in love of 
 this kind, which is often the fiercest, because it can- 
 not account for its own excess, I know not if there be 
 that which especially improves and dignifies our- 
 selves. When a man wildly acknowledges that he 
 could make a fool of himself for this or for that 
 woman, he may j^erhaps move my pity, but he cer- 
 tainly does not command my admiration nor pro- 
 pitiate my esteem. 
 
 But though love can be, and usually is, when it 
 is the love of the amatory poets, formed without a 
 wherefore, there must be a very substantial where- 
 fore for its long continuance. We may fall in love 
 with little I'efereuce to the internal qualities of the 
 beloved, but, if the internal qualities do not hold 
 us firm, we fall out of love very soon after pos- 
 session. 
 
 But in all love, consistent and enduring, strength- 
 ened and deepened by the silent intimacies of union, 
 there is a constant call upon the thoughts and feel- 
 ings that constitute the beauty of human nature. It 
 must be a love that delights in noiseless self-sacrifices, 
 that keeps habitually in view the happiness of the
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 397 
 
 beloved ; it must be a love, too, that is maintained 
 by other qualities than those that exclusively affect 
 ourselves. We cannot say after union as we exclaim 
 in courtship, — 
 
 " I know not, I care not, if guilt's in that heart ; 
 I know that I love thee, whatever thou art ! " 
 
 We could not, if thoroughly honest ourselves, long 
 retain love to a person who, however fond of us, was 
 always exhibiting a nature unlovely to others. It is 
 not enough to think that the heart of one with whom 
 we live is our own, — it must be a good heart, or, unless 
 ours be a bad one, the perpetual jar on our sym- 
 pathies will shatter affection. 
 
 Thus, when love is continued to the last, after 
 union, it is nourished by all that is best in mind, in 
 heart, and in soul. The " wherefore " is contained 
 in causes not to be found in the odes of Anacreon. 
 
 Hitherto I have treated chiefly of the love of 
 man to woman. That of woman to man is, question- 
 less, more directly influential upon her life — its errors 
 more fatal in their consequences ; and, in return, its 
 virtues insure to her rewards which more than suffice 
 for her felicity. A woman who loves with her whole 
 heart, and is convinced that the partner of her exist- 
 ence as devotedly loves herself, needs little more for 
 that sense of security and content which is the 
 serenest approach to perfect happiness vouchsafed to 
 the denizens of earth. But man, whose uses are ex- 
 tended over a much larger surface, has necessarily 
 desires as widespread as the uses ; and in proportion, 
 perhaps, to his moral opulence and his intellectual 
 activity, his life varies and expands its anxious invest- 
 ments of hope and fear. 
 
 One part of this truth is expressed with intense 
 bitterness by Medea in Euripides. After complain- 
 ing that a woman must have the gift of divination to 
 know beforehand the nature of the man in whom she 
 
 VOL. II. 2 D
 
 398 Tin: imi>uence of love upon 
 
 receives a master, si le at.Uls, " And if, <»)ir duties beinj}^ 
 well performed, our consort bear the yoke not reluct- 
 antly, liappy indeed our life! — if not, better to die! 
 For when man has his troubles and griefs in Ins 
 home, he can go forth to soothe vexation in converse 
 wiili some friend, some fellow-man of his own years; 
 but it is our Necessity to look only to a single 
 soul." * 
 
 The lines of the Greek poet have been felicitously 
 imitated, and refined into a pathos infinitely more 
 tender, by the great English poet of our own century. 
 But the two concluding" lines in the famous stanza 
 I am about to quote do not seem to me erjual in poet- 
 ical truth and force to the forlorn despair conveyed 
 in the single line of the Greek — 
 
 'HfiLV 8* avd.y)(r) Trpos //.t'av ifn))(rpf ySAtVetr. 
 
 " Man's love is of man's life a thing apart, 
 
 'Tis woman's whole existence; man may range 
 
 The court, camp, church, the vessel, and the mart ; 
 Sword, gown, gain, glory, offer in exchange 
 
 Pride, fame, ambition, to fill np his heart, 
 
 And few tin -re are whom these cannot estrange ; 
 
 Men have all these resources, we hut one — 
 
 To love again, and be again undone." f 
 
 Medea does not allow to woman even that one 
 resource " to love again and be again undone." The 
 woman of Medea looks but to a single soul — Trpo? 
 
 Woman has, nowadays, less to complain of than 
 she had in the time of Medea. She has quite as 
 much liberty to go out and tell her woes to her friend 
 as her lord and master enjoys. But probably, in the 
 educated classes of society, woman nowadays as rarely 
 marries the object of her first preference as she did 
 in the ages more harsh to her ; and there can be no 
 doubt that, like man, in the great majority of in- 
 stances marriage is infinitely more powerful over the 
 
 * Medea, v, 249. t Don Juan, cant. i. st. exciv.
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 399 
 
 destiny of woman than the romance of any previous 
 attachment. Woman, by temperament, even more 
 readily than man, accommodates herself to the lot 
 which circumstances impose. Who has not known 
 many girls, by no means of shallow or fickle disposi- 
 tion, who, to judge by all they professed, and appa- 
 rently by all they themselves believed at the time, 
 were ardently, irrevocably, everlastingly attached to 
 adorers from whom fate decided to part them ? and 
 who has not known those same young ladies_, a year 
 afterwards, v'ery comfortably wedded to men who 
 bore not the slightest resemblance to the lost ideals ? 
 Comfortably wedded ! Romance says " listless or 
 broken-hearted." Not a bit of it : arranging their 
 drawing-rooms, planning their flower-plots, consult- 
 ing cheerfully their husband's tastes in the culinary 
 department, or embroidering caps in fond expectation 
 of "the little stranger."' 
 
 Nor are they to be blamed for this, except in 
 romance. The main object of ambition to most girls 
 is a home of their own. Their power commences 
 with marriage, and the desire of power is, as the old 
 fabliast tells us, the ruling passion of the sex. Natu- 
 rally grateful where she meets with kindness, and 
 naturally pleased when she has her own way (and 
 only when married can she be said to get it) woman's 
 affections easily bear transplanting. Were this not 
 so, her life M^ould be a curse to herself, and no bless- 
 ing to man ; for she has not the privilege of wooing ; 
 she must be wooed. In most civilized lands, nay, in 
 nearly all, except where the Anglo-Saxons have set- 
 tled, her choice is either determined or considerably 
 influenced by dispassionate parents ; and even in 
 England, among the higher classes of society, though 
 her choice be not compelled, it is practically limited 
 to a very narrow range. Her nature, therefore, re- 
 conciles itself to the lot which she cannot select with 
 the same wide freedom of clioice that is allowed to 
 
 2 D 2
 
 •lUO THE LNI'LUENX'E OF LOVE UPON 
 
 man; and tlio better lirr nature tlie more readily it 
 is reconciled. The women who, linked to men on 
 the whole worthy and good-natured, are always com- 
 jdaining- that they are assorted to nnconj^enial minds, 
 are generally hard and ungracious egotists, and would 
 have found reasons for murmuriiiii: discontent and 
 invoking compassion if they hud married Apollo and 
 settled in A ready. 
 
 But do I then assert that love — love, in its rnystic 
 purity of sentiment, in its wild extravagance of pas- 
 sion — the love of sweet or terrible romance — is to 
 be banished from the theme of singer, dramatist, and 
 tale-teller? Assuredly not. Nothing that is to be 
 found in human nature can be banished from the 
 realm of Art. I hold, indeed, that such a love is 
 rare in the lives of civilized beings nowadays ; still, 
 rare though it be, it exists. It is among the potent 
 agencies of mortal being ; and, as such, cannot be 
 ignored by the artist, whose scope comprehends all 
 existence known or imaginable. But it is only one 
 of the agencies, not the most universal. The desire 
 of gain, for instance, is more common and more 
 authoritative — more at the root of all that nur- 
 tures the sap of flourishing civilization. Man's 
 desire of gain, and not man's desire of woman, 
 crowds the marts, covers the sea with argosies, builds 
 the city, ploughs the glebe, invents the loom, unites 
 law with freedom as the best security for man's in- 
 dustry, and the essential condition of man's unre- 
 stricted choice in the pursuit of fortune, or the 
 promulgation of ideas by which states become en- 
 riched because enlightened. 
 
 But would a poet or novelist be true to human 
 life if he bounded all his art to this desire of ga,in, 
 and regularly finished all his plots with its successful 
 denouement in the invention of a cotton print, or the 
 accumulation of a plum ? " Certaiidy not," you cry. 
 Then whv should he be more faithful to the art that
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 401 
 
 represents the moving' agencies of civilized life, when 
 he contracts all the business of multiform civilized 
 being to Alplionso's desire to gain Seraphina, and 
 ends liisi invariable plot with that marriage, where all 
 that is most noble in Alphonso's love, and all which 
 can alone test its more durable elements, do not end 
 but begin ? He has artistically an excuse for this 
 partial and narrowed representation of life. The All 
 is far too vast and too vague for an artist to grasp 
 in any single survey. He must select a portion by 
 which, through analogy, he gives a fair idea of the 
 whole. The poet or the novelist (there is no distinc- 
 tion between the two in the laws of creative fiction — 
 their difference is in form, not in substance) — the 
 poet or the novelist is not a biographer nor a philoso- 
 phical historian. He does not track man nor a com- 
 munity from the cradle to the grave. The necessity 
 of his art compels him to a plot in which he obtains 
 the interest of the general reader for the progress of 
 selected events towards a definite end. Now, there 
 are three recognised stages in man's life — birth, 
 marriage, and death. The poet's denouement cannot 
 well be in his hero's birth ; it is purely tragic if it 
 end in his death. There remains but his marriage, as 
 that which is the most general to man next to his 
 birth and his death ; and, as poet and novelist deal 
 with Romance, so Romance may be said to be born 
 with Love, and to die with Marriage. Therefore the 
 interest of love is tli<3 most popular, and the denoue- 
 ment of marriage is the most convenient, for that com- 
 pletion of selected materials which is essential to the 
 fulfilment of artistic story. All this I grant only to a 
 certain extent, but that extent is exceedingly liberal. 
 I allow to the artist the amplest right to any selection 
 of life he chooses ; when he presents to me his 
 selection, I look at it with a conscientious desire, if 
 he be really an artist, to judge of his w^ork by its 
 harmony with his own conceptions of its object aud 
 treatment. But if his selection be always of the same
 
 ■lO'J TIIK INFLIENCE OF LUVK Ul'ON 
 
 segment in tlie Great Circle, lie must not blame me if 
 the utmost praise I can giveliim is, "This man shows 
 the segment more or less ably, but his adherence to 
 a segment does not prove to me his com])rehension 
 of the circle." I have not the slightest o))jection to 
 a novel or a play Ijeing entirely devoted to love- 
 making and lovers; and, if well done, I should say, 
 " This writer understands that part of human nature 
 which he describes ; but that part of human nature 
 does not constitute the whole. My reverence for the 
 scope of his art will increase in proportion as I find 
 that in other works he shows that man has other 
 occupations besides love-making, and is subject to • 
 other emotions than those of love. Shakspeare gives 
 us 'Romeo and Juliet,' ' Antony and Cleopatra;' and 
 by giving us both, sIioavs, with profound trutli, what 
 novelists and play-writers seldom own — viz., that love 
 by no means confines his frenzy to the young ; that 
 an elderly Antony can be as much carried away by 
 the insane passion as a juvenile Romeo. And whereas 
 inferior artists have only draw^n from the love of the 
 old, elements for farce and ridicule, Shakspeare shows 
 that in such love there is the tragic element as awful 
 as aught w^hicli leads the fancy of youth to calamity 
 and death. But Shakspeare gives us also ' Macbeth ' 
 and ' Coriolanus,' and 'Hamlet,' 'King John,' and 
 ' Richard III.,' in which other great movers of the 
 human heart besides love are depicted — other great 
 mysteries in human destinies shadowed forth. He 
 can begin even a drama of love with the altar, instead 
 of there closing it, and conunence its tragedy with the 
 wedded life of Othello. 
 
 Indeed, if play-writers would escape from their 
 trite conventions, and examine, even in their great 
 master, Shakspeare, which of his plays are nowadays 
 most popular on the stage, they would find those to 
 be the plays in which there is the least love-making. 
 ' Romeo and Juliet ' do not draw full houses unless 
 some pretty new actress announce her dehut in Juliet ;
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 403 
 
 then the play draws, not from the interest of the play, 
 but from the interest in the actress ; as Miss Fanny 
 Kemble drew, even in the ' Grecian Daughter.' As 
 for ' Antony and Cleopatra,' I know not if it has been 
 acted in my time ; if so, I never saw it.* True, 
 I rarely go to a play ; but I see pretty often in the 
 playbills, ' Macbeth/ ' Hamlet,' ' King John/ — in all 
 of whicli certainly it is not love that animates the 
 plot and attracts the audience. 
 
 But in support of my proposition, that Hymen 
 has far more influence than Cupid over human 
 destinies, it is observable that, while nothing more 
 fatigues an audience than the sentimental dialogues 
 of lovers, nothing more interests all — pit, dress-box, 
 and gallery — than the altercations between husband 
 and wife. The audience enters heartily into their 
 quarrels, and sheds its pleasantest tears over their 
 reconciliation. It is this kind of interest which keeps 
 the ' Honeymoon ' and the ' Stranger ' on the stage, 
 outliving generations of dramas infinitely more me- 
 ritorious as literary compositions. " How is it," I 
 said once to an observant actor, who had profoundly 
 studied the sources of dramatic effect, " that lovers, 
 however charming, are not dramatic personages ? but 
 let them marry and then disagree, and a drama is 
 completed at once." 
 
 "May it not be," answered that great Actor, the 
 Roscius of my time, " may it not be that a miscel- 
 laneous audience needs, for the full force of its 
 sympathy, situations which appeal to the most 
 familiar elements of emotion ? Few persons in such 
 an audience ever made, or ever will make, love as the 
 poets do ; but most persons in that audience have 
 had, or are destined to have, quarrels and reconcilia- 
 tions with their wives." 
 
 * Since this was written, it has been acted for the sake of exhibiting 
 the talents of Miss Glynn in Cleopatra. But even the excellence of her per- 
 formance could not retain long the attraction of the play, and the love 
 passages were certaiuly not the most efleclive.
 
 404 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 Nevertlieless, tliere is indeed a love, as intense, as 
 absorbinf^, as fatal in its inlluencv, as the wildest 
 inino:ination of fiction can conceive. But, happily for 
 the world, not only is such a love rare enou<;-li to be 
 almost abnormal, but, in proportion as luxurious 
 culture would otherwise tend to make the passion 
 more frequent in highly civilized communities, coun- 
 teracting agencies are created within the breast of 
 society itself, and in the numerous distractions to 
 one brooding thought which increased varieties of 
 action and contemplation press and crowd on the 
 individual. 
 
 This rare degree of love enters within the pro- 
 vince of fiction, but in its noblest and most meta- 
 physical province. Great artists, indeed, in their 
 selection from Nature, prefer rare effects ; but great 
 artists alone can deal with rare effects truthfully and 
 grandly. 
 
 Love, in all its force and intensity, is a Moral 
 Revolution. Revolutions happen as seldom in 
 rational lives as they do in well-governed states. 
 AVhen they are enacted they are not made with 
 rose-water; least of all the Revolution brought 
 about by the Power who is represented to dwell 
 among roses," 
 
 Metellus here ceased ; and after I had paid him the 
 compliments which common courtesy exacted from me, 
 I turned my eyes to G alius, who had not only, during 
 the second part of the essay more than the first, 
 evinced by many significant gestures his dissent 
 frcim the lecturer's sober reasonings, but had with 
 difticulty been restrained from committing a breach of 
 contract, and temerariously interrupting the thread 
 of a discourse which, long as it is now, would have 
 been thrice as long if Metellus (a piactised extempore 
 orator) had l)een provoked into additional arguments 
 and collateral illustrations. Yet now, when Gallus
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 405 
 
 had the right of reply, and reply was expected from 
 him, he remained for some minutes silent, musingly 
 looking down upon the grass, and abstractedly 
 plucking up the daisies within his reach. At last, 
 with an impatient upward movement of the head, 
 which threw back the thick curls from his brow, and 
 with a heightened colour, thus he spoke. 
 
 GALLUS. 
 
 " I do not pretend to vie with Metellus in erudi- 
 tion, still less in the elaborate arrangement of me- 
 thodical discourse, and it is only the strength of my 
 cause that can win me indulgence for the rudeness of 
 my advocacy. The gist of my accomplished adver- 
 sary's argument has been to show that love such as 
 the poets describe, apart from that prosaic sentiment 
 to which he gives the frigid name of " a preference," 
 is very rarely known in real life, and therefore that, 
 in literature, poets, dramatists, and novelists have 
 represented life erroneously in ascribing so potent an 
 influence to love, and concentrating so earnest an in- 
 terest on the brief season of courtship. I deny both 
 these propositions. I believe love — passionate and 
 romantic love — to be infinitely more common among 
 all ranks and classes of mankind than Metellus 
 supposes ; and for this very reason, which I think in 
 itself suffices for proof — viz. that if it were not so, the 
 literature that depicts it coald not be so generally 
 popular. For no genius could render generally 
 popular the exposition and analysis of a feeling that 
 was not popularly felt. Metellus says, indeed, that 
 on the stage the bickerings of married folks are 
 always interesting ; the cooings of lovers compara- 
 tively insipid. But allowing his assertion to be true, 
 it proves nothing in support of his argument, but 
 rather something against it. For our interest in the 
 quarrels of married folks is in proportion to our belief
 
 40G THE INFLUENCE VV LOVE UPON 
 
 tliat, in spite of tlieir quiirrelH, they still love one 
 iiiiotlier — are lovers, tliou<i^li married : lor that reason, 
 jealousy is an clVcctive })assion on the sta<^e — ;jea lousy 
 implies love. Let two married persons introduced 
 on the stage be sup[)osed without stronji; alVcetion lor 
 each otlier, and their quarrels would excite no grave 
 interest — they would, at hest, provoke comic mirth. 
 If, on the other hand, the dialogues of lovers before 
 marriage be wearisome on the stage, it is not because 
 the audience do not sympathise with the love of court- 
 ship, however poetically extravagant or refining, but 
 because dramatic interest needs a struggle between 
 contending emotions. Where that struggle is ex- 
 pressed in the dramatic representation of a love-plot, 
 the interest of an audience is aroused; as Corneille, 
 for instance, creates it for the lovers in the ' Cid' and 
 in ' Horace.' 
 
 I will not follow Metellus into the controversy 
 warmly debated by antiquarian critics in the last cen- 
 tury, and which he assumes, somewhat, I think, too 
 readily, to be now pretty well settled by tlie common 
 assent of scholars — viz. as to the Eastern origin of 
 erotic poetry and romance. What I believe is, that, 
 though the passion of love be universal, yet it requires 
 a certain development of the more refined elements 
 of society before the passion finds poetic utterance. 
 When a people has emerged from its rude and 
 aggressive infancy, and engendered within itself 
 classes that have leisure for meilitating the sweet and 
 gracefid fancies which form the intellectual holiday of 
 life, then love begins to seek and to find suitable ex- 
 pression. And as poetry, like man himself, is essen- 
 tially imitative, so it turns ]:)erforce, in the first instance, 
 to the imitation of forms already existent. If Asia be 
 the cradle of the Innnan race — if in Asia the rudi- 
 ments of art as of science were first commenced, and 
 up to a certain point of beauty matured into culture 
 — necessarily the younger peoples of Europe would not
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 407 
 
 only take from Asia the subjects of myth and fable, 
 but catch from them the idealising sentiment which 
 suggests to each people the language and the character 
 of its poetry and romance. But as every people has 
 its idiosyncratic genius, and as genius, though imita- 
 tive, is also transmutable and reproductive, so every 
 European people, whatever hints it received from an 
 Oriental one, rapidly formed a poetry peculiarly its 
 own, and in which what was imitated was soon fused 
 into a new whole by elements changed and superadded. 
 If the northern nations really, then, at first borrowed 
 erotic poetry and romance from the Eastern, it was 
 not because the East was more favourable to love than 
 the North, but because, being the part of the world 
 first peopled and first civilized, the younger nations 
 had no choice but to borrow from it when their own 
 civilization had reached that stage in which the 
 younger races borrow from the culture of the elder. 
 But that the East was not in itself more favourable 
 to erotic poetry than the North, as Metellus seems to 
 imply, is proved by this, that the erotic poetry of 
 Europe, whatever its remote obligations to that of Asia, 
 has long since obtained not only an elevation and 
 a delicacy, but a depth and a fervour of passion, to 
 which, so far as we know of them, the Oriental Muses 
 can present no parallel. Metellus says that in those 
 eras of the world in which erotic literature has been 
 most exclusively cultivated and love most idolatrously 
 worshipped, the tone of manners has been most profli- 
 gate, the spirit of the age most corrupt. If we are to 
 accept his interpretation of love and of its literature, I 
 admit the truth of his assertion. But it is his interpre- 
 tation I reject. Though love has its root in universal 
 instinct, yet the mere instinct is not love. The savage 
 who knocks down his squaw with his club, and carries 
 her home to do the drudgery he is too lazy to do, and 
 groan under the burdens he is too proud to bear, can- 
 not be said to know love, though he is alive to an
 
 408 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 iiii^tinct. Love is tlie development of the instinct into 
 sentiments and emotions tliat most adorn and ennoble 
 our liinnan nature. Liliertinao-e is the corni|>tion of 
 the instinct into trains of idea that most deform and 
 degrade it. Lihertinap^e, therefuv, is not love, hut 
 its antagonism ; and licentious literature is not the 
 literature of love, but its libellous travesty. The 
 truth of what I here advance ought to be clear to 
 Metellus as a man of the world ; for if ever he meet 
 with a man wlio ridicules love, as the poets hold love 
 to be, is not such a man, ninety-nine times out of a 
 hundred, a professed debauchee ? 
 
 Metellus, in that part of his argument which he 
 treats after the fashion of a statistician, questions 
 whether the influence of love, as a fatal passion, or 
 as a poetry of feeling, can be very active among the 
 large majority of our species devoted to an existence 
 of hardy labour ; wliile he argues for the vast extent 
 to wliich the conjugal, or, as he calls it, the domestic 
 influence, pervades and regulates their destinies. I 
 concede to the fullest degree the weight he attaches 
 to the domestic influence, not only in the humbler 
 classes, but in all ranks of life. I allow also that 
 among the working classes, especially in England, 
 there are fewer disappointments in love, and fewer 
 sins caused by its perversion or excess, than among 
 the idlers of life. But I believe that among peasants 
 and mechanics during the season of courtship there is 
 much more ardent, faithful, and even poetic love, 
 than the theory of Metellus supposes — that their love 
 is more than the lukewarm attraction to which he 
 gives the name of preference. He himself is con- 
 strained to limit his assertion to the labouring popu- 
 lation of our northern isles — for few can be familiar 
 witli the rural life of Italy, Spain, and France, and 
 deny the intense, and often tragical, extent to which 
 love transports the peasant in those lands ; but if the 
 passion be less vehemently apparent in the British,
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 409 
 
 it is, perhaps, not less keenly felt. It is our national 
 character, among all ranks of life, to show little of 
 what we feel. 
 
 Metellus struck you, as he did myself, by the 
 force of his remarks upon the counteractions and 
 counterpoises to the despotism of love, which the 
 affluent, practical, and multifarious nature of modern 
 civilization tends to create. Much of what he said 
 on this score is, I think, both new and true in 
 itself. But I draw different conclusions from his 
 premises. 
 
 I agree with Metellus that love, properly so called, 
 or at least love in its highest sense, is not a solitary 
 power, apart and distinct from all the other great 
 rulers and modifiers of mind, heart, and soul. But 
 if that be so, surely the richer and grander in social 
 attributes may be any era in time, the richer and 
 the grander in its aggregate of ideas and sentiments 
 should be the love which, in every era, is the cul- 
 minating flower of humankind. What you call the 
 checks and counterpoises to love are also its strength- 
 eners. For where there is no resistance, no force 
 is called into play. These checks and counterjDoises 
 make love more thoughtful, more steadfast ; they 
 preserve it from the levities and inconstancies to 
 which it may be subjected in a period of effeminate 
 gallantry. Man engaged in the masculine and 
 healthful pursuits which an opulent and vigorous 
 civilization affords him, is, I grant, less prone than 
 the wanton pleasure-seekers of a former century to 
 fall in love — less likely to allow a wrong or misplaced 
 passion to overmaster his reason ; but where he once 
 gives his whole heart, he is more likely to give it 
 once for all. Metellus says that men, and women 
 too, who have been disappointed in their affections, 
 recover the shock — marry some one else — seem con- 
 tented with their lot. The influence of blighted love 
 on their practical life, according to him, is, for the
 
 no THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 most part, slii;-lit and evanescent. ITowcan lie know? 
 Wlio _<;*(X^s about to advertise liinisclf or herself as 
 a loveloi-n victim? ^'el•v possildv, Imwcver, tlie 
 memory of ii lialiied love does not much, if at all, 
 chancre the outward, and, if you so term it, the 
 practical life of the sufferer. But it may have 
 potently affected his inner life, sometimes for evil — 
 more often, I believe, for good. No one can have 
 gone through the revolutions of a great passion, and 
 be as he was before. He may not himself be con- 
 scious of the change within him, still less is he likely 
 to be conscious of the cause ; 
 
 " Can earth, where the harrow is driven, 
 The sheaf in the furrow foresee? 
 Or thou guess the harvest for heaven. 
 Where iron has entered in thee ? " 
 
 And this brings me to the concluding part of my 
 plea against the chilly rationalism of my antagonist's 
 philosophy. As he restricts far too narrowly the 
 influence of love upon actual life, so he curtails far 
 too rigidly the grand functions of erotic romance, 
 when he complains that in drama or tale there is 
 attached to the period of courtship — to the vicissitudes 
 and trials of love — an importance which is out of all 
 proportion to love's share in the real business of 
 existence. 
 
 But every kind of the higher literature is designed 
 not to express the commonplace business of existence, 
 but a something which adorns and exalts the history 
 of humankind. The expounder of intellectual philo- 
 sophy writes, when earnest, as if the analysis of the 
 mind were the fittest study of man. But how slight 
 a proportion to the common Ijusiness of life can be 
 assigned to the consideration of aljstract metaphysical 
 problems? Where is their practical use to our bakers 
 and grocers ? Yet Metellus himself would be the 
 first to affirm tliat without metaphysical authors no
 
 LITEEATURE AND REAL LIFE. 411 
 
 literature is complete. And the influence of a nation's 
 metaphysical authors will be brought to bear, how- 
 ever indirectly and latently, upon that nation's popular 
 writers and men of action, and through them upon 
 our bakers and grocers. So with all the fine arts 
 — the painter, the sculptor, the musical composer, 
 giving the best part of their own life to the art they 
 severally cultivate, think and feel as if in the culture 
 of that art the highest destiny of genius were ful- 
 filled. 
 
 " The genius of the musician," exclaims Rousseau, 
 " submits the whole universe to his art : he paints 
 pictures by sounds — he makes silence itself speak — 
 he renders ideas by sentiments, sentiments by accents ; 
 in the depth of human hearts he excites the passions 
 he expresses." Rousseau is here addressing himself 
 to the young musician, and warns him that, if he 
 feels not the charms of the great art with as enthu- 
 siastic a transport as that which is colouring the 
 eloquence of the writer thus appealing to him, " he 
 must not ask what is genius in music. Why seek to 
 know what it is, for it is denied to him ?" Yet again, 
 how small a proportion of human life compared to its 
 practical pursuits and business can be allowed to the 
 culture or the delight in music or any of its sister arts ! 
 Still, Rousseau is right : if artists do not regard their 
 calling with this divine extravagance of reverent fond- 
 ness, no genius could enter into art, and we must strike 
 the sense of ideal beauty out of a nation's mind. In 
 truth, then, we are not to consider, in judging of the im- 
 portance attached to the influence of love by romantic 
 literature, whether love does or does not occupy that 
 space in human life which such literature seems to 
 assign to it, any more than, when reading the lucubra- 
 tions of philosophers, or listening" to the talk of artists, 
 we are to consider how many men in Oxford Street 
 or Cheapside trouble their heads about a Locke or a 
 Gainsborough, a Kant or a Beethoven. The mission
 
 -112 TUB INFLUENCE OV I.oVE UPON 
 
 of these love-writers is to preserve to a passion common 
 to all mankind the refiniii^i;, eiinohlinp^ attrihiites which 
 distino;uish it from the instinct of hnites; and, by so 
 doing-, imjiart to the whole literature, to the whole 
 sentiment of a nation, warmth and colour. For he 
 errs who thinks that the inflncnce of an erotic literature 
 is confined to those who chielly delif^ht in it. Yonder 
 lawns are not all flower-beds, Init thev would be only 
 shaven grass without the relief of flowers. The phre- 
 nologists tell us that in any hmnan head where the 
 organ of amativeness is markedly defective, however 
 admirably developed the other organs, moral or intel- 
 lectual, may be, the whole character will want ani- 
 mation and glow. So it is with the literature of a 
 people ; rob it of its love-writers, and you reduce the 
 various pomj) of its colour to the cold shine of white 
 light. 
 
 I hold, therefore, that to judge fairly of the in- 
 fluence of love upon human destinies, we must extend 
 our view beyond the partial scope of circumstance to 
 which Metellus confines his gaze, and eidarge the 
 sweep of our vision to all the indirect and latent 
 operations of love upon human thought and character. 
 I hold, also, that it is a superficial and contracted 
 criticism to say that, in romantic literature, love 
 should occupy only the same space which a physi- 
 ologist woidd assign to it in his work upon the organ- 
 ism and functions of the human species. Love is 
 only beautiful when it is the romance of life ; and, 
 like all genuine romance, not in substance the less 
 real because by poetry idealised. 
 
 Having thus rudely stated the main points in 
 which I differ from Metellus, I pass on to tender to 
 him my tribute of admiration for defining so clearly 
 the point in which my ideas are in cordial agreement 
 with his own. When he condemns both the senti- 
 ment and the literature of an age wherein love is 
 altogether travcvstied, and is without that shame which
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 413 
 
 is its truest touchstone, as the virgin's blush is the 
 sweetest assurance of her dawning passion, I join 
 respectfully in his condemnation, with this protest : — 
 That whereas he calls such diseased conditions of time 
 the epochs in which the empire of Love was mo8t ac- 
 knowledged, I call them epochs in which the royalty 
 of Love was most ignored. But both from his scorn 
 of that wanton caricature of love, and from his 
 eloquent insistence on the gravity of the domestic 
 influence, I draw this deduction, — that the more 
 closely the romantic poetry of love expresses or 
 symbolises that passion which has its close and its 
 diviner second birth in the domestic household love 
 — the more, in short, its poetry interests us in that 
 singleness of devotion which (if fates permit) the 
 marriage bond will solemnise and sanctify, the more 
 artistically it will embody one of those great truths 
 in nature which art instinctively seeks to utter. 
 Even in the old Grreek poetry of the highest stamp 
 this sublimer kind of love is expressed. The lovers 
 in the ' Iliad ' are not Paris and Helen, still less are 
 they Achilles and Briseis — they are Hector and 
 Andromache. 
 
 And thus our English erotic literature of this 
 day, though less glowing in colour, is truer to love 
 and to nature than the French, because with the 
 French there is something inherently disagreeable ; 
 something wi'ong in art — that is, to the healthful 
 human sentiment in wliich art should express natui'e 
 — as well as in morals ; in the perpetual rechauffe 
 of the same worn-out vice of theme — I mean the 
 trifling with the marriage tie. The hero of a French 
 fiction, nine times out of ten, is in love with another 
 man's wife, and adulterv is treated as if it were a 
 pure and guiltless affection. The Greeks never did 
 that, neither does Shakspeare. If our English novel- 
 writers construct a tame story out of a lawful love, 
 it is the fault of their genius, not of their selection. 
 Romeo and Juliet are ardent enough ; but their love, 
 VOL. II. 2 E
 
 414 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 l]i()ii<i:li fatal, is not criminal. Romeo and .Iiiliet arc 
 married. 
 
 In a woid, the influence of love in every a^e 
 varies as to its ap]iarcnt cliaracter; in every age the 
 literature that exjiresses it varies also in the mode 
 of ex])ression. ]}ut in no ag;e does that influence 
 diminish in consequence, as Metellus infers, of an 
 im})roved society. On the contrary, where the state 
 of society is the most moral, love is the most genuine, 
 because the most constant and the most identified 
 with the ennobling sentiments which it is its normal 
 cliaracter to engender. And in no age does the 
 literature of love exaggerate the bearings and weight 
 of the passion upon social destinies, except where it 
 really ceases to be the representative of love, and 
 becomes the cynical mouthpiece of a rake's mockery 
 of love. Let Metellus say what he may, love and 
 the poetry of thought with which it overruns into 
 the literature that expresses it, are as imperishable 
 as man's desire of happiness. Well says the most 
 eloquent of all our preachers — a preacher who seems 
 to me to deserve, at least, as well as St. Chrysostorn, 
 the epithet of "golden-mouthed" — "Nothing can 
 please a man without love. Love is an union of all 
 things excellent — it contains in it proportion, and 
 satisfaction, and ease, and confidence." ' * 
 
 As Gallus here came to a close, Metellus, with 
 the high-bred courtesy wliicli graces him so well 
 both as tranquil philosopher and sweet-tempered 
 gentleman, smiled condescending approval. " Well 
 argued, young poet," said he, with affable lofti- 
 ness ; " or rather well declaimed. I recognise in 
 what you have said much to compliment and nothing 
 to answer. But let our host judicially decide be- 
 tween us." 
 
 "Tut!" said I testily, and much alarmed, — "as 
 
 * Sermon on th(! ' Marriage Ring ' — Jeremy Taylor.
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 415 
 
 if a host could ever be an umpire between two 
 disputative guests. His duty is to be equally com- 
 plimentary to both." 
 
 Here, however, both set upon me with denials of 
 my right to evade by mean pretexts the duty I had 
 tacitly incurred, in listening to two avowed disput- 
 ants as an unprejudiced and dispassionate party. 
 Thus pushed to the wall, I made the best of my 
 unwelcome position, assumed a magisterial air, and 
 pronounced judgment. 
 
 "The difference between Metellus and Gallus is 
 infinitely less than they imagine ; it would be easy 
 for an accomplished rhetorician of the eclectic school 
 to bring them both into harmony, and out of their 
 rival arguments to deduce a conciliatory conclusion : 
 for certainly the views of either would be partial and 
 incomplete without the views of the other. Each 
 surveys the same ground, but one has the sun before 
 his eyes, and the other the sun behind them. If 
 Metellus were twenty-five, perhaps he w^ould have 
 reasoned like Gallus ; should Gallus attain the age 
 of forty-five, perhaps he may reason like Metellus. 
 As to a definition of the influence of love, whether 
 on life or literature, so comprehensive, yet so pre- 
 cise, as to be acknowledged accurate by persons of 
 all ages and temperaments, one might as w^ell try to 
 fix a shadow at the same point on the face of the 
 sundial. 
 
 " You have both been discussing the subject as if 
 it were one of the problems of philosophy, whereas 
 it is only one of the suggestive queries out of which 
 no problem can ever be constructed. Let Gallus be 
 disappointed in his first love, succeed at the bar, and 
 marry a third wife, and he will smile to remember 
 all that Gallus, the Queen's counsel, now says as 
 Coelebs the poet. Let Metellus fall over head and 
 ears in love with some pretty face to-morrow, and he 
 will be ashamed to think how he has sought to reduce 
 
 2 E 2
 
 410 THE INFLUENCE OF LOVE UPON 
 
 to iiicli-nilc and measure tlie ])assi()ii for wliicli oldur 
 and more ambitious men tlian lie have sacrificed tlie 
 empire of the world. AVlK-tln-r love, as the ])oets 
 describe it, be, accordiiio- to Metellus, only felt ]»y tlio 
 fo^v — or, according to Gallus, be amon.o: the normal 
 fates of the many — it is scarcely possible even to 
 piess. For no man who happens to be in love is 
 willing to believe tliat any other man knows what 
 love is. iTideed, Goethe says somewhere, ' He oidy 
 loves who imagines that no one before him has ever 
 loved, and no one who comes after him ever will love, 
 to the same degree that he does.' I say then, that 
 a philosopher of tlie eclectic school conld reconcile 
 the differences between you. But how? — only l)y 
 submitting you botli to the same experiment. ' Ex- 
 periment,' as Liebig finely observes, 'is a question 
 addressed by man to Nature.' Go both of you, 
 address that question to Nature — fall in love ; then 
 come to me, and, small as is my science, it will be 
 enough to show tliat there is no distinction between 
 you, whether in wisdom or in folly." 
 
 Here Metellus laughed, and Gallus pished ; but 
 as neither answered, I seized the ad^■aTltage their 
 silence gave me to close a discussion which, left tu 
 itself, might have lasted till doomsday. 
 
 As we quitted the spot, the sun was slowly setting, 
 and the birds, silent through the noonday heats, 
 were breaking out into their evening song. When 
 we readied the sylvan arch that forms the entrance 
 to this favoured gVound, we mechanically paused and 
 looked back. The shadows slept on the still water 
 and overhanging boughs, but the westering light 
 came soft and slanting along the green alley, where 
 the busts of the great Romans gleamed white against 
 the dark wall of yew that backed them, bringing 
 into bold relief the effigies of those by whom the 
 world's practical business had been laboui-ed out 
 through vehement strife or crafty rule — Augustus
 
 LITERATURE AND REAL LIFE. 417 
 
 and Brutus side by side with the calm Ma3cenas, and 
 not higher on their pedestals than the poets who had 
 adorned the world the business of which they did 
 not share. But the last objects on which our eyes 
 lingered, ere we went homeward under the arched 
 portal, through the narrow path of dark pines, were 
 the festoons of roses that clothed the gnarled tree- 
 stems formed into Dionrean grottoes, and the bended 
 image of Dione herself casting her gentle shadow 
 over the waveless pool. 
 
 END OF VOL. IL 
 
 LONDON- PRINTED BT W. CLOWES AND SONS, STAMFORD STREET, 
 AND CHARING CROSS.
 
 -n 
 
 UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA LIBRARY 
 
 Los Angeles 
 This book is DUE on tlie laiit date stamped below. 
 
 OlSCll^RGE-URl 
 ^-r^ 1 n 1981 
 
 REVO lt"lL 
 ORION ,«„ 
 
 lon-o, sf:P25 89 
 
 'J', 
 
 N0V131)8S 
 
 >A, 
 
 Tv 
 
 
 >o 
 
 BRARY6? 
 
 
 vyginv 
 
 ANGflfj- . 
 
 ••"•^ so I 
 
 '■ ■ ^ > ' 
 
 j 
 
 
 AllFO)?^ 
 
 
 .v\'' 
 
 cv»r?nii\/rpr' 
 
 
 7M3AIHr^
 
 n s 1 Di I i i-c^i 
 
 P3 
 
 ■^ 
 
 3 1158 00651 6917 
 
 VER% vvlOSANCFlfr 
 
 T' O 
 
 
 3> =3 
 
 -n V-> 
 
 O J_ 
 
 b- C'f 
 
 
 -^IIIBRARYQ^ 
 ^ 1 tr^ ^ 
 
 ■^(^OJIWOJO'^ 
 
 <^^^•l!BRARY/}^^ 
 
 , rr.f Mtrnn,-, 
 
 v< 
 
 
 ^W' 
 
 <s 
 
 , ^*- 
 
 CO 
 
 ^\'Fi'\'!VFr?.r/>-, 
 
 
 s?t 
 
 UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY EACILITY 
 
 AA 000 367 960 2 
 
 >^^ 
 
 IIF0% aOFCALIFO 
 
 n 
 
 mi^ "^oxmmwi^ 
 
 
 
 " J I'^.ii': \ j>i; ^ 
 
 Mi J, v.'t'.' t J ;^' 
 
 IVERV// 
 
 
 C- 
 
 -n <-> 
 
 O lI. 
 
 .in<;.AurFirr 
 
 "^/mM....... - 
 
 <^ 
 
 ^WEUN'^'^^ 
 
 rr/i. 
 
 ■J I J JiH JU 1 
 
 ■■'^^- 
 
 Li) 
 
 Or 
 
 > r3 
 c: <: 
 
 i 
 
 o 
 
 ^ 
 
 v^-; 
 
 ■■jlJ'jNV-Mir' 
 
 9/. <^m\ 
 
 ^ 
 
 WrUNIVERS// 
 
 ^\> '-'/j'^OdllVJjO^^ ^l^ONVSOV"^^" %a3AINn-3WV 
 
 •A 
 
 
 33