lo*^^ 
 
 
 (^\ 
 
DECEMBER TALES. 
 
J. G. Barnard, 57» Skinner Street, London. 
 
DECEMBER TALES. 
 
 I turn now to my book, i nunc liber ; goe forth my brave ana- 
 tomy, child of my brain-sweat ; and yee, candidi lector es, lo ! here 
 I give him up to you; even do with him what you please, my 
 masters. 
 
 LONDON : 
 PRINTED FOR G. and W. B. WHITTAKER, 
 
 AVE-MARIA LANE. 
 
 1823. 
 
TO 
 
 THE REVEREND GEORGE CROLY, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 310 3In0cti!>etJ, 
 
 BY HIS MOST SINCERE FRIEND, 
 
 AND EARNEST ADMIRER, 
 
 THE AUTHOR. 
 
 A 3 
 
 645132 
 
Digitized by the Internet Archive 
 
 in 2008 with-funding from 
 
 IVIicrosoft Corporation 
 
 http://www.archive.org/details/decembertalesOOainsrich 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 A LONG Preface, like a long grace, which 
 detains the guests unseasonably from the 
 feast, is both impertinent and tedious. I 
 shall not, therefore, in violation of my own 
 maxim, oppose any unnecessary bar to the 
 immediate enjoyment of the reader; but, 
 fishing him a fair appetite, and good en- 
 tertainment, suffer him to take up his knife, 
 to cut into my pages, and begin. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Mary Stukeley • 1 
 
 The Falls of Ohiopyle 31 
 
 The Englisher's Story 51 
 
 The Mutiny 67 
 
 The Church Yard 79 
 
 The Test of Affection 91 
 
 The Wanderings of an Immortal 125 
 
 The Sea Spirit 149 
 
 The Theatre 165 
 
 Recollections 181 
 
 L'Envoy 227 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 
 
I am a poor nameless egotist, who have no vanities to 
 consult by these confessions. I know not whether I shall 
 be laughed at, or heard seriously. Such as they are, I 
 commend them to the reader's attention ; if he finds his own 
 case any way touched, I have told him what I am come 
 to : let him stop in time. 
 
MARY STUKEI^EY ' 
 
 My prime of youth is but a frost &f cares. 
 My feast of joy is but a dish of pain; 
 
 My crop of com is but a field of tares. 
 And all my goods is but vain hope of gain : 
 
 The day is fled — and yet I saw no sun. 
 
 And now I live— and now my life is done ! 
 
 Chidiock Tichebourne. 
 
 I AM no fatalist ; but if ever individual was sub- 
 ject to the influence of a prevailing destiny — a 
 destiny which has blighted his hopes, and run 
 counter to all the views and prospects of Yds life, 
 and changed completely his situation, habits, feel- 
 ings, and almost transformed him into a different 
 being — I am that one. 
 
 B 
 
2 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 But I have no wish to extenuate my faults or 
 crimes^ with the flimsy excuse that my actions were 
 controlled by some unknown but powerfully ope- 
 rating cause^ compelling me to pursue a pre-or- 
 dairiv^d (io>i;^i5.e', of existence : pn the contrary, I am 
 persuaded thajt su'oh a doctrine is wholly incon- 
 hii^tent with the principles of religion, and sub- 
 versive of morality : no ; I feel — I know that I 
 was free from the first to choose between good and 
 evil ; that I had a perpetual option of adopting or 
 rejecting any given course of action : unhappily, 
 my choice was an erroneous one, nor did I per- 
 ceive my mistake till it could not be rectified. 
 
 Without violent passions, and naturally dis- 
 posed to quiet and retirement, I have been, by a 
 concurrence of circumstances, reduced to a state 
 of misery, which has dried up the natural current 
 of my feelings, and rendered my heart, once the 
 habitation of the tenderest emotions, a wilderness 
 and place of burning sorrow. 
 
 The early years of my life I pass over as being of 
 no importance to my story. They passed in a 
 regular, uninterrupted course of happiness. • They 
 are days that we recur to with feelings of pleasure 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 3 
 
 and regret; days of joy^ that once gone never 
 again return; " for life's enchanted cup but 
 sparkles near the brim." Yet^ though we dwell 
 on them with feehngs of rapture^ they are times 
 of which little can be said by the biographer of 
 his own life. Their very serenity, and the uni- 
 formity of their placid delights, precludes the pos- 
 sibility of making them part of a narration. Like 
 a landscape of level country, which we look upon 
 with pleasure, but without intense feelings of ad- 
 miration, they present no prominent points of view 
 on which a writer can dwell. It is with unusual 
 occurrences — with narrations of deep misfortune 
 or vivifying joy — the harsh rocks and dazzhng 
 beauties of the landscape of life, that he has to 
 deal. 
 
 I was about the age when youth begins to be 
 lost in manhood, when I saw Mary Stukeley. I 
 was on a visit at a friend's. Sambhng one morn- 
 ing among the most beautiful sce^.ry I ever knew, 
 I saw this fair creature. I saw and loved her. I 
 know these first-sight affections are not much in 
 vogue at this time of day. I even acknowledge 
 the justness of the ridicule which is thrown out 
 vdth an unsparing hand against them : like most 
 b2' 
 
4 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 other reasoners, making an exception in favour of 
 my own peculiar case, 
 
 I lost no time in inquiring after the divinity who 
 had engaged my hearty and learnt that she was 
 the daughter of a neighbouring gentleman^ a 
 widower. I learnt also that her pecuniary ex- 
 pectations were not great. But what was this to 
 me ? I had enough for us both. Besides, what 
 lover of one-and-twenty ever inquired into his mis- 
 tress's rent-roll, or sought for other treasures than 
 were contained in her own lovely self ? She had a 
 brother, about a year older than herself. I wrote 
 to my parents, to obtain their approbation of my 
 choice : it was easily granted, and I assailed my 
 charmer with all love's artillery of sighs, and en- 
 treaties, and letters, and every thing which I 
 thought might win her smile. I was not alto- 
 gether without success. She listened to me with 
 patience, and, I flattered myself, with pleasure : I 
 pressed my suit, and, at last, she acknowledged 
 that she loved me. 
 
 Beautiful visions of former happiness! why 
 must my reminiscences of joy be ever accom- 
 panied with a pang at the comparison of my past 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 5 
 
 and present state? Yet^ though I reflect on it 
 with the severest pain^ there are thoughts con- 
 nected with the subject, which I dwell upon, if 
 not with pleasure, yet with something approach- 
 ing to it. I cannot help feehng a complacent 
 emotion at remembering, that a being like Mary 
 did not think me unworthy her esteem and afiec- 
 tion. I love to think of the walks we have had 
 together, when the mournful rustUng of winds 
 among the trees and long grass, and the length- 
 ening shadows, told us the approach of evening. 
 I cannot forget the feelings with which I then 
 looked upon the beauties of Nature. My heart 
 had not then lost its facility of receiving such im- 
 pressions ; it was not blunted vdth the attacks of 
 grief, nor jaundiced with the bitterness of dis- 
 appointment. Those were happy days — ^when, 
 with her hand clasped in mine, and her beautiful 
 eyes beaming love, we wandered o'er plains and 
 vallies — 
 
 Where streamy mountains swell 
 
 Their shadowy grandeur o'er the narrow dell ; 
 Where mouldering piles, and forests intervene, 
 Mingling with darker tints the living green ; 
 No circling hills the ravish'd eye to bound, 
 Heaven, Earth, and Ocean blazing all around I 
 
6 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 — Such was my first love ; and there are feelings 
 in a first love which no subsequent attachment can 
 yield. The realization of those visions that the 
 imagination has long been wont to create, and the 
 mind to dwell upon; the floating and indistinct 
 ideas (more beautiful from their very undefined- 
 ness) of rapture, and confidence, and happiness, 
 which the warmth of youthful feeling infuses into 
 youthful hearts ; the novelty of the emotion ; the 
 exquisite vibration of hope, and fear, and joy, 
 and sadness ; the devotedness with which the soul 
 is given up to one object, and one passion, con- 
 spire to give charms to the dream of first love, 
 which are but faintly shadowed in a subsequent 
 attachment. 
 
 The day was fixed for our marriage. I antici- 
 pated it, as may be conceived, vsdth ecstatic joy. I 
 thought my bliss was certain. Alas! how soon 
 was I to find the futility of such hopes! The 
 evening before the appointed day, I walked out 
 alone, to enjoy, uninterrupted, the pleasure of my 
 varied emotions. Mary was at home, reading a 
 new work I had procured for her. It was a 
 lovely summer's evening. The sun had set ; the 
 day had been intensely hot, and the lightning 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 7 
 
 blazed from the sky in vivid sheets. I gazed on 
 it with pleasure as it flashed from the ether^, and 
 was reflected on the rippUng waves of the river, 
 which ran beside me. On the banks of the stream 
 dark evergreens lifted their frowning tops_, min- 
 gled with the lighter green of the willow and the 
 beech. A lovely country spread itself around me 
 in every direction, and the view was terminated 
 by the dusky blue mountains that rose in dim 
 majesty, scarcely distinguishable from the clouds 
 that rolled on their tops. I stood to look on the 
 scene, and enjoy the freshness of the air. I was 
 filled with pleasant musings. I was in a state of 
 what might be called affluence. I was a lover and 
 beloved, and the next day was to crown my hap- 
 piness. How little I imagined what to-morrow 
 would bring forth — that I should be a fugitive 
 and a wanderer ! 
 
 While I was thus engaged, a female passed by 
 me, at a little distance. She was above the mid- 
 dle size, of a commanding appearance, and the 
 most expressive countenance I think I ever be- 
 held. She was not, perhaps, what many might 
 call beautiful, but I never knew any one who pos- 
 sessed so much the power of interesting at a first 
 
8 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 look. Her face was rather pale^ but the features 
 were striking, and her dark eye threw a vivid in- 
 telligence over their expression. Her black hair 
 was curled in ringlets that clustered about her 
 temples, and one lock waved down upon a beau- 
 tifully shaped neck. There was perceivable too a 
 lurking trace of the darker passions, which seemed 
 to be disguised under an habitually assumed look 
 of softness. By her dress, she appeared be- 
 low the middle station of society ; but there was 
 a dignity, an ease in her manner, which repelled 
 the idea. I certainly, for the time, forgot the 
 subjects of which I had been thinking — even 
 Mary's image sHpped from my mind. 
 
 As she was pursuing her road, her foot slipped, 
 and she fell. I flew to assist her, and inquired if 
 her fall had done her injury. She complained of 
 having sprained her ancle, and I offered her my 
 arm, which, after some excuses and apologies, she 
 accepted. 1 really cannot tell how it was, but I 
 felt a strange emotion at being thus situated. I 
 was pleased — (I certainly ought not then to have 
 been pleased, at least peculiarly pleased, by the 
 society of any woman but one) — I said I was 
 pleased, but it was a pleasure mixed with some* 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 9 
 
 thing like fear. There was sometliing unaccount- 
 able about her^ at least I thought so^ which pre- 
 vented me from feeling so at ease as I had always 
 been with other females. A great part of this 
 might be the fruit of imagination, for I had al- 
 ways a gTeat inclination for the marvellous, and 
 had spent many an hour, in my younger days, in 
 framing plots of castles and giants, sphinxes, hy- 
 pogriffs, and knights, and ladies, all mighty ter- 
 rific and wonderful ; as I thought then — 
 
 Forms that bore 
 
 A shadowy likeness to those fabled things 
 That sprung of old from man's imaginings; 
 
 Each look'd a fierce reality, — or seem'd 
 Nourish'd among the wonders of the deep, 
 
 And wilder than the Poet ever dream'd I 
 
 — As we walked along, we conversed on various 
 subjects. Her discourse was interesting, fluent 
 and animated, perhaps too much so, for it was in- 
 terspersed with remarks whose general truth and 
 well-directed pungency scarcely atoned for their 
 freedom and boldness, which I did not altogether 
 admire : perhaps she perceived this, for she changed 
 ^e style of her conversation, and I began to listen 
 to her with considerable dehght. It may be men- 
 b5 
 
10 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 tioned_, as an instance of my absence of mind 
 whilst in her company, that I forgot to think, far 
 less to inquire, where we were going. Indeed, I 
 seemed to be in a dream — a dream, the awakening 
 from which has been terrible. 
 
 We arrived at a spot^ the most delightful I 
 ever beheld. The earth sank in a kind of natural 
 basin, the sides of which were covered with the 
 highest green, and enamelled with the loveliest 
 flowers : harebells, daisies, " wee crimson-tipped 
 flowers," and innumerable others, of all colours^ 
 gushed out in profusion. Water-lilies waved their 
 graceful heads on the brink of a spring that bub- 
 bled from the bottom of the spot, and oozing 
 away through th# long grass and weeds which im- 
 peded its progress^ trickled down its narrow 
 channel with almost imperceptible murmurings. 
 
 My companion complaining of increased pain, 
 occasioned, as she thought, by walking, we sat 
 down on a large stone, which seemed to have 
 lain there undisturbed by ages. A large oak 
 spread over its branching arms, " the massy 
 growth of twice a hundred years," to which the 
 ivy clung and twined about in fantastic wreath- 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 11 
 
 ings. The magic of the spot^ the light whispering 
 of the winds through the quivering leaves, the 
 gurgling of the brook as it boiled in mimic rage 
 over the stones and other obstacles which pre- 
 sented themselves to its course; the perfume of 
 the air, the vvdtching hour, joined with a strange 
 feeling of inquietude, the cause of which I feared 
 to search into, overpowered my senses and un- 
 hinged my faculties. A thought of Mary in- 
 truded itself on me, for the first time ; I felt it an 
 intrusion, and strove to banish it. 
 
 Meanwhile my companion had remained silent : 
 at last she spoke, in a sportive manner, to me on 
 the cause of my abstraction. I did not answer, 
 and, plucking a flower from the ground, she 
 offered it to me. I snatched at it ; I caught her 
 hand in mine; she smiled, and I was at her 
 feet !— 
 
 I was startled by the approach of a footstep. I 
 looked up, and to my confusion, beheld the brother 
 of Mary. He had never been favourable to my 
 passion for his sister, and I feared the worst con- 
 sequences from his rage and dishke to me. I flew 
 
12 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 to him; he passed on_, and strove to avoid me, 
 but I followed, and overtook him. I said some- 
 thing about explanations. " Sir," he replied, " I 
 vjrish for no further explanations; the thing ex- 
 plains itself. Meanwhile I wish at present to be 
 alone. I vrish you a good night." I remon- 
 strated with him, and he replied in terms which, 
 however warm, were, I must confess, authorized 
 by my conduct. To be brief, our quarrel became 
 serious, he gave me a challenge, I accepted it, 
 and we parted. 
 
 I , rushed home in a state of madness. At the 
 gate I met Mary : she laughed, and playfully at- 
 tempted to stop me, but I passed by with a vio- 
 lence that allowed no time for converse. I flew 
 to my room, and, flinging myself into a chair, 
 gave myself up to the flood of passion and misery 
 that overwhelmed me. 
 
 And when I reflected, it was misery. I had 
 been seduced (I could not think by what evil in- 
 fluence) from the allegiance I owed to Mary — to 
 her who, to-morrow, should become my wife ; 
 and, e'er the nuptial hour should arrive, I might 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 13 
 
 be the murderer^ or have fallen by the hand of 
 her brother. At any rate, it was probable, almost 
 certain;, that he would disclose what he knew : it 
 might be, nay, was it not likely that she should 
 feel indignant at my conduct, and cast me off as 
 unworthy of her? I was filled with agonizing 
 apprehensions ; the tumult of my mind was dread- 
 ful. 
 
 In about an hour would be the time at which I 
 was to meet Mary's brother. I took out my pis- 
 tols and loaded them, and was almost ready to use 
 them to put an end to my existence. Whilst I 
 was thus employed, I heard a gentle rap at the 
 door. I went and opened it, and found Mary. 
 I went back, and she followed me. The first 
 thing she saw was my pistols, wliich I had for- 
 gotten to conceal. " What are these for ?" 
 was her question, pointing to them. I was so 
 confounded that, for some time, I could make no 
 answer. At last, I said that I had been cleaning^ 
 them. I looked at her ; her eyes were swoln and 
 inflamed with weeping, and I cursed myself for 
 bringing misery on her. She held out her hand to 
 me. " What ails you ? you seem unwell." I took 
 her hand — " Mary, forgive me," and I clasped her 
 
14 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 in my arms^ and wept over her in convulsive sor- 
 row. She was alarmed at my behaviour,, and 
 earnestly entreated me to tell her the cause of it. 
 I became more calm. She spoke with me for 
 some time^ and I had resolved to disclose the 
 whole to her ; when^ the clock striking^ reminded 
 me of my engagement. I threw myself on her 
 neck^ talked something incoherently about her 
 brother, and, snatching up my pistols, I broke 
 from her. 
 
 I rushed, in this state of desperation, towards 
 the place appointed for our meeting ; when, pass- 
 ing through a grove which sheltered the back of 
 the house, some one caught me by the arm. I 
 looked, and it was the detested being, the woman 
 through whom I had brought myself into my pre- 
 sent situation. I would rather have met with the 
 sight of a basilisk. 1 endeavoured to get away, 
 but she commanded me to stay, and I obeyed. 
 " You hate me," she said : " I have been, un- 
 willingly, the cause of your quarrel with the 
 brother of your intended wife : nay, be patient, I 
 am here to serve you. I overheard all ; I know 
 where you are going; it is now in vain, he is 
 dead." " Dead !" I exclaimed, " who is dead ? 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 15 
 
 Speak, woman." " Stukeley !" For some time I 
 could not speak. Horror and amazement de- 
 prived me of all power of utterance. " Tell me, 
 how was this? who did it? when or where was 
 it ?" " Immediately after I had overheard the 
 conversation between you and him," she con- 
 tinued, " 1 left the spot. In an hour after that 
 time, he was found murdered. No robbery had 
 been committed on his person: his watch, and 
 what money he had, were safe. Suspicion has 
 
 fallen on you, and " " On me, and why ?" 
 
 ** Ask nothing," she replied, " time presses ; in a 
 short time you will (unless you save yourself by 
 flight) be apprehended. The evidence is strong 
 against you ; some one heard you quarrel ; he 
 was seen with no one else. As you returned, you 
 passed by the Deadman's Hill, as they QaU it, a 
 place out of the common road, and near where 
 the body was found. Your strange behaviour, 
 when you arrived at the house, was noticed by 
 the servants. Whether you are guilty or not, you 
 know best. I have told you what I have heard. 
 But haste : every moment brings increasing dan- 
 ger. There are horses in the stable." She drag- 
 ged me on, for I was so bewildered with the 
 dreadful information, that I possessed scarcely 
 
16 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 any power over myself. We stopped at the stable 
 door ; slie left me^ and in a few moments brought 
 forth a horse, which she herself saddled and bri- 
 dled. " No," said I, « I will not fly ; I am in- 
 nocent, and fear nothing." " This is mere mad- 
 ness," she rejoined ; " fly for the present ; here- 
 after you may return; the real murderer will 
 probably be discovered ; circumstances now over- 
 power you, and you must yield to them." In the 
 state of confusion in which I was, I was easily 
 prevailed upon to do any thing. " That is your 
 safest road ; go to London, there you may be safe ; 
 
 inquire for John Bell, the basket-maker, in 
 
 street. I will overtake you; conceal yourself. 
 But you will want money; take this," and she 
 put a purse, seemingly well furnished, into my 
 hand. I endeavoured to thank her. I forgot 
 what evil she had been the cause of to me. " Say 
 nothing," she interrupted ; " remember the misery 
 I have brought upon you; perhaps," she added, 
 " you will not forget that I ha.ve endeavoured to 
 atone for it." There was something in her 
 words and manner that touched me. " Some 
 one comes," she said ; " begone — farewell." She 
 disappeared, and I pursued, as swiftly as I could, 
 the road she had pointed out to me. 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 17 
 
 In the evening of tlie next day, I arrived at the 
 metropolis, faint and v^^eary with exertion. My 
 first course was to inquire for the place to which I 
 had been directed. I found it with considerable 
 difficulty. It was a small, dirty, uncomfortable 
 house ; but any place of refuge was acceptable. I 
 inquired if I could have lodgings here. The man 
 eyed me narrowly, and beckoning to his wife (I 
 suppose to look well after me) he went into a back 
 room, from which he soon returned, and asked 
 me in. I entered, and found, to my surprise, the. 
 woman whom I had left when I departed from 
 
 P . She perceived my astonishment, and 
 
 said, " You see I am a quick traveller. I came 
 by a nearer, but more public road than you, 
 which is the reason of my being here before you." 
 She then ordered in some refreshment, which we 
 eat together. We spoke little, and I shortly re- 
 tired for the night. 
 
 I retired, but not to rest ; for the tumult of my 
 thoughts effectually precluded sleep. Two days 
 before, I was happy ; all my wishes were about to 
 be crowned with fulfilment, and 1 had scarce a 
 hope or desire for more ; and now, how difierent 
 was my state ! I was a fugitive and a wanderer ; 
 
18 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 a proclaimed felon ; branded as a murderer ; com- 
 pelled to shun society^ and to hide myself from 
 the light of day. And Mary ! what would she 
 think of my conduct? I was charged with the 
 murder of her brother. I had fled from justice, 
 and, of course, my guilt would be proclaimed. 
 And would she, too, think me a villain ? would 
 she banish me from her memory, or think of me 
 only with hatred and abhorrence? These were 
 questions I feared to answer. Appearances were 
 strongly against me, and though hope whispered 
 that Mary would frame excuses for my conduct, 
 and disbelieve the story of my guilt, yet it was 
 possible, it was most probable, that it would be 
 otherwise. From Mary my thoughts turned to her 
 who had been the cause of this misery. There 
 certainly was something in her that excited not 
 mere interest : it was not admiration, for she was 
 rather to be feared than admired ; it was something 
 which powerfully attracted my thoughts towards, 
 and kept her idea almost continually in view. I 
 was unable to discover why she had taken any 
 interest in me ; for that she did so, her conduct 
 made evident. Why should she follow me, as- 
 sist, and conceal me ? What could I be to her ? 
 Before that fatal day, I had never, to my know- 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 19 
 
 ledge^ so much as seen her. I ran over the events 
 of the evening when I saw her. I could scarcely 
 think that accident alone had produced the meet- 
 ing which had led to such important consequences. 
 Then the murder of Mary's brother, happening at 
 that exact time, and attended with such circum- 
 stances, perplexed me. Such were the thoughts 
 which, for a long time, prevented me from reposing 
 in slumber. At last I slept, but my sleeping were 
 more dreadful than my waking hours. Horrid 
 visions thronged around me. Now I saw the 
 murdered Stukeley, struggling with some one, 
 whose features I could not perceive, and crying 
 out for vengeance against his murderer. Then 
 the vision would disappear, and in its place was 
 Mary, pale and frantic, seeking for him who had 
 injured her. These, and a thousand other fan- 
 tasies of a like nature, rose up to my distempered 
 fancy. At last, morning came, and drove them 
 away, but it was only to be succeeded by real and 
 heart-felt miseries. 
 
 For near a month I continued here, during the 
 whole of which I saw no one but the man of the 
 house, his vnfe, and Ehza (for so she desired me 
 to call her). The conduct of this last was singu- 
 
20 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 lar. To all my inquiries as to her motives for at- 
 tending to me, &c. she gave m& none but general 
 answers, which afforded me no information. Her 
 behaviour was contrary to my expectation, par- 
 ticularly delicate, and seemingly that of a woman 
 accustomed to the higher ranks of society. Let it 
 not be imagined that any affection for her existed in 
 my breast : all feelings of that nature were swal- 
 lowed up in the attachment which, although hope- 
 less, I still nourished for Mary. At last, a cir- 
 cumstance occurred which explained, in some 
 manner, the motives of her conduct. 
 
 One morning, whilst I was sitting in my wretch- 
 ed chamber, I was alarmed by a noise below, as 
 of several persons quarrelling. I started up, and 
 in a moment after, EHza rushed into the room. 
 " You are lost !" she exclaimed ; " here are the 
 officers of justice." " What," said I, " is there 
 no refuge? — ^Well, then," I added, after a 
 moment's pause, " let them come, I am ready for 
 them." " No, no," she answered, " it must not 
 be so. I cannot lose you thus. I love you : pro- 
 mise to me that I shall be your wife, and I will 
 save you." " No, never ; I will perish first !" 
 was my answer ; for I could not bear the thought 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 21 
 
 of ruining^ by one blow, all my hopes of being 
 united to Mary. ^The officers were approaching 
 the doorc " Decide," said my companion ; " in a 
 moment it will be too late." The thought of my 
 situation, of the ignominious death to which I 
 should probably be doomed, rushed into my mind. 
 I shuddered at the prospect, and, almost fainting 
 with agitation, I promised. Eliza opened a door, 
 which I had never before seen ; it had been con- 
 cealed by an old screen, which was placed before 
 it, and we descended into a kind of cellar. " Now 
 you are safe," said she ; " no one but myself is 
 acquainted with this place." Here we remained 
 till the noise above had, for some time, entirely 
 ceased. At last, my companion ventured up the 
 steps by which we had descended, and returning, 
 assured me that the coast was clear, and I ascended 
 into the room. We sat down, and for some time 
 continued silent, and without looking at each 
 other. At last, I turned my eyes towards her. 
 She looked at me with a fixed and steady gaze, as 
 if to pierce into the recesses of my soul. She 
 rose ; she advanced to me — " Do you remember 
 your promise ?" " 1 do, and am ready to fulfil 
 it," was my reply. " You are ready to fulfil it," 
 said she, " you are ready to give your hand when 
 
22 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 you cannot give your heart? — Be silent," she 
 continued, as she perceived I was about to inter- 
 rupt her. " You are ready to marry a woman 
 whom you do not, cannot love. Ay, when you 
 
 love another ; when " " This is too much !" 
 
 I exclaimed ; " why am I to be thus tormented ? 
 I have promised ; I am willing to perform what I 
 have promised ; what more do you require ?" 
 " Nothing ; nay, not so much. Think not that I 
 am so vile a one ; that, though a wretched and 
 erring woman, I am so swallowed up in self- 
 ishness ; that I have lost all feeling ; that, though 
 I love and avow it to you, I would make you mine, 
 by compelling you to sacrifice all that is dear to 
 you." Her voice faltered ; she turned away : in 
 a moment after, collecting herself, she added, " I 
 release you from your promise." She sank upon 
 a chair, and wept. 
 
 I was now placed in a situation most embar- 
 rassing to me. I saw before me a woman who loved 
 me ; for I could not doubt the truth of what she 
 said. And yet, when she had it in her power to 
 indulge her wishes, by compelling the performance 
 of my promise, she had generously disdained to 
 take advantage of it, but had left me free to follow 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 23 
 
 the bent of my inclination. And what return was 
 I to make to this behaviour ? Was I to consider 
 myself as released from my engagement, and in- 
 flict misery upon one who had watched over me, 
 and taken so deep an interest in my fate? I 
 could not do it I resolved to marry her. Pro- 
 bably I was influenced in this determination by the 
 improbability of ever being united to her whom 
 my heart had chosen as its fondest object of ado- 
 ration. To be the husband of Mary seemed al- 
 most out of the reach of possibility. I walked up 
 to EHza ; I took her hand. It is useless to relate 
 our conversation. We were married. 
 
 I was married, to whom? strange as it may 
 appear, I never knew. Indeed, when I look over 
 this part of my life, I am inchned to regard the 
 whole of it as a troubled dream. But the efiects 
 which I still fatally experience, tell too plainly that 
 it was reahty, and reahty alone, which has wrought 
 so great a change in me. Eliza was a woman, 
 certainly of very superior talents; probably of 
 violent and irregular passions. Of these, how- 
 ever, I know little. During the short period of 
 our union, her conduct was without reproach. 
 Her faults (perhaps I am making use of too lenient 
 
24 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 an expression) were those of a strong mind, un- 
 restrained by prudence, or the force of early re- 
 striction. The stream which, if confined within 
 proper hmits, would have moved on in gentle 
 calmness, spreading fertiHty in its course ; if aban- 
 doned to its unchecked violence, rushes on a sweep- 
 ing torrent of destruction : so had it been with 
 her, and such wdll ever be the effect when a too 
 vigorous imagination and talented confidence urge 
 their possessor to pass the bounds which society 
 has imposed upon its members. 
 
 Three days after this event, the real murderer 
 of Stukeley was discovered. I might now return 
 in safety to my home and to my friends. But 
 there was one to whom I could not return. That 
 happiness I had forfeited. I determined never 
 again to see Mary. I removed with Ehza to a 
 small house, at a considerable distance from the 
 place in which I had been so long immured. She 
 excelled in painting and needle-work, and the pro- 
 duce of her labours maintained us both. I coidd 
 not bear, however, to subsist by her exertions 
 alone, and I resolved, when my health, which 
 had been injured by my long confinement, was in 
 some degree restored, to return and claim my pro- 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 25 
 
 perty. It was near four months before I was able 
 to commence my journey. I departed,, however, 
 and the next day brought me to my habitation. 
 The congratulation of friends^ the rejoicing of 
 domestics, and other circumstances which took 
 place at my return, are of too little importance to 
 my narrative to be dwelt upon. In the course of 
 a week my affairs were completely arranged, and 
 I prepared to revisit London. It was a httle past 
 sunset when I passed the residence of Mary. 
 What conflux of emotions thronged upon my mind ! 
 How short a time had passed over since, at this 
 very spot, I had walked with her whom I loved ; 
 and the bower in which we had sat at evening, 
 and watched the beautiful setting of the sun as he 
 sunk enveloped in clouds of many a varied hue, 
 I could not resist the temptation of again taking a 
 look at the beloved scenes. I was beside the 
 garden. I fastened my horse to the stump of an 
 old tree, and sprang over the wall. I was sur- 
 prised by a faint shriek. I turned round ; in a 
 moment I held Mary in my arms. 
 
 With what mingled feelings I pressed her to my 
 breast ! Joy, almost amounting to rapture, at again 
 clasping the object of my affection j sorrow, 
 c 
 
26 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 shame, and disappointment embittered the meet- 
 ing. She had heard, of course, of the discovery 
 of the murderer of her brother, and rejoiced in 
 the proof of my innocence. She inquired after 
 the motives and manner of my escape, and w^here 
 I had been since ? I answered her questions, sup- 
 pressing every circumstance relating to my wife. 
 She pressed me to enter the house, and assured 
 me that her friends were much interested in my 
 fate. I suffered myself to be prevailed on. Why 
 should I delay to complete my narration ? — I loved 
 her. Some months passed over, and we were 
 married. 
 
 I know not what it was that thus far blunted 
 the stings of conscience; but after this second 
 marriage, I was miserable. In vain I found my- 
 self beloved and esteemed by all around me. I 
 could not esteem : I could not do otherwise than 
 hate myself. I reflected on my conduct towards 
 EUza ; on her devotedness to me, which ought, in 
 J^y eyes, to have counterbalanced all her failings. 
 I was, indeed, most miserable ; my spirits sunk ; 
 I was haunted by fearful visions ; and I was weary 
 of my existence, Mary perceived it, and in- 
 quired anxiously into the cause of it. I evaded 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 2T 
 
 her questions for a considerable time; at last, I 
 confessed the whole to her. 
 
 From that moment her health declined. %£o 
 think that she had united herself to one who had 
 behaved so basely to another of her own sex, was 
 terrible to her. She said little; but I perceived 
 that the blow had struck to her heart, and I de- 
 tested myself as the cause of it. It seemed as if 
 I was destined to be the destruction of all who 
 loved, trusted, and confided in me. 
 
 One evening we were seated in the bower, 
 where, in happier days, we had enjoyed such pure 
 and unalloyed bliss. She had been in better health 
 that day than for some time. We conversed with 
 a pleasure which we had not felt for many a long 
 and tedious day before. Towards the close of the 
 evening she lost her vivacity, and became more 
 thoughtful and pensive : leaning her head on my 
 breast, she said, with a hollow voice, " I must 
 leave you !" I was alarmed : I pressed her cheek 
 to my lips. She attempted to rise, but sank on 
 the ground — " I am dying !" I caught her in my 
 arms : she was dead. 
 
 c2 
 
28 MARY STUKELEY. 
 
 I have long been a wanderer ; I have sought for 
 rest^ but in vain; the burning sting of remorse 
 has rankled in my breast^ and life has long been a 
 burden to me. I have made many inquiries after 
 Eliza^ but in vain : peace be to her ! In her good 
 or bad qualities, probably no one novsr is interested, 
 but the vvrretched soUtary v^^ho pens these hues. 
 She vs^ill, with him, be forgotten. Oblivion, the 
 refuge of the miserable, will shroud our names in 
 its gloomy curtain. 
 
 Perhaps it might have been as well if oblivion 
 had been suffered to fall over the events contained 
 in this imperfect narrative, instead of adding an- 
 other to the already countless records of human 
 follies, and of human crimes : but it may serve to 
 shew the evil effects which ensue from the first 
 false step. They cannot be foretold, and are ir- 
 remediable. 
 
 I have been loved, and now I am unknown and 
 uncared for. I had friends, and am desolate. I 
 have striven to bury my sorrow in the whirl of 
 giddy pleasure; but pleasure has lost its excite- 
 ment, and is succeeded by langour and disappoint- 
 
MARY STUKELEY. 29 
 
 mqnt. I might yet have known something like 
 composure^ but the very source of happiness was 
 dried up — ^the sensibilities of my nature were 
 blunted — ^the spring of the gentle affections flows 
 no longer : apathy and despair are all that I can 
 expect. 
 
 Oh! could I feel as I have felt, or be what I have been, 
 Or weep as I could once have wept o'er many a vanish'd 
 
 scene ; 
 As springs, in deserts found, seem sweet, all brackish 
 
 though they be, 
 So, 'mid the withered waste of life, those tears would 
 
 flow to me I 
 
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 
 
Blow, breezes, blow ! the stream runs fast, 
 The rapids are near, and the daylight's past I 
 
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 
 
 Go, where the water glideth gently ever, 
 Glideth by meadows that the greenest be t 
 
 On the west of the Alleghany mountains rise the 
 branches of the Youghiogeny river. The sur- 
 rounding country is fertile and woody^ and pre- 
 sents strong attractions for the sportsman, as does 
 also the river,, which abounds in fish. These were 
 the principal considerations which induced me, in 
 the autumn of the year 1812, to ramble forth with 
 my dog and gun, amid uninhabited solitudes, almost 
 unknown to human footstep, and where nothing is 
 c5 
 
34 THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 
 
 heard but the rush of winds, and the roar of 
 waters. 
 
 On the second day after my departure from 
 home, pursuing my amusement on the banks of 
 the river, I chanced to behold a small boat, fast- 
 ened by a rope of twisted grass to the bank of 
 the stream. I examined it, and finding it in good 
 condition, I determined to embrace the opportu- 
 nity that presented itself of extending my sport, 
 and my fishing tackle was put in requisition. I 
 entered into the diminutive vessel, notwithstanding 
 the remonstrances of my four-footed companion, 
 who, by his barking, whining, and delay in coming 
 on board, seemed to entertain manifold objections 
 to the conveyance by water — a circumstance 
 which somewhat surprised me. At last, how- 
 ever, his scruples being overcome, he entered 
 into the boat, and I rowed off. 
 
 My success fully equalled my expectations, and 
 evening overtook me before I thought of desisting 
 from my employment. But there were attractions 
 to a lover of nature which forbade my leaving the 
 element on which I was gliding along. 1 have 
 mentioned that it was autumn; immense masses 
 
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 35 
 
 of trees,, whose fading leaves hung trembling from 
 the branches, ready to be borne away by the next 
 gust, spread their dark brown boundary on every 
 side. To me this time of the year is indescrib- 
 ably beautiful. I love to dwell upon those sad 
 and melancholy associations that suggest them- 
 selves to the mind when Nature, in her garb of 
 decay, presents herself to the eye : it reminds me 
 that human pride and human happiness, like the 
 perishing things around us, are hastening rapidly 
 on to their decUne ; that the spring of life flies ; 
 that the summer of manhood passeth away ; and 
 that the autumn of our existence lingers but a 
 moment for the winter of death, which shall close 
 it for ever. The light winds that blew over the 
 water, curled its surface in waves that, breaking 
 as they fell, dashed their sparkling foam in showers 
 around. The sun was sinking behind the moun- 
 tains in the west, and shone from amidst the sur- 
 rounding clouds : his last rays glittered on the 
 waters, and tinged with a meUow and sombre 
 lustre the embrowned foliage of the trees. The 
 whole scene spoke of peace and tranquillity ; and 
 I envy not the bosom of that man who could gaze 
 upon it vdth one unholy thought, or let one evil 
 feeUng intrude upon his meditations. As I pro- 
 
36 THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 
 
 ceeded^ the beauty of the surrounding objects 
 increased: immense oaks twisted about their 
 gigantic branches, covered with moss ; lofty ever- 
 greens expanded their dark and gloomy tops, and 
 smaller trees and thick shrubs filled up the spaces 
 between the larger trunks, so as to form an al- 
 most impervious mass of wood and foliage. As 
 the evening advanced, imagination took a wider 
 range, and added to the natural embellishments. 
 The obscure outline of the surrounding forest as- 
 sumed grotesque forms, and fancy was busy in 
 inventing improbabilities, and clothing each ill- 
 defined object in her own fairy guises. The 
 blasted and leafless trunk of a lightning-scathed 
 pine would assume the form of some hundred- 
 headed giant, about to hurl destruction on the 
 weaker fashionings of nature. As the motion of 
 the boat varied the point of view, the objects 
 would give way to another — and another — and 
 another, in all the endless variety of lights and 
 distances : distant castles, chivalric knights, cap- 
 tive damsels and attendants, dwarfs and 'squires, 
 with their concomitant monsters, griffins, dragons, 
 and aU the creations of romance, were conjured 
 up by the fairy wand of fantasy. On a sudden^ 
 the moon burst forth in aU her silvery lustre, and 
 
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 37 
 
 the sight of the reality effectually banished all less 
 substantial visions; thin transparent clouds,, so 
 light and fragile^ that they seemed scarce to afford 
 a resting place for the moonbeams that trembled 
 on them, glided along the sky ; the dense masses 
 that skirted the horizon were fringed with the 
 same radiance, while, rising above them, the 
 evening star twinkled amid its solitary rays. I 
 could not be said to feel pleasure — ^it was rapture 
 that throbbed in my heart at the view : my cares, 
 my plans, my very existence were forgotten in the 
 . flood of intense emotions that overwhelmed me, at 
 thus beholding, in their pride of loveliness, the 
 works of the Creating Spirit. 
 
 In the mean time, the boat sailed rapidly on- 
 wards, with a velocity so much increased, that it 
 awakened my attention. This, however, I at- 
 tributed to a rather strong breeze that had sprung 
 up. My dog, who had, since his entrance into the 
 boat, lain pretty quiet, began to disturb me with 
 his renewed barkings, fawnings, and suppUcating 
 gestures. I imagined that he wished to land, and, 
 as the air was becoming chill, I felt no objection 
 to comply with his wishes. On looking around, 
 however, and seeing no fit place of landing, I 
 
38 THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 
 
 continued my course^ hoping shortly to find some 
 more commodious spot. Very great^ however, 
 was the dissatisfaction of Carlo at this arrange- 
 ment ; but, in spite of his unwillingness, he was 
 obliged to submit, and we sailed on. 
 
 Shortly, however, my ears were assailed by a 
 distant rumbling noise, and the agitation of my 
 companion redoubled. For some time he kept up 
 an uninterrupted howling, seemingly under the 
 influence of great fear or of bodily pain. I now 
 remarked that, though the wind had subsided, the 
 rapidity of the boat's course was not abated. Se- 
 riously alarmed by these circumstances, 1 deter- 
 mined to quit the river as soon as possible, and 
 sought, with considerable anxiety, for a place 
 where I might, by any means, land. It was in 
 vain ; high banks of clay met my view on both 
 sides of the stream, and the accelerated motion 
 of the boat presented an obstacle to my taking ad- 
 vantage of any irregularities in them, by wliich I 
 might otherwise have clambered up to land. In a 
 short time my dog sprung over the side of the 
 boat, and I saw him, wdth considerable diffi- 
 culty, obtain a safe landing: still he looked at 
 me wistfully, and seemed undecided whether 
 
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 39 
 
 to retain his secure situation, or return to his 
 master. 
 
 Terror had now obtained complete dominion 
 over me. The rush of the stream was tremen- 
 douS;, and I now divined too well the meaning of 
 the noise which I have mentioned. It was no 
 longer an indistinct murmur ; it was the roar of a 
 cataract_, and I shuddered and grew cold^ to think 
 of the fate to which I was hurrying, without hope 
 of succour, or a twig to catch at, to save me from 
 destruction. In a few moments I should, in all 
 probability, be dashed to atoms on the rock, or 
 whelmed amid the boiUng waves of the waterfall. 
 I sickened at the thought of it. I had heard of 
 death; I had seen him in various forms; I had 
 been in camps, where he rages; but never till 
 now did he seem so terrible. Still the beautiful 
 face of nature, which had tempted me to my fate, 
 was the same : the clear sky, the moon, the silvery 
 and fleecy clouds, were above me, and far high in 
 the heaven, with the same dazzhng brightness, 
 shone the stars of evening, and, in their tranquil- 
 lity, seemed to deride my misery. My brain was 
 oppressed with an unusual weight, and a clammy 
 moisture burst out over my limbs. I lost all 
 
40 THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 
 
 sense of surrounding objects ; a mist was over my 
 eyes ; but the sound of the waterfaQ roared in my 
 ears^ and seemed to penetrate through my brain. 
 Then strange fancies took possession of my mind : 
 things^ of whose shape I could form no idea^ 
 would seize me, and whirl me around till sight 
 and hearing fled : then I would start from the delu- 
 sion as from a dream_, and again the roar of the 
 cataract would ring through my ears. These 
 feelings succeeded each other with indefinite 
 rapidity ; for more than a very few minutes could 
 not have elapsed from the time I became insensi- 
 ])le to the time of my reaching the waterfaQ. 
 Suddenly I seemed rapt along inconceivably swift, 
 and, in a moment, I felt that I was descending, 
 or rather driven headlong, with amazing violence 
 and rapidity ; then a shock, as if my frame had 
 been rent in atoms, succeeded, and all thought or 
 recollection was annihilated. I recovered in some 
 degree to find myself dashed into a watery abyss, 
 from which I was again vomited forth to be again 
 plunged beneath the waves, and again cast up. 
 As I rose to the surface, I saw the stars, dimly 
 shining through the mist and foam, and heard the 
 thunder of the faUing river. I was often, as well 
 as I can remember, partly lifted up from the 
 
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 41 
 
 water ; but human nature could not bear such a 
 situation long, and I became gradually uncon- 
 scious of the shocks which I sustained ; I heard 
 no longer the horrible noise, and insensibility 
 aiforded me a relief from my misery. 
 
 It was long before I again experienced any sen- 
 sation. At last I awoke, as it seemed to me from 
 a long and troubled sleep ; but my memory was 
 totally ineffectual to explain what or where I was. 
 So great had been the effect of what I had under- 
 gone, that I retained not the shghtest idea of my 
 present or former existence. I was Uke a man 
 newly born, in full possession of his faculties ; I 
 
 felt all tliilt conaCiOUancao of boing^, yot ignorance of 
 
 its origin, which I imagine a creature, placed in 
 the situation I have supposed, would experience. 
 I know not whether I make myself intelligible in 
 this imperfect narrative of my adventure, but some 
 allowance will, I trust, be made, in considera- 
 tion of the novel situation and feehngs which I 
 have to describe. 
 
 I looked around the place in which I was ; I 
 lay on a bed of coarse materials, in a small but 
 airy chamber. By slow degrees I regained my 
 
42 THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 
 
 ideas of my own existence and identity, but I 
 was still totally at a loss to comprehend by what 
 means I came into such a situation ; of my sailing 
 on the river, of my fears and unpleasant sensa- 
 tions, and of being dashed down the falls of Ohio- 
 pyle, I retained not the shghtest recollection. I 
 cast my eyes around, in hopes of seeing some per- 
 son who could give me some information of my 
 situation, and of the means by which I was placed 
 in it ; but no one was visible. 
 
 My next thought was to rise, and seek out the 
 inhabitants of the house, but, on trial, my limbs 
 were, I found, too weak to assist me, and patience 
 was my only alternative. 
 
 After this, I relapsed into my former insensi- 
 bihty, in which state I continued a considerable 
 time ; yet I had some occasional glimpses of what 
 was passing forward about me. I had some 
 floating reminiscences of an old man, who, I 
 thought, had been with me, and a more perfect 
 idea of a female form which had flitted around me. 
 One day, as I lay half sensible on my bed, I saw 
 this lovely creature approach me ; I felt the soft 
 touch of her fingers on my brow, and though the 
 
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 43 
 
 pressure was as light as may be conceived from 
 human fingers, it thrilled through my veins, and 
 lingered in my confused remembrance ; the sound 
 of her voice, as she spoke in a low tone a few 
 words to the old man, was music to me; her 
 bright eyes, tempered with the serenity of a pure 
 and blameless mind, beamed upon me with such 
 an expression of charity and benevolence as I had 
 never before beheld. During the whole time of 
 my illness, those white fingers, those bright blue 
 eyes, and the sound of that voice, were ever pre- 
 sent to my diseased imagination, and exerted a 
 soothing influence over my distempered feelings. 
 
 At lengtk th^ dorlcxtoso thflf. had obsCUTCd JEy 
 
 mind and memory passed away, I was again 
 sensible, and could call to mind, with some little 
 trouble, a considerable part of the accidents that 
 had befallen me. Still, however, the idea of my 
 passing over the brink of the rocks over which 
 the river precipitates itself; of the shock which I 
 experienced, when dashed down the cataract, and 
 of my terrible feelings, I had a very shght and 
 confused idea. 1 now longed more ardently than 
 before for some one from whom I might gather 
 information concerning those things which were 
 
44 THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 
 
 unknown to me. My strength being in some de- 
 gree recruited^ I endeavoured to rise, and suc- 
 ceeding in the attempt, I examined the room in 
 which I lay, but no one was there ; my next la- 
 bour (and a work of labour I found it) was to put 
 on some clothes, which I found deposited on a 
 chair ; being equipped, therefore, as fully as cir- 
 cumstances would admit, I commenced my ope- 
 rations. My first step was to enter into an ad- 
 joining room, wliich, fearful of trespassing on 
 forbidden ground, 1 did with some trepidation. 
 This room was, however, likewise destitute, as 1 
 thought, of inhabitants, and I was about to re- 
 tire, when the barking of a dog arrested my at- 
 tention ; and, turning round^ I bftheld^ with nO 
 small satisfaction, my old fellow-traveller. Carlo. 
 Shall I attempt to describe our meeting ? It was 
 the language of the heart, inexpressible in words, 
 that spoke in the sparkling eyes and joyous gam- 
 bols of my dog; and I was busily engaged in 
 patting him, when, turning round, 1 perceived 
 that our privacy had been intruded upon, llie 
 beautiful creature, on whom my wandering fancy 
 had dwelt, stood looking at us, supporting, with 
 one arm, the old man, her father; while on the 
 other hung a basket of flowers. I stood gazing 
 
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 45 
 
 at them without speaking ; I know not what magic 
 made me dumb_, but not a word escaped my lips. 
 She was the first to speak^ and expressed her joy 
 at seeing me able to depart from my couch, 
 chiding me, at the same time, for so doing, with- 
 out leave. " I," said she, smiling, " am, at pre- 
 sent, your physician ; and, I assure you_, that 1 
 shall exercise the power which I have over you as 
 such, in as rigorous a manner as possible." — 
 ^ Aye," added the father, " Hke all your sex, you 
 love to make the most of the little power you 
 have. But," added he, " we should not thus 
 salute a guest, by threatening him with subjec- 
 tion; he is our guest, and not our captive." — By 
 this time, I had recovered the use of my tongue, 
 and began to express my gratitude for their kind- 
 ness, and my sorrow at the trouble which I was 
 conscious I must have occasioned to them : but 
 my politeness was cut short, by the frank assur- 
 ance of my host that I was welcome, reiterated 
 more gently, but not less warmly, by his lovely 
 daughter. Carlo and I were now separated, much 
 against the wishes of both ; but my fair physician 
 was inexorable, and I was compelled to turn in 
 again, in seaman's phrase, tiU the morrow, and 
 to suspend, for the same time, my curiosity. 
 
46 THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 
 
 The next day^ at length, came, and I requested 
 my entertainers to favour me with answers to the 
 questions which I should propose to them. They 
 smiled at my eagerness, and promised to satisfy 
 my curiosity. It was easily done. The old man 
 had a son, who, passing by the falls of Ohio- 
 pyle, some nights before, in the evening, was at- 
 tracted by the moanings and lamentations of a 
 dog, and, descending to the bottom of the fall, 
 perceived me at the river side, where I had been 
 entangled among some weeds and straggling roots 
 of trees. From this situation he had great diffi- 
 culty, first in rescuing me, and, having succeeded 
 in that point, in conveying me to his father's 
 dwelling, where I found I had lain several days, 
 till, by his daughter's unremitting attention (the 
 old man himself being unable materially to assist 
 me, and the son compelled to depart from home, 
 on urgent business) I had been restored, if not to 
 health, to a state of comparative strength, which 
 promised to terminate in complete restoration. 
 Such were the facts which I contrived to gather 
 from the discourse of my host and his daughter, 
 notwithstanding their softening down, or slightly 
 passing over every thing, the relation of which 
 might seem to claim my gratitude, or tend to 
 
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 47 
 
 their own praise. As to themselves, my host was 
 a Pemisylvanian farmer, who, under pressure of 
 misfortune, had retired to this spot, where the 
 exertions of the son sufficed for the support of the 
 whole family, and the daughter attended to the 
 household duties, and to the comfort of the father. 
 
 When the old man and his daughter had an- 
 swered my queries, I renewed my thanks, which 
 were, however, again cut short. If they had 
 been of service to a fellow-creature, it was in it- 
 self a sufficient reward, even if they had suffered 
 any inconvenience from assisting me (which they 
 assured me was not the case). Many otlier good 
 things were said at the time, which I forget ; for 
 — shall I confess it? — the idea that all that had 
 been done for me was the effect of mere general 
 philanthropy, displeased me. When I looked at 
 the lovely woman who had nursed me, with sister- 
 like affection, I could not bear to reflect that any 
 otlier, placed in a similar situation, might have 
 been benefited by the same care ; been watched 
 over with equal attention, and greeted with the 
 same good-natured smile: in short, that I was 
 cared for no more than another, and valued and 
 taken care of merely as a being of the same 
 
48 THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 
 
 species with themselves^ to whom^ equally with 
 any other^ their sense of duty taught them to do 
 good. 
 
 In a day or two^ my health was so much im- 
 proved^ that I was permitted to walk out in the 
 small garden^ which surrounded the cottage. 
 Great was my pleasure in looking at this humble 
 dwelling. Its thatched roof, wdth patches of dark 
 green moss and beautiful verdure ; its white walls 
 and chimney^ wdth the wreaths of smoke curhng 
 above it ; the neat glazed windows^ the porch and 
 its stone seat at the door ; the clean pavement of 
 white pebbles before it; the green grass plat^ 
 edged with shells^ and stones^ and flowers,, and 
 gemmed with " wee, modest" daisies, and the 
 moss rose in the middle, were to me objects on 
 which my imagination could revel for ever, and I 
 sighed to think that I must shortly part from them. 
 It remained for me, in some manner, to shew my 
 gratitude before I parted from my benevolent host, 
 but I was long before I could settle the thing to my 
 mind. I felt unhappy, too, at the thought of 
 leaving the old man; his white-washed cottage, 
 his garden, and his beautiful and good daughter : 
 — " And yet it cannot be helped," I repeated 
 
THE FALLS OF OHIOPYLE. 49 
 
 again and again. " How happy I should be^," I 
 thought, "in this lovely spot, and perhaps the 
 daughter — dare a man at first acknowledge, 
 even to himself, that he is in love? — And why 
 should I not be happy ?" 
 
 I am married — need I say to whom ? — and the 
 white-washed cottage, with its mossy thatch, have 
 the same attractions for me — ^nay, more, for it is 
 endeared by the ties of love, of kindred, and of 
 happiness. I have lived in it nine years ; my chil- 
 dren flock around me, my wife loves me, and her 
 father is happy in seeing her happy. Her brother 
 is flourishing in his business, and none in our 
 family are dissatisfied, or in want. Often do I 
 thank God for my blessings, and look back with 
 pleasure to the day when I passed the Falls of 
 Ohiopyle. 
 
THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 
 
 d3 
 
-When we shall hear 
 
 The rain and wind beat dark December, how, 
 
 In this our pinching cave, shall we discourse 
 
 The freezing hours away ? 
 
 Cymbelixe. 
 
THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 
 
 I am dead to all pleasures, my true love is gone — 
 
 O willow, willow, willow ! 
 
 O willow, willow, willow I 
 Sing O the green willow shall be my garland ! 
 
 Old Song. 
 
 At the latter end of the year 1819, I accepted an 
 invitation to pass a week at the habitation of a 
 friend, in Scotland; and, accordingly, made all 
 due preparations for the journey, and took my 
 place in the vehicle, which commences its periodi- 
 cal excursions from the small town containing my 
 residence. It is not needful to describe the busy 
 preparations for the event, the fidgeting of my 
 aunts (for I am blessed with three !), the rising at 
 four o*clock to set off at seven, and the endless 
 
54 THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 
 
 train of et-ceteras_, which every traveller is w^ell 
 acquainted with. I departed in the Velocity, for 
 so the vehicle was named — lucus a non lucendo, 
 I presume — in company with a French dancing- 
 master, a Scotch merchant, and the wife of a 
 Welsh curate. Nothing remarkable happened 
 during the journey, which was performed in mute 
 silence, except when an extraordinary jolt of the 
 carriage drew forth an occasional ejaculation from 
 my fellow-travellers, and I at last arrived at the 
 place of my destination. My friend's house — a 
 marvellous ill-fashioned edifice — stood upon the 
 top of an eminence, at the foot of which a muddy 
 pool, passing by the name of pond, served as a 
 school to initiate some young of the duck tribe in 
 the art and mystery of swimming. The house it- 
 self, though completely void of all shape, was 
 large, and the hospitable reception vdthin, made 
 ample recompence for the uncouthness of the ex- 
 terior. I was ushered, by a servant in ancient 
 livery, into a parlour, where, seated around the 
 fire, I found the laird, Mr. M'^Farragon, his vdfe, 
 and only daughter; two neighbouring gentlemen, 
 Mr. Whappledoun, and Mr. Baldermere ; a young 
 English lady. Miss Somerset, with her brother; 
 and an elderly dame, Mrs. Tiverton; all of whom 
 
THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 55 
 
 were^ like myself, visitors. Being somewhat tired 
 with my journey, and the evening far advanced, 
 I retired early to rest, to sleep off the fatigues of 
 the day. 
 
 The next morning I took a survey of my friend's 
 castle. It was, as I have before said, not re- 
 markable for its elegance, or the harmonious pro- 
 portion of its parts. The body of the building 
 had been originally of a square shape, but it 
 abounded with wings which had been appended 
 to it by succeeding occupiers, and was accommo- 
 dated with numerous high and narrow apertures, 
 filled with minute panes of glass, which served as 
 an apology for windows, though the architect 
 seemed to have been perfectly ignorant of any 
 such thing as regularity in their disposition. The 
 roof was adorned with towers of all descriptions, 
 some round, some square, and some of a shape 
 which would have baffled the skill of the most 
 experienced professor of octahedrons and polygons 
 to give a name to, and which sprouted out in 
 beautiful confusion, like the horns of the beast in 
 the Revelations. 
 
 The day passed pleasantly in conversation and 
 
66 THE ENGLISHER^S STORY. 
 
 various amusements, for the weather prohibited 
 all excursion beyond the walls, and, in the even- 
 ing, we told stories; the first of which, related 
 by Henry Somerset, the young Englishman, I 
 here introduce. 
 
 It was on the close of a fine day in July, and I 
 walked out to enjoy an evening ramble. The day 
 had been warm, and the breeze that rustled 
 amongst the leaves, with " cooling melody," was 
 inexpressibly grateful. The sun was just sinking 
 behind the mountains, whose dark masses bounded 
 the view on the west, and lighted up the clouds 
 that gathered round him with a blaze of glory, 
 which glittered through the trees with the most 
 delightful splendour. The inhabitants of the 
 neighbouring villages had retired to rest, and no 
 sound interrupted the silence which brooded over 
 the scene, save the gentle murmurs of the wind, 
 and the occasional bark of the distant watch-dog. 
 
 It is sweet to walk in places and at times like 
 these ; when the mind, loosened from the weight 
 of subjects which have oppressed it during the 
 busy day, springs with renovated buoyancy to com- 
 mune with the spirit of Nature ; when, shaking off 
 
THE ENGLISHER^S STORY. 57 
 
 the cumbrous load of earthly inquietude^ she roams 
 in freedom through the boundless expanse, not 
 fettered to the present. Memory kindly lends her 
 aid to conjure up the past, and Fancy leads her on 
 to contemplate the future. 
 
 1 arrived, in my ramble, at a spot which nature 
 seemed to have chosen, to blend all her powers of 
 charming. The dark fohage which grew around, 
 threw a soft and melancholy shade upon the scene ; 
 the beautiful wild flowers loaded the air with their 
 simple perfume; while the wind, which here 
 sighed with a deeper murmur, accorded well with 
 the rippling of a brook that rolled over the white 
 and shining pebbles, winding along in intricate 
 mazes, till the eye lost its track among the thick 
 underwood, which flourished on its margin. It 
 was a spot which a poet would have hung over 
 with rapture, a painter would have loved to de- 
 lineate on his canvas, and which an angel might 
 have lingered to gaze upon, and thought it Eden. 
 
 So intent was I in admiring this natural garden, 
 
 that it was some time before I perceived a cottage, 
 
 which reared its thatched roof under the shade of 
 
 a venerable chestnut, that spread its giant arms far 
 
 d5 
 
58 THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 
 
 abroad on every side. I wished to know who 
 were inhabitants of this terrestrial paradise, and 
 therefore approached, and knocked gently at the 
 door, the threshold of which was embroidered by 
 honeysuckles, that twined around it, and kissed 
 the projecting cottage roof. It was opened by an 
 elderly woman, the very personification of hos- 
 pitahty. She invited me to enter, which I did, 
 after apologizing for my intrusion, and offering 
 my long walk as an excuse for resting myself. I 
 had now an opportunity of observing the interior 
 of the building, or, at least, of the part where 1 
 sat. It was a small, low apartment, but the 
 white-washed walls, the clean windows, whose 
 small panes of glass were partly obscured by the 
 shrubs which cHmbed around them, and the bright 
 rows of well-polished pot-lids, and other culinary 
 utensils, gave an air of neatness and industry to 
 the room. Near the fire-place sat an old man, 
 seemingly much oppressed by age and pain, but 
 his welcome was hearty, though unpolished, and 
 his furrowed cheeks and snowy locks gave him a 
 reverend and pleasing appearance. My hostess 
 seemed, about fifty ; her features were rather of a 
 melancholy cast; a clean cap restrained her grey 
 hair, which time had much thinned, and from her 
 
THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 59 
 
 waist hung a pincushion and pair of scissars. 
 She placed refreshment before me^, of which I par- 
 took most heartily^ and answered my questions 
 with civihty, and even politeness. After recom- 
 pensing the aged couple for my entertainment, I 
 at length departed^ with many thanks and re- 
 newed apologies for my intrusion. 
 
 From a farmer in the neighbourhood I inquired 
 concerning this family^ and he told me that they 
 had once a son^ a most promising young man, 
 their chief, and, indeed, their only dehght : he 
 had been pressed on board a ship of war, and, as 
 he had never been since heard of, it was conjec- 
 tured that he had either fallen in some engagement, 
 or been lost in the waves. He shewed me also a 
 likeness of him, which he had received from him- 
 self, a great friendship having existed between 
 them ; but, as I soon after went to a distant part 
 of the kingdom, I speedily forgot the cottage and 
 its inhabitants. 
 
 I exchanged the calm repose of the country for 
 the bustle of a seaport town, and the songs of 
 birds for the creaking of cordage, and the melody 
 of the boatswain's whistle. One day, turning hastily 
 
60 THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 
 
 round the corner of a street^ I was struck by the 
 figure of a man^ who sought relief from his dis- 
 tress in the charity of his fellow-creatures,, but 
 his wan countenance and extended arm alone 
 pleaded for him with mute eloquence. I thought 
 I knew the features^ but vainly endeavoured to 
 recollect where ; and^ giving him a few halfpence^ 
 passed on. This idea still haunted me^ and I re- 
 turned in the afternoon, resolving to inquire who 
 he was; but he was not there. The next day_, 
 however_, I was more successful. He thanked me 
 for my assistance the day before; his name, he 
 
 told me, was S . It struck me in a moment ; 
 
 it was the son of my old cottagers. I took him 
 home to my lodgings, and, telling him what I 
 knew respecting his famQy, desired to hear from 
 him the remainder of his history. " It is a nar- 
 rative of httle but misfortunes," he answered, " but 
 if the relation will, in any way, please you. Sir, 
 1 owe it to your kindness not to refuse. 
 
 " The night when I was pressed, I was as one 
 stupefied; the next day, however, I became com- 
 posed. I prevailed on a friend, who had obtained 
 leave to see me, to carry a message to a young 
 woman, whom I was attached to^ and to desire 
 
THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 61 
 
 her;, if possible^ to visit me before my departure. 
 He did so^ and to the last moment I cherished the 
 hope of seeing her ; but it was in vain ; she did 
 not come^, and our vessel set sail. The neglect 
 from one I had so tenderly loved was more cutting 
 than all the rest. I beUeved her unfaithful; 1 
 deemed myself cast off by all mankind^ and left 
 unfriended and alone^, to traverse over boundless 
 seas. My dejection of spirits^ together with the 
 new life I led^ destroyed my healthy and I lay for 
 weeks a prey to a raging fever, during which I 
 was nursed, with the gTeatest care and attention, 
 by a young man, with whom I had contracted a 
 friendship, on board the ship in which I was. He 
 seemed ill suited to the Hfe he had chosen, for he 
 was extremely delicate ; but he had something in 
 his countenance which reminded me of Ehnor, and 
 this, perhaps, attracted me to him; for I still 
 loved her, notwithstanding her neglect. Under 
 his care, I at length recovered, and was allowed 
 to venture upon the deck, to inhale the refreshing 
 breeze. 
 
 " Here I gazed, with a strange and a^vful feel- 
 ing of astonishment, on the immense plain of 
 waters, from which I was separated only by a 
 
62 THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 
 
 few boards, and listened, with pleasure, to the 
 rustling of the waves by the side of the vessel, 
 as she cut through the deep. How great, I 
 thought, must be the ingenuity of that being who 
 can pass in safety over this mighty expanse ! But 
 I was shortly to see that ingenuity exerted for 
 purposes, and in a manner, from which the soul 
 revolts. 
 
 " One night, when the crew had retired to their 
 hammocks, I had been talking to my friend ; I 
 had dropped a few words of anger against my 
 neglectful Eleanor. He sighed deeply ; and once, 
 I thought, he was weeping ; but I attributed it to 
 his compassion. On a sudden, we were alarmed 
 by a loud call from the mast-head, and a bustling 
 confusion on the deck. I sprang up, for I was 
 then almost recovered from my illness, and went 
 to inquire into the cause of the tumult. One of 
 the sailors pointed out to me a dusky object, 
 which floated on the waves, at a considerable dis- 
 tance, and told me that it was an Algerine vessel, 
 which was bearing down upon us. The uproar 
 had, by this time, subsided, and every one was 
 called to his post. My sensations, at this instant, 
 were almost indescribable. In a few moments, I 
 
THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 63 
 
 should be called upon to face death_, and, per- 
 haps, to deprive others of existence. This in- 
 terval, as it were, between life and death, was 
 filled with an awful feeling ; it was not fear, nor 
 hope, but a confused mixture of both, which was 
 augmented and sustained by the silence which 
 prevailed ; for the first shot dissipated all feehngs 
 but those of energy and activity. The hostile 
 vessel now approached, hove to, and summoned 
 us to surrender. A broadside was the reply ; 
 and, in a moment, all was smoke, fire, and de- 
 struction. The enetny were much superior to 
 us in strength, and, at length, they boarded us. 
 We fought hand to hand. It would be in vain 
 to describe the horrors of the scene ; they can 
 only be imagined by those who have witnessed 
 them. Their captain happened to come near 
 me ; I aimed a blow at him, with all my 
 force, which he parried, and my sword broke 
 short in my hand. The barbarian lifted his 
 sword to strike me ; when my friend, whom I 
 had not seen during the action, sprang between 
 us, and received the stroke which was aimed 
 for me. I caught him as he fell; but that 
 dying shriek — that last expiring glance — that 
 soft pressure — told me all: — it was Eleanor! — ^ 
 
64 THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 
 
 >) 
 
 Noble, generous, self-devoted being, who, while 
 I was upbraiding her with neglect, had braved 
 all the dangers of a sea life to follow me, to 
 nurse me, to watch me, and last, worst, and bit- 
 terest, — to die for me ! 
 
 " I have little else to relate. We were taken, 
 and afterwards retaken by an American, by 
 whom we were well treated, and carried to New 
 York, where we had some clothes and other 
 necessaries given us. Some of my companions 
 remained there, but I wished to return to my 
 native country. I worked for some time as a 
 joiner, a trade to which I had once been a little 
 accustomed in England; and, at length, gained 
 sufficient to pay for my passage to England. I 
 was landed here without money or friends. My 
 fatigue had also worsened my health, which I 
 had not perfectly recovered, so that I was un- 
 able to gain any thing by labour. I had, there- 
 fore, subsisted on charity ; in soliciting which, I 
 was so fortunate as to meet with you. Sir, who 
 have so kindly relieved me." 
 
 Here his narrative concluded, and I will hasten 
 to the conclusion of mine. I conveyed him home. 
 
THE ENGLISHER'S STORY. 65 
 
 restored him to his parents, and was amply re- 
 warded with their boundless gratitude. He is 
 now in an eligible situation, which does not re- 
 quire any great bodily exertion; he is comfort- 
 able; and, could he forget the unhappy fate of 
 his Eleanor, he might be happy. 
 
THE MUTINY. 
 
Away! murderous dogs! 
 
THE MUTINY. 
 
 -O God! 
 
 Had you but seen his pale, pale blanched cheek ! 
 
 He would not eat. — Christ ! 
 
 The Beryl. 
 
 In the summer of the year 18 — , I was the only 
 passenger on board the merchantman^ Alceste, 
 which was bound to the Brazils. One fine moon- 
 light night_, I stood on the deck, and gazed on 
 the quiet ocean, on which the moon-beams danced. 
 The wind was so still, that it scarcely agitated 
 the sails, which were spread out to invite it. 
 I looked round ; it was the same on every side — 
 a world of waters : not a single object diversified 
 
70 THE MUTINY. 
 
 the vieW;, or intercepted the long and steady 
 glance which I threw over the ocean. I have 
 heard many complain of the sameness and unvary- 
 ing uniformity of the objects which oppose them- 
 selves to the eye of the voyager. I feel diffe- 
 rently ; I can gaze for hours, without weariness, 
 on the deep, occupied with the thought it pro- 
 duces ; I can listen to the rush of the element as 
 the vessel cleaves it, and these things have charms 
 for me which others cannot perceive. 
 
 I heard, on a sudden, a noise, which seemed 
 to proceed from the captain's cabin, and I thought 
 I could distinguish the voices of several men, 
 speaking earnestly, though in a suppressed tone. 
 I cautiously drew near the spot from whence the 
 noise arose, but the alarm was given, and I could 
 see no one. I retired to rest, or rather to lie 
 down ; for I felt that heavy and foreboding sense 
 of evil overpower me, which comes we know not 
 how or wherefore ; and I could not sleep, knowing 
 that there had been disputes between the captain 
 and his men, respecting some point of discipline, 
 and I feared to think what might be the conse- 
 quences. I lay a long time disturbed with these 
 unpleasant reflections ; at last, wearied with my 
 
THE MUTINY. 71 
 
 thoughts^ my eyes closed^ and I dropped to sleep. 
 But it was not to that refreshing sleep which re- 
 cruits the exhausted spirits, and by a while 
 " steeping the senses in forge tfulness," renders 
 them fitter for exertion on awakening. My sleep 
 was haunted with hideous and confused dreams, 
 and murder and blood seemed to surround me. I 
 was awakened by convulsive starts, and in vain 
 sought again for quiet slumber ; the same images 
 filled my mind, diversified in a thousand horrid 
 forms. Early in the morning, I arose, and went 
 above, and the mild sea breeze dispelled my un- 
 easy sensations. 
 
 During the whole of the day nothing seemed 
 to justify the fears that had tormented me, and 
 every thing went on in its regular course. The 
 men pursued their occupations quietly and in 
 silence, and I thought the temporary fit of dis- 
 affection was passed over. Alas ! I remembered 
 not that the passions of men, like deep waters, 
 are most to be suspected when they seem to 
 gUde along most smoothly. Night came on, and 
 I retired to rest more composed than on the pre- 
 ceding evening. I endeavoured to convince my- 
 self that the noises I had heard were but the 
 
72 THE MUTINY. 
 
 fancies of a disturbed imagination^ and I slept 
 soundly. Ill-timed security ! About midnight I 
 was awakened by a scuffling in the vessel. I 
 hastened to the spot; the captain and one of his 
 officers were fighting against a multitude of the 
 ship's crew. In a moment after I saw the officer 
 fall. Two fellows advanced to me^ and^ 6lapping 
 pistols to my breast^ threatened instant death,, if 
 I stirred or spoke. I gazed on the bloody spec- 
 tacle; the bodies^ which lay around, swimming 
 in gore, testified that the mutineers could not 
 have accomplished their aim with impunity. I 
 was horror-struck; a swimming sensation came 
 over my eyes, my limbs failed me, and I fell 
 senseless. 
 
 When I recovered, I found myself lying on a 
 bed. Every thing was still. I listened in vain 
 for a sound; I lay still a considerable time; at 
 last, I arose and walked about the ship, but could 
 see no one. I searched every part of the vessel ; 
 I visited the place of slaughter, which I had, at 
 first, carefully avoided; I counted nine dead 
 bodies, and the coagulated blood formed a loath- 
 some mass around them ; I shuddered to think I 
 was desolate — the companion of death. " Good 
 
THE MUTINY. 73 
 
 God !" said I, ^ and they have left me here 
 alone!" The word mounded like a knell to me. 
 It now occurred to me^ it was necessary the bodies 
 should be thrown overboard. I took up one of 
 them_, dragged it to the side, and plunged it into 
 the waves ; but the dash of the heavy body into 
 the sea, reminded me more forcibly of my lone- 
 liness. The sea was so calm, I could scarcely 
 hear it ripple by the vessel's side. One by one 
 I committed the bodies to their watery grave. At 
 last my horrible task was finished. My next 
 work was to look for the ship's boats, but they 
 were gone, as I expected. I could not bear to 
 remain in the ship ; it seemed a vast tomb for me. 
 I resolved to make some sort of raft, and depart 
 in it. This occupied two or three days ; at length 
 it was completed, and I succeeded in setting it 
 afloat. 
 
 I lowered into it all the provision I could find 
 in the ship, which was but little, the sailors having, 
 as I imagined, carried ofi" the remainder. All was 
 ready, and I prepared to depart. I trembled at 
 the thought of the dangers I was about to en- 
 covmter. I was going to commit myself to the 
 £ 
 
74 the; mutiny. 
 
 ocean, separated from it only by a few boards, 
 which a wave might scatter over the surface of the 
 waters. I might never arrive at land, or meet 
 with any vessel to rescue me from my danger, 
 and I should be exposed, without shelter, and 
 almost without food. I half resolved to remain 
 in my present situation ; but a moment's reflection 
 dispelled the idea of such a measure. I descended ; 
 I stood on my frail raft ; I cut the rope by which 
 it was fastened to the ship. I was confused to 
 think of my situation ; I could hardly believe that 
 I had dared to enter alone on the waste of waters. 
 I endeavoured to compose myself, but in vain. 
 As far as I could see, nothing presented itself to 
 my view but the vessel I had left; the sea was 
 perfectly still, for not the least wind was stirring. 
 I endeavoured, with two pieces of board, which 
 supphed the place of oars, to row myself along ; 
 but the very little progress I made alarmed me. 
 If the calm should continue, I should perish of 
 hunger. How I longed to see the little sail I had 
 made, agitated by the breeze ! I watched it from 
 morning to night; it was my only employment; 
 but in vain. The weather continued the same. 
 Two days passed over ; I looked at my store of 
 
THE MUTINY. 75 
 
 provisions; it would not, I found, last above 
 three or four days longer, at the farthest. They 
 w^ere quickly passing away. I almost gave my- 
 self up for lost. I had scarcely a hope of 
 escaping. 
 
 On the fourth day since my departure from the 
 ship, I thought I perceived something at a dis- 
 tance; I looked at it intently — it was a sail. 
 Good heavens! what were my emotions at the 
 sight ! I fastened my handkerchief on a piece of 
 wood, and waved it, in hopes that it would be 
 observed, and that I should be rescued from my 
 fearful condition. The vessel pressed on its course ; 
 I shouted ; — I knew they could not hear me, but 
 despair impelled me to try so useless an expe- 
 dient. It passed on — it grew dim — I stretched 
 my eyeballs to see it — it vanished — ^it was gone ! 
 I will not attempt to describe the torturing feel- 
 ings which possessed me, at seeing the chance of 
 relief which had offered itself destroyed. I was 
 stupefied with grief and disappointment. My 
 stock of provisions was now entirely exhausted, 
 and I looked forward with horror to an excru- 
 ciating death. 
 
 e2 
 
76 THE MUTINY. 
 
 A little water, which had remained, quenched 
 my burning thirst. I wished that the waves would 
 rush over me. My hunger soon became dread- 
 ful, but I had no means of relieving it. I en- 
 deavoured to sleep, that I might, for a while, 
 forget my torments ; and my wearied frame yielded 
 for a while to slumber. When I awoke I was 
 not, however, refreshed ; I was weak, and felt a 
 burning pain at my stomach. I became hourly 
 more feeble ; I lay down, but was unable to rise 
 again. My limbs lost their strength; my lips 
 and tongue were parched; a convulsive shud- 
 dering agitated me; my eyes seemed darkened, 
 and I gasped for breath. 
 
 The burning at my stomach now departed ; I 
 experienced no pain ; but a dull torpor came over 
 me ; my hands and feet became cold ; I believed 
 I was dying, and I rejoiced at the thought. 
 Presently I lost all thought and feeling, and 
 lay, without sense, on a few boards, which di- 
 vided me from the ocean. In this situation, as I 
 was afterwards informed, I was taken up by a 
 small vessel, and carried to a seaport town. I 
 slowly recovered, and find that I alone, of all 
 
THE MUTINY. 77 
 
 who were on board the vessel in which I had 
 embarked^ had escaped death. The crew^ who 
 had departed in the boats, after murdering the 
 captain, had met their reward — the boats were 
 shattered against a rock. 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
Mar, Hark ! the bells, John. 
 
 John, Those are the church bells of St. Mary Ottery. 
 
 Mar, I know it. 
 
 John, St. Mary Ottery, my native village, 
 
 In the sweet shire of Devon ; 
 
 Those are the bells. 
 
 John Woodvil. 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 That spirit is never idle that doth waken 
 The soul to sights, and contemplations deep j 
 Even when from out the desert's seeming sleep 
 
 A sob is heavM, that but the leaves are shaken ! 
 
 Cornwall. 
 
 x\jiONG my stated rambles there is one which I 
 retread with pleasure^ unalloyed by repetition ; — 
 it is a path which leads to a church-yard; and 
 here I have lingered for hours^ unwearied, occu- 
 pied by the reflections produced by surrounding 
 objects. The spot of which I speak is situated on 
 an eminence, which commands a lovely prospect. 
 I have been seated on my favourite seat, a large 
 mossy stone, over which a spreading beech throws 
 E 5 
 
82 THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 its shade^ when the close of day was approach- 
 ing: — there was the stone churchy with its 
 sombre^ ivy-grown walls and steeple; the thick 
 jeafy grove^ with its music-breathing inhabitants ; 
 the green hill^ and the Httle murmuring rivulet^ 
 that wandered at its bottom^ over its pebble- 
 gemmed bed^ dashing its hght spray over its 
 violet banks ; the white-washed cottage and barn^ 
 with the horse-shoe nailed over the door, the lin- 
 gering relic of drooping faith in demonology ; the 
 spreading fields^ and clump of trees^ and thinly 
 scattered habitations ; and, farther on, the majes- 
 tic windings of the river, beyond which dim hills 
 raised their eternal barrier, to close all further 
 view ; and, most beautiful of all, the deep, gentle 
 shade of evening, sinking and reddening on hill, 
 and plain, and valley: — it is then that the sou], 
 emancipated from earthly thoughts and earthly 
 hopes, holds closer sympathy with the scenes 
 around, and holier visionings flit before the mind ; 
 and what spot could better harmonize with such 
 thoughts than the one I have described? 
 
 A church-yard is, of all places, the one most 
 calculated to call up those feelings which, ab- 
 stracted from the pleasures^ are uncontaminated 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD. 83 
 
 with the evils, of the world : in the evening, too, 
 the charm is stronger — on every side lie " relics 
 of mortality" — the fantastic or fearful shapes, which 
 - the gloom lends to indistinct objects — 
 
 Like a demon thing. 
 Or shadow hovering, 
 
 give a mysterious awe to this ultima Thule of 
 human schemes; and the doubtful certainty (if 
 the expression may be used) of shortly becoming 
 a companion of the mouldering dust, and hideous 
 con'uption beneath us, doubtful as to its period, 
 but certain as it regards the event, is fraught with 
 deep, though fearful and appalling interest. Am 
 I wrong in saying, that this is the place — the 
 school — the theatre for a poet? Is it not here 
 that the casualties of rank and station are de- 
 stroyed? — and is it not the work of the poet, 
 also, to overlook these accidental distinguish- 
 ments? — to develop the rise of simple and un- 
 adorned loveUness? — and to see, and properly 
 to estimate, the intrinsic excellence of things and 
 actions ? 
 
 Death is your only sure balance in which to 
 
84 THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 weigh the real worth or importance of individuals ; 
 the magic girdle^ that fits none but those whose 
 deeds have been pure—^the wild steed^ that none 
 can manage^ but those who encounter him undis- 
 mayed — the infallible touchstone of greatness or 
 power; — he is Hke the gust_, which blows away 
 the thistle-down of splendour and vanity, and 
 exposes the nakedness which hes beneath; — he 
 is the best of friends, who relieves us from our 
 cares-— our greatest enemy, who bereaves us of 
 that we love best — our hfe; in short, he is the 
 most paradoxical of things, who is every day 
 present, but never seen — the most unwelcome of 
 visitors, who, whenever he comes, is an un- 
 wished-for guest. 
 
 I am fond of a church, particularly an old one ; 
 it is, as it were, the home for the soul ; the re- 
 fuge from the world; and I am fond of its 
 venerable antique gloom — ^its painted windows — 
 its monuments, which speak of " the dead, and 
 their house, the grave" — and of its music : — there 
 is an awful, solemn beauty in church music, 
 which stills each unhallowed thought — each wish 
 that speaks of earth — and throws its calm of holi- 
 ness over the mind : the deep roll of the organ — ' 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD. 85 
 
 the thrilling, enthusiasm-creating sound of human 
 voices, trembling to the throne of eternity, which, 
 when I think of, I reflect with complacency upon 
 the abodes of monkish superstition — 
 
 Those deep solitudes and awful cells, 
 
 Where heavenly, pensive Contemplation dwells^ 
 
 And ever-musing Melancholy reigns! — 
 
 and could almost wish that I had been an inha- 
 bitant of them. Blest with peace, and undis- 
 turbed with vice and folly — Pshaw ! pshaw ! I am 
 dreaming: and these are the dreams of a poet, 
 doomed to wake an essay writer. 
 
 But there is another ornament to a church — 
 the greatest, perhaps, in my estimation — its bells 
 — its organs of speech, with which it calls together 
 fellow-worshippers . 
 
 I love these eloquent inanimations — these me- 
 tallic tractors of the soul, whose vibrations call 
 up into view the past, which is fled ; the present, 
 which dies in its existence ; and the future, which 
 will fade away like its predecessors : that simple 
 stroke of two pieces of metal gives me an infinity of 
 
m THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 ideas — ^the burst into life^ and quick sinking into 
 nothing — the reiteration of the strokes^ one suc- 
 ceeding another^ in measured intervals — all speak 
 of the mutability of every thing earthly^ and the 
 rapid succession of beings^ vvrhich bloom, and 
 perish, and are forgotten. 
 
 I cannot admire the Mahometan custom of 
 employing the human voice as a substitute for 
 bells: methinks the invitation, which calls to 
 such exercises of devotion, should be addressed 
 to the mind in some sound which may awaken 
 suitable thoughts, not spoken in the every-day 
 dialect of business and pleasure. An English 
 steeple vnll continue, in my thinking, to be very 
 preferable to a Turkish minaret. 
 
 And what is it that lends this magic to so 
 simple a music ? — ^what is it but that which lends 
 beauty to every thing — the fertile power of asso- 
 ciation? It is the connexion which subsists be- 
 tween it and the inward workings of the soul — 
 the relation which it bears to the operations of 
 life and of death, which renders it thus pleasing. 
 
 It is this principle of association which is the 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD. 87 
 
 vivifying soul of matter^ which gives interest and 
 beauty to inanimate objects — which engages the 
 soul through the medium of the senses — which is 
 the spirit of poetry; — it is not the mere senti- 
 ment^ conveyed by the words of the poet — it is 
 the flood of sweet and gentle reminiscences which 
 starts upon the reader, varied, as it must of ne- 
 cessity be, in different individuals, as their re- 
 spective views, characters, situations, and mental 
 organizations differ, from which is derived the 
 highest pleasure of poetical compositions. I am 
 not young; I am, indeed, approaching to the 
 period when I shall cease to indite those dotings 
 of age; but in these recurrences to the feelings 
 of past days, consists my fondest pleasure — these, 
 and a few other loved associations, linger in my 
 memory, and shall sink with me to my peaceful 
 bed. 
 
 It was a saying worthy of Pope, that he should 
 not care to have an old stump pulled down which 
 he had known in his childhood. I am deeply im- 
 bued, I might say saturated, with such feelings. 
 I have a piece of an oak, which grew by the 
 school where I was educated, and has long since 
 fallen a prey to the axe of the spoiler. I te- 
 
88 THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 member, as well as I do any thing, the cutting 
 down of the venerable tree ; how we crowded 
 about it, and how each busy discipulus was 
 cutting off rehcs of their old- friend. The branches, 
 which were left by the workmen as useless, were 
 gathered up, and, in the evening, made into a 
 bonfire; then, too, we had a feast, and we sat 
 round the glowing embers, with every one his 
 apple, his gingerbread, his nuts, and his glass 
 of currant wine. Then tales of school heroism, 
 and school mischief, were recounted; and still 
 the wit became brighter as the fire decayed — 
 the " mirth and fun grew fast and furious." Ah ! 
 those were happy days. 
 
 I often visit this scene of my infant years; — 
 the school is there, with the stone owl, with its 
 goggle eyes, perched above it; there is the play- 
 ground ; the dark stone walls, with their soft and 
 solemn brownness — but I will write an essay on 
 the school and my school days : — ^there are many 
 faces, too, but they are strange to me — those 
 of my time, alas! where are they? — they are 
 scattered over the world — those that survive, at 
 
 least; there was Zouch ; and C , with his 
 
 bright wit and clear judgment ; and Phillips, vnth 
 
THE CHURCH-YARD. 89 
 
 his lively sallies of good-humoured mirth; and 
 dozens^ whom I could mention. One of them I 
 
 must mention; 'tis R , the most singular^ 
 
 inoffensive mortal I ever met with. R fell 
 
 in love — a thing of common occurrence and sHght 
 moment with most men; but it was otherwise 
 with him : his constitution was dehcate,, and his 
 feelings sensitive beyond the conception of any 
 but his intimates ; to such a behig, to love as fie 
 loved^ was an exertion of energies almost alarm- 
 ing. He succeeded — the object of his adoration 
 loved him — the day was fixed for their marriage — 
 
 before it came, she died, and R— 's fond ties 
 
 were broken. From that hour, all his time was 
 spent in retracing the walks they had taken to- 
 gether. There was a rose tree, which she had 
 planted, and R watched over it with inces- 
 sant care ; for " he was the slave of sympathy.'* 
 I found it near him one day : he said to me — " You 
 see that tree — I shall live as long as it; no longer .^ 
 He would not be persuaded that it was a mere 
 whim of the imagination. Two months after 
 this, he died. I passed through the garden — the 
 tree was withered. 
 
 I am perfectly sensible not half my readers 
 
90 THE CHURCH-YARD. 
 
 will believe this story. To those who do — ^wlw 
 will look upon it as an instance of the strong 
 power of the imagination over the mental and 
 physical faculties — I relate this short notice of a 
 
 gentle and innocent being. Poor R ! it is 
 
 an humble stone that covers his remains,, in yonder 
 church-yard : his name is unknown^ save to a few, 
 but by those it will be long honoured, loved, and 
 wept over. 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
And therefore such was their post hast to 
 
 be gone, and so great their feare in running awaye, 
 that though to others they ran as harts, yeat to them- 
 selves they crept as snayles, thinking every threashoole 
 a thicket, and every rish a ridge in their way. 
 
 Warner's syrinx. 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Gardener. There you have it. He's a fearful man. If I had as 
 much learning as he, and I met the Ghost, I'd tell him his own. 
 But, alack ! what can one of us poor men do with a spirit, that can 
 neither read nor write ? 
 
 THE DRUMiMEU. 
 
 I AROSE early in the mornings and after taking a 
 good breakfast, set out from home; I was furnish- 
 ed with an oaken cudgel, which I deemed might, 
 towards the latter end of my journey, be useful. 
 On the end of it was slung a small matter of pro- 
 vision, packed up in a handkerchief, and then 
 hoisted over my left shoulder. A considerable 
 quantity of rain had fallen in the night;., It was, 
 however, fair when I commenced my, ^peditiou;. 
 
94 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 and I wished it so to remain ; for it tvas no pleasure 
 to anticipate a wet day, and a journey of thirty 
 miles on foot before me. 
 
 The morning was still and beautiful ; it was at 
 the early hour of four ; I could not yet distinguish 
 the sun, though I was sensible he had left his 
 ocean bed, from the beautiful streaks of colouring 
 jn the eastern sky. To express the softness, mild- 
 ness, £ind calmness of the scenery, at that hour, I 
 cannot find adequate words; those only can con- 
 ceive it who have witnessed the same. I had not 
 proceeded more than two miles, before a few 
 drops alarmed me with apprehensions of a soak- 
 ing shower from a heavy black cloud that was 
 slowly sailing over my head, and my fears were 
 soon realized by a very thick descent that follow- 
 ed, on which I betook myself with all speed to a 
 thatched cottage, that I saw at some distance, for 
 shelter. Its humble inhabitants were not yet 
 risen, and the only shelter I could obtain, was that 
 which the eaves of the dark brown thatch afforded. 
 Partially screened, I there watched the progress 
 of the shower, which alternately abated a little, 
 then increased with redoubled fury, then slacken- 
 ed, until the dense cloud totally diminished; ita 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 95 
 
 heavy dark colour gradually changed to a livelier 
 hue, the drops grew smaller, and fell at wider in- 
 tervals, and the sun burst forth in all the glorious 
 refulgence of unclouded splendour. I then pur- 
 sued my journey ; it was now lighter, and the fea- 
 thered warblers were chanting melodiously among 
 the dripping leaves and branches of the trees, and, 
 flitting from spray to spray, seemed to rejoice 
 at the approach of morning. I now and then met 
 a solitary rustic just issuing from his cot, and hast- 
 ening to his labour, which interrupted my medi- 
 tations no longer than while I returned his friendly 
 salutation. For two hours I proceeded on in this 
 manner, when thinking it time for another break- 
 fast, my former being pretty well digested, and 
 my appetite being sharpened by the ' caller air,' I 
 turned into a pot-house, hard by the way side, 
 ^ keepit by Maggy Donaldson,' noted for selling 
 good auld Scotch drink, a tap o' the right sort ; a 
 house where there had been many a good splore 
 kicked up by the devotees of the above liquor. On 
 entering, Patty, who had cleaned up the house, 
 and who was now busy at the kirn, left her task, 
 lowered the tone with which she was singing a 
 song of Burns', to attend to me — though while she 
 placed an old three-legged worm-eaten oak table 
 
96 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 by the side of the settle^ on which I had placed 
 myself^ and furnished it with a foaming jug of nut 
 brown,, I caught the following — 
 
 But warily tent, when you come to court me, 
 And come na unless the back yett be ajee, 
 Syne up the back stile and let naebody see, 
 And come as ye were nae comin' to me. 
 Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, 
 Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad, 
 Tho' father an' mither an' a' should go mad. 
 Oh whistle and I'll come to you, my lad. 
 
 At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me. 
 Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd na a flie. 
 But steal me a blink o' your bonnie black ee, 
 Yet look as ye were na lookin' at me.' 
 
 Old Maggy, who sat by the ingle, with a pipe 
 in her mouth, now accosted me with " How far 
 cam ye this morning, gude man ?" When 1 had 
 satisfied her in this particular, she inquired "where 
 I was gaun ;" and when I told her I was going to 
 visit old Andrew Gillespie, my uncle, who was 
 supposed to be near death, she broke out, " What, 
 auld Andrew Gillespie, that dwells at Flinty 
 Knowe, amang the muirs ? Sure he's nae ill ; I 
 should amaist greet up baith o' my e'en if we 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 97 
 
 were to lose him; there is nae a farrantlyer fallow in a' 
 the kintra_, than honest auld Andrew Gillespie :' I 
 kent him lang syne^ an' a' his kith an' kin. He 
 ne'er cam to the toun but he ca't for a cog o' my 
 nappy, for he was a canty auld carl; shame fa' the 
 rogue that would injure him in word or deed; ans 
 I hope the tale ye ha' heard is na true, an that ye'U 
 find him hale an' weel, an' as canty as ever ; but if 
 ye are gaun to Andrew Gillespie's the day, ye'U 
 find it a lang step till't ; an' sae far's I can see, ye'll 
 hae a wet day o't." I was much pleased with this 
 eulogium on my relative, and I could have stayed 
 with the auld hostess much longer very willingly, 
 for I love auld Scotch songs and Scotch tales, and 
 auld Scotch drink, the one of which auld Maggy 
 was well noted for singing, the other for telling, 
 and the other for selling, but it was absolutely ne- 
 cessary I should proceed, which I did, after ex- 
 hausting the last drops of the precious exhilarating 
 nappy ; gathering up the relics of my repast, and 
 wishing my hostess a '^ gude mornin." 
 
 Refreshed with my rest, I now travelled on with 
 great vigour until another shower drove me for 
 shelter into a blacksmith's shed. After convers- 
 
98 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 ing awhile with honest Burnewin about the * wee 
 dwarf Davie/ or ^ canny Elshie/ of Mucklestane 
 Muir, who sat for his picture to the author of the 
 popular novels^ and seeing no signs of better 
 weather^ I again set forward. 
 
 Nothing further occurred on my journey for 
 some timC;, nor was the scenery such as to tempt 
 me to give a description of it. One reason, how- 
 ever,, may be, I was anxious to arrive at my jour- 
 ney's end, and the day was not such as would per- 
 mit a minute examination of many a fine scene, my 
 course of travel, I am sensible, displayed. 
 
 It was lowering dark, the whole atmosphere 
 was loaded with immense watery clouds. The 
 wind was wild and boisterous, and, with short in- 
 termissions, the rain descended in torrents, so that 
 I was soon thoroughly drenched to the skin. I 
 now stopped again for another refreshment, as 1 
 was arrived at the last inn before ascending the 
 mountains, through which I had yet a long jour- 
 ney, and not one of the best roads. After leaving 
 the inn, I began to ascend a very steep path, which 
 led several miles through a wild range of heathy 
 hills and barren moors ; and while on this part of 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 99 
 
 my journey^ frequently these lines of Burns' for- 
 cibly impressed my recollection ; — 
 
 Admiring nature in her wildest grace, 
 These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
 O'er many a winding dale, and painful steep, 
 Th' abodes of covey 'd grouse and timid sheep. 
 
 The scenery before me was majestic and sub- 
 lime^ not from extent of prospect^ but the height of 
 the black liills — the depth and gloominess of the 
 valleys — the ruggedness^ barrenness, and desert, 
 like silence^ — reigning all around. The whole 
 country was rent and tossed into mountains sub- 
 lime in barrenness, and that more particularly im- 
 pressive under its present appearance ; a tliick mist 
 or rain fog sat sullenly on the summit of every hill, 
 and obscured, with its murky mantle, much of the 
 heathy declivities. 
 
 The weather in a short time cleared up, and the 
 sun broke out again in his meridian splendour; 
 cheered with the aspect of the day, 1 quickened 
 my pace, and soon gained the top of a hill, when 1 
 liad a grand and extensive prospect of country 
 before me for many miles. 
 f2 
 
100 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Although in such haste to arrive at the end of 
 my journey, I could not forbear stopping now and 
 then to contemplate the charming scene, which 
 was not, however, remarkable for fertility or luxu- 
 riant clothing; but chiejfly for its bold outhne, and 
 natural though rather naked features. The cots of 
 the peasantry were, in general, scattered at a good 
 distance from each other, and defended in some 
 degree from the rude mountain winds by a few 
 trees, which towered high above the humble roof 
 of faded thatch, and surrounded with the necessary 
 appendages of a barn and byre. I proceeded on, 
 and soon descended the steep hill. At the bottom 
 was a small clachan or hamlet, containing a pot- 
 house, where I devoured the remaining fragment 
 of provision, and, after washing it down with 
 another pot, again set forward with renewed vi- 
 gour. 
 
 Crossing the narrow stone bridge at the ex- 
 tremity of the village, I entered a deep and most 
 romantic glen, on the edge of which, at the dis- 
 tance of four miles, was the humble mansion of my 
 uncle Andrew. The vale wound about in a ser_ 
 pentine direction, and from the various aspects of 
 every turning point, which when at a distance it 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 101 
 
 displayed^ much was given for speculation as to 
 the course it would take among the labyrinth of 
 mountain vases^ where other dells or glens opened 
 from this. !_, however^ gained point after point, 
 until I saw, with mingled sensations of pleasure 
 and pain, the stepping stones bvr'r (he brook, ar^o 
 the steep zigzag path by which 1 must leave the 
 valley. Passing through ^hs little hamlet; ^t, ^^ 
 top, — mounting another hill, — descending the 
 other side of it, till I came to the level, — then 
 clambering down another immense abyss, — gain- 
 ing its opposite side, whence it was but a few fields 
 length of a gentle ascent up to my uncle's, I should 
 cut my journey shorter a few furlongs. When I 
 arrived at the hamlet, 1 inquired of a shepherd, 
 the nearest way to the Flinty Knowe. '' Ye maun 
 gae back the gate ye cam again," said he ; " down 
 the brae and ower the bum, an' keep the left han' ; 
 an' when ye are by th' meikle stane, gae through 
 the wee yett, and follow the burn till ye get to 
 the mill, and then ye '11 be at the bottom of the 
 Flinty Knowe," " Thank ye, friend," rephed I, " but 
 I am nae for ganging that gate sae lang as I can 
 fin' a shorter way ; ye ken there is a nearer way, 
 gif ye wad tell. Come now, just show me the^ 
 
102 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 road." " Well^" answered he^, " ye may gang 
 through the stile^ out o'er the ground^ an' by the 
 thorn^ an' then ye'U see it's a thack house amang 
 the trees^ ye canna miss't." " Thank ye^" said I, 
 and away I went. In a quarter of an hour I 
 found myself gf*[ng up the field that led to the 
 house, and a crowd of sensations rushed into my 
 mind. 
 
 Many years had elapsed since I had wander- 
 ed about this very meadow in careless infancy, 
 and the pretty secluded cot to which I was 
 advancing, had been my home. I looked around 
 on the hiUs and dales, and could easily recognise 
 them as my old acquaintance. ^ Ha !" said I, " ye 
 change not your appearance; ye grow not old 
 in the course of time ; the feebleness of age 
 Cometh not upon you ; ye still smile in the bright- 
 ness of summer, and frown in the lowering winter. 
 For ages you have reared your towering crests, 
 and given food to the flocks and the herds that 
 have chequered your dark surface ; ye have 
 given a direction to the murmuring brook that 
 proceeds from you, till it seeks, far distant, the 
 mighty ocean; and while generation after gene- 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 103 
 
 ration hath passed away, ye have preserved 
 unvaried the features ye possessed in ages gone. 
 Even now, as in years past, my eyes behold the 
 still sunshine sleeping upon your gentle sloping 
 decHvities, interrupted only when the light cloud 
 of spring for a moment casts over them its pass- 
 ing shadow." 
 
 My cogitations were suddenly interrupted by 
 the gate at the end of the pasture, which I opened. 
 In another moment I was in the porch of 
 the cottage ; I lifted the latch, and went in. The 
 house appeared just the same as I had left it 
 ten years before. The furniture was the same, 
 and each piece occupied the same position. 
 The old clock stood ticking in the corner, as 
 it had done for fourscore years ; the oaken settee 
 remained behind the door, and my uncle's antique 
 two-armed chair, by the fire-side; but I saw 
 no living creature in the house, besides the cat 
 on the hearthstone. I Hstened awhile, but could 
 hear nothing. At this I rather wondered, as 
 of yore, the house was seldom, scarcely ever, 
 totally deserted. I then went forward into the 
 spence, or country parlour, where I found several 
 neighbours, cousins, and the servants, all stand- 
 
# 
 
 104 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 ing^ in deep silence, around the bed of my dying 
 uncle. 
 
 It was plain that death was rapidly approach- 
 ing. He had been speechless several hours; 
 consequently, we could hold no conversation. 
 He, however, put out his hand, which I grasped 
 with an affection redoubled by the prospect of 
 soon losing him for ever. In my younger 
 "days I had lived with him, and he, having no 
 children of his own, was then remarkably fond 
 of me; subsequently that affection was strength- 
 ened bet\veen us, and, although providence had 
 cast my lot in another country, yet we had 
 kept up a friendly and affectionate intercourse. 
 Some time previous to this indisposition, I had 
 again removed to within thirty miles of his re- 
 sidence, which was the place from whence I set 
 out on this sorrowful visit. 
 
 . My uncle was a man of sound judgment, 
 keen observation, and cheerful^ social disposition, 
 joined to a thorough knowledge of mankind, 
 he possessed a good portion of eccentricity and 
 humour. He loved a cheerful glass; he was 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 105 
 
 kind to his servants and dependants^ and though 
 rather of a saving and frugal disposition^ yet he 
 was charitable to his poor neighbours. In his 
 friendships he was rather capricious, but firm 
 in his attachment to the kirk, and the govern- 
 ment of his country. He was apt to be a Httle 
 passionate and hasty in his temper ; but his 
 resentment, however, was seldom of long dura- 
 tion. On the whole, he was well beloved by 
 those among whom he dwelt, and might be pro- 
 nounced a good neighbour, and an excellent 
 subject. By a long course of industry in his 
 profession, he had amassed a pretty good pro- 
 perty, the knowledge of which had drawn around 
 him a host of needy relations, chiefly, however, 
 consisting of nephews, who besieged him with 
 flattery and professions, but whose attentions 
 were chiefly drawn forth, by their hopes of in- 
 heriting the old man's property : how he had 
 willed that property, was not known. He was 
 a man of prudence, and seldom blabbed out his 
 private afiairs, when there was no especial need 
 of such promulgation. 
 
 On my arrival, I consequently found all the 
 f5 
 
106 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 friends around him remarkably attentive and 
 duteous in their behaviour, though it was very 
 evident, that a good deal of the aiFection was 
 assumed for the occasion. Shortly after my 
 arrival, he fell into a kind of a doze, and we all 
 retired, save an attendant or two. Peggy, the 
 servant who had lived with my uncle fourteen 
 or fifteen years, now insisted on my taking some 
 refreshment, and accordingly set meat before 
 me. But I was too much agitated to feel any 
 thing like pleasure in my repast, and wliat I 
 ate was more to please the faithful old domestic, 
 than from any inclination of my own. Ac- 
 cordingly, when my shght meal W3is over, I got 
 up and went to the window, in a serious and 
 reflecting mood. The afternoon was far ad- 
 vanced, and the scenery without was wrapped 
 in tranquillity. 
 
 The sunshine cloudless, bright, and still, 
 Slept on the lawn and heathy hill. 
 And gently stole from leaf and flower, 
 The moisture of the morning shower. 
 At times the soft and zephyry breeze 
 Moved the light branches of the trees, 
 And while they shifted to and fro. 
 Waved as exact their shades below : 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 107 
 
 Then taking o'er the lawn its course 
 The waving grass confess'd its force, 
 And every flow'ret on the mead 
 Bent, while it pass'd, a trembling head. 
 
 I was soon summoned from my station to 
 the parlour; my uncle had somewhat revived^ 
 and his speech had returned. He told us death 
 was making rapid advances^ and that we might 
 soon expect the moment of his dissolution. He 
 informed us where we should find his will^ 
 and gave us some excellent advice on our future 
 <;onduct. 
 
 Some things he requested us to perform^ which 
 I thought were a little odd. He wished us to 
 read the will in the room where he was, imme- 
 diately after he had expired. He desired that he 
 might not be laid out, as it is commonly called, 
 until at least twelve hours after his departure ; 
 and that his large two^rmed oaken chair might 
 be placed in all order and solemnity, at the head 
 of the table every meal, and that it should re- 
 main unoccupied till after his funeral. He also 
 wished to be interred in a very deep grave. All 
 these requests we promised faithfully to observe^ 
 when after taking an affectionate farewell of each. 
 
108 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 he quietly resigned himself to his pillow; his 
 breathing became more and more faint^ till at 
 last we could perceive it no more. 
 
 During the foregoing transactions^ my mind 
 was in a state I cannot well describe ; my 
 thoughts were all confusion, while, at the same 
 time, I struggled to be calm and composed. 
 
 Poignant as were my feelings, I gazed on my 
 dying relative vdth a sort of apathy of grief; 
 and, at the moment when nature was yielding 
 up the contest, I could not shed a tear; in a 
 short time, all quitted the apartment, and I 
 was left alone. The branches of the huge elm 
 trees, with their thickening foliage- partially 
 screening the window, made the scene, under 
 such circumstances, awfully gloomy and tranquil. 
 I took several turns about the room ; and, with 
 a soft step, I approached the bed, gazed a mo- 
 ment, turned away, and then going up to the 
 window, strove to divert my thoughts, by look- 
 ing at the surrounding landscape. 
 
 Twilight was descending, and the sober hues 
 of evening gradually enveloped the lofty hills; 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 109 
 
 no sound struck my ear^ except the faint and 
 low murmurs of the brook, wliich brawled 
 down the valley, at the bottom of the Flinty 
 Kjiowe; the shout, softened by distance, of the 
 peasant, committing his steeds to the pasture ; 
 and now and then, the solitary barking of a 
 shepherd's dog, among echoing dales, attendant 
 on his master folding the charge for the night. 
 
 I had not stood at the casement many minutes, 
 when my cousins, all talking in a rude, noisy, 
 and indecorous manner, came into the room with 
 the will, which, it seems, they had departed in 
 search of, the moment the testator had expired. 
 I was a good deal shocked at the frivolity they 
 manifested, and could not help reproving them, 
 though in a mild and gentle manner, for the 
 little respect they paid to the memory of the 
 deceased. " Why, ye ken," said one, " he tauld 
 us to read the will amaist as soon as he died." 
 *^Aye," cried another, "and sae, in conformity 
 wi' his command, we went straught up the stairs, 
 and rummaged o'er his auld kist, till we found 
 it." "Mind your ain concerns, gude man, 
 and we'll mind our's," rejoined a third, rather 
 gruffly j so that my well-meant admonitions had no 
 
110 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 better effect, than to cause me to be more disliked 
 by the party ; for I could perceive, before this, 
 that they looked upon me in the light of an un- 
 welcome intruder. 
 
 The will was now read, to which all paid 
 the greatest attention; a mute anxiety, and deep 
 interest sat upon every countenance ; their aspects 
 were, however, instantly changed into those of 
 intense disappointment and vexation, on hearing 
 that my uncle had made a stranger, whom none 
 of us knew, the heir of all his property, real 
 and personal. For my own part, this circum- 
 stance did not affect me in the least ; I had not 
 had any expectation of inheriting the smallest por- 
 tion, therefore could not feel disappointed on 
 the occasion. But with the others it was dif- 
 ferent; they had clung to him like so many 
 leeches, or like the ivy to an old ruin ; and with 
 ubout as much affection as the two before-men- 
 tioned things have, for the objects to which they 
 so closely adhere. A most appalling and dis- 
 gusting scene now took place, among the disap- 
 pointed legacy hunters: they abused the old 
 man in the most shocking terms; they taxed 
 him with injustice and villany, and even pro- 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. Ill 
 
 ceeded to call down imprecations upon his 
 lifeless corpse. I shuddered at the conduct of 
 the unprincipled villains; I trembled at the im 
 piety of men, who could, at a time the most 
 solemn and impressive to a human being, act 
 in a manner sufficient to call down upon them 
 immediate and divine vengeance. I was chilled 
 with horror ; I almost expected to see the lifeless 
 corpse of my uncle start from the bed on which 
 it lay, to take vengeance on the audacious 
 wretches : once, indeed, I actually thought I 
 saw his lips quiver with rage, his eyebrows knit 
 together, and all the muscles of his countenance 
 contract into a dreadful frown. — I shuddered 
 at the sight, and withdrew my gaze. 
 
 At length, they went into the kitchen, and 
 left me, once more, alone in the chamber of death. 
 I went to the bed-side, and the scene I had just 
 witnessed operated so upon my feelings, that I 
 burst into tears, and uttered aloud my lamenta- 
 tions over my lifeless relative. When this 
 ebullition had somewhat subsided, I began to 
 reflect a little where I was, and a sort of timidity 
 came creeping over me. There is an undefinable 
 apprehension which we feel, while we are in 
 
113 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 company with the dead. We imagine^, in 
 spite of the efforts of reason,, that the departed 
 spirit is hovering near its former tenement ; at 
 least, it is the case with myself. It now being 
 quite dark, and having these feelings in a strong 
 degree, it is no wonder that I rather preferred 
 the company of the wretches in the kitchen, 
 than remaining alone where I was. 
 
 I proceeded thither, where I found them all 
 carousing round a large table ; on which was 
 placed the fragments of the dinner, and plenty 
 of liquor. I reminded them of our promise, 
 to place my uncle's old two-armed chair at the 
 head of the table, as he had requested, which 
 they had neglected to do, and which they now 
 strenuously opposed me in doing. I was, 
 however, resolutely determined to have it done, 
 and at length succeeded. I then retired to the 
 fire-side, where I sat, without taking any part 
 in the conversation, or in any thing that passed 
 during the whole evening. I shall pass over the 
 several succeeding hours, the whole of which 
 they sat drinking, till they were all, in a more 
 or less degree, intoxicated, and generally brawl- 
 ing, wrangling, and swearing, in a loud and 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 113 
 
 boisterous manner. The night became stormy 
 as it advanced ; the wind rose, and at intervals, 
 moaned, sighed, and whistled shrilly without, 
 roared in the wide chimney, and, as it furiously 
 bent the trees, in which the house was embosomed, 
 made a sound similar to the dashing of waves 
 on the shore of the ocean. The rain fell in 
 torrents, and the large drops pattered against 
 the window, with a ceaseless and melancholy 
 cadence. 
 
 It was now getting nigh the " witching time o' 
 night," and I saw no signs of the revellers 
 quitting the table; on the contrary, they grew 
 more loud and boisterous. In obedience to their 
 imperious commands, yet, evidently, with the 
 greatest reluctance, Peggy kept replenishing the 
 exhausted vessels with more liquor, and their 
 demands increased, in proportion to the reluct- 
 ance with which they were satisfied. At length, 
 however, on receiving an intimation from me 
 that I would interpose, she absolutely refused 
 to draw any more liquor for them, telling them, 
 they had had plenty, and that it was time to 
 retire to bed. The scene that now ensued was 
 such, as it is impossible for me to describe. 
 
114 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 Maddened and inflamed with rage at being thus 
 refused^ the wretches began to throw the fur 
 niture up and down the house ; break the glasses 
 and jugS;, and to abuse the' servant, from whom 
 they attempted to wrest the key of the cellar, 
 yelling out, at the same time, the most horrid 
 oaths and imprecations. 
 
 The table was shortly overset, and the lights 
 put out in the scuffle ; in a few moments, we 
 should, in all probability, have had blood-shed, 
 as I felt myself roused to a pitch of fury, and was 
 advancing with the large heavy-headed fire poker 
 to the assistance of tlie servant, who was 
 loudly shrieking for help. Just then, the old 
 clock struck twelve rapid strokes, and the bell 
 had not ceased to vibrate, when we heard three 
 heavy knocks, as if given by a mallet, upon the 
 wall which separated the kitchen from the parlour 
 where my uncle lay. 
 
 There appeared to be something supernatural 
 in this. The whole house seemed to shake to 
 its very foundation. A deep silence ensued. I 
 stood still; the wretches instantly became sober. 
 We all gazed earnestly and wildly at the place 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 115 
 
 from whence the noise proceeded. Scarcely had 
 we recovered from the shock, when we were 
 again thunderstruck with a noise in the parlour ; 
 it was unlike any sound that I had ever heard 
 before; it seemed as if all the furniture of the 
 room was violently crashed together, mingled 
 with the noise of fire-arms ; shrieks and exclama- 
 tions burst from all. 
 
 The indows shook, and every door of the 
 habitation gave a momentary jar. I trembled 
 with awe ; I felt eveiy hair of my head bristhng 
 upwards ; my knees smote against each other ; a 
 deadly paleness sat upon each countenance, and 
 all eyes were fixed in an intense gaze on the door, 
 at the upper part of the kitchen, which led to 
 the staircase, buttery, and parlour; when, to 
 complete the horror of the scene, the door burst 
 wide open, dashed against the wall, emd, in 
 gliding, at slow pace, came a dreadful ap- 
 parition. Its countenance was that of death; 
 it seemed to have been long the inhabitant of 
 that dark and narrow house — the grave ; the 
 worms had revelled upon its eyes, and left no- 
 thing but the orbless sockets. The rest of the 
 
116 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 skeleton was enveloped in a long and white 
 sheet. 
 
 This horrid spectre advanced into the middle 
 of the room. I involuntarily shrunk back — ^the 
 heavy weapon dropped from my hand^ and rang 
 loudly upon the stone floor ; and, overcome with 
 terror, I sunk into a chair. A cold sweat burst 
 from my forehead, and I had well nigh fainted. 
 On its first appearance, the others had tumbled 
 one over the other, in the greatest horror and 
 confusion, and now lay, as if dead, in all direc- 
 tions. 
 
 The spectre gazed wildly around for a moment 
 at the clock, at the fire, and then turned its eye- 
 less sockets upon each individual ; motioning, at 
 the same time, with its long arm, and pointing to 
 the outer door, seemingly directing to an outlet 
 for escape, and wishing for their exit. They were 
 not long in obeying this intimation, but severally 
 crawled away upon their hands and knees, with 
 all the speed they could possibly make, none of 
 them daring to stand upright. The spectre, all 
 the while, was standing in the middle of the floor. 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 117 
 
 eyeing^ or rather appearing to eye them, through 
 the void socket where eyes had once ghstened, 
 as they retreated, one by one, in the greatest fear 
 and trepidation. When Peggy and I offered to 
 decamp along with the rest, the spectre motioned 
 us to remain where we were, and we durst not, 
 for our Hves, disobey. When the last of the crew 
 was making his exit, and had crawled nearly to 
 the door, the spectre, who had hitherto stood 
 motionless, except waving its arms, and slowly 
 turning its eyeless countenance upon the wretches, 
 as they crept successively out of the door, bounded, 
 with the rapidity of hghtning, after the terrified 
 wretch. But, swift as the flights of spirits are, 
 in this case, that of the mortal was swifter ; the 
 fellow gave a thrilling scream, made a convulsive 
 spring, his heels struck violently against the lintel 
 of the door in his course, and he vanished from 
 my sight, and the spectre after him. " Gude 
 defend us !" said Peggy. For my part, much as 
 I was frightened, I cotJd scarcely forbear laugh- 
 ing outright, at the last incident, so comic and 
 farcical. 
 
 Half a minute had not elapsed, when I heard 
 a step, and, in another instant — (I still kept my 
 
118 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 eyes upon the door) — in came the very form of 
 MY UNCLE^ muttering — ^ Villains ! rascals ! hypo- 
 crites !" 
 
 He fastened the door after him_, and shut out 
 his nephews ; and the spectre then came towards 
 the fire. At this I was more amazed than ever. 
 He, however, gave me to imderstand that he was 
 alive, and well, and all that I had seen transacted, 
 in the afternoon and evening, was nothing but a 
 stratagem he had made use of, to try the sincerity 
 of his relations; and if he found them, as he 
 conjectured, false in their professions, to get rid 
 of them. The scheme answered nobly, and, it 
 must be confessed, the stratagem was well planned, 
 and exceedingly well executed. 
 
 I could not, at first, believe what I saw, nor 
 conceive but that all was the illusion of a dream. 
 In a little time, however, I recovered my re- 
 collection; and, on a further development of 
 the plot, I could enter into all its parts, and re- 
 concile almost every tiling to my entire satis- 
 faction. 
 
 My uncle concluded his relation with assuring 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 119 
 
 me that^ excepting a good legacy for his faithful 
 servant^, Peggy^ I should inherit all that he 
 possessed, as some little acknowledgment for 
 the fright he had caused me ; and, as for the 
 wretches he had expelled from his house in so 
 singular a manner, they should never more cross 
 the threshold of his door. We all three now sat 
 down to a little supper, of which my uncle stood 
 in great need, and, after taking a cheerful glass, 
 retired to bed. 
 
 Notwithstanding the fatigue of my journey, 
 and sitting up so late, my sleep was far from 
 being sound and refreshing; I was disturbed 
 with fearful dreams the whole night: sometimes 
 I was among groups of ruffians, fighting and man- 
 gling: each other — then I was haunted with horrid 
 spectres (such as I had seen the night before) 
 which grasped at me, and I but jiist escaped their 
 clutches. Headless men, and monsters of vari- 
 ous horrid forms, flitted in endless variety be- 
 fore my fancy, and I frequently started awake 
 in dreadful agonies. 
 
 At length, the cocks begMi to crow ; the clouds 
 
120 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 of the eastern sky to break asunder^ and the 
 morning to dawn. When it was tolerably light, 
 I started up, resolved upon a stroll over the 
 meadows. Before going, I, however, went into 
 the parlour, where I found every thing in the 
 utmost confusion; chairs, tables, walking-sticks, 
 and logs of wood lay all over the floor, and 
 every thing upset, or in a wrong position. I 
 then proceeded to the outer door, which I opened ; 
 but started back in horror, on perceiving a 
 human scull, lying on a sheet, at my right 
 hand. 
 
 Recovering from my fright, I went and ga- 
 thered it up. I could not restrain my laughter, 
 when I discovered it to be nothing more than 
 a mask, representing a death's head. It seems^ 
 while we were all wrangling the night before, 
 my uncle had stepped out of bed, dressed him- 
 self, piled all the furniture, logs of wood, and 
 timber he could, in the apartment, in a heap, 
 crowning the pyramid with a dozen or more 
 walking-sticks, which had lain, time out of 
 mind, on the top of an old cupboard. Then 
 he had gone up stairs, and put on the horrid 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 121 
 
 mask^ brought down a pistol^ and enveloped 
 himself, from his feet to his chin, in a clean 
 white sheet. After alarming us, just as the 
 clock struck the awful hour of twelve, by 
 striking three heavy blows against the wall, 
 with a huge log of wood, he contrived to 
 tumble down the whole mass of furniture at 
 once, fired his pistol at the same moment, and 
 then burst in upon us, in the manner before 
 described; and I really think, that had old 
 Hornie himself been there, he would have 
 yelled with dismay. I attributed the flapping 
 of the doors up stairs, and the jarring of those 
 below, to nothing but a boisterous gust of wind, 
 that happened to blow just at the critical mo- 
 ment; and in the repercussion of the air, when 
 the pistol was fired, I accounted for the shaking 
 of the windows. The whimsical orders and re- 
 quests of my uncle were absolutely necessary 
 to the design. By having his will read in the 
 room where he was, he heard our undisguised 
 sentiments ; and liis next request saved him from 
 the alternative of either being laid with a slight 
 covering, near some chilling window, or of de- 
 veloping the plot before a proper time. The other 
 requests were, I suppose, made for the sake of 
 
 G 
 
122 THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 
 
 consistency, and to make it impossible that we 
 could suspect any thing. I now went out. 
 
 As I was crossing the yard, I discovered seve- 
 ral drops of blood upon a stone, which I could 
 no way account for, but by supposing some of 
 my good cousins had received, in their hasty re- 
 treat, a severe fall; and, a little further, I dis- 
 covered a pair of shoes. A receptacle for the 
 filth of the byre, in another part of the yard, bore 
 evident marks of some one having had therein a 
 severe struggle. 
 
 Indeed, the adventures of the flying heroes had 
 been various and woful : one of them, he at whom 
 the spectre made such a sudden bound, as I 
 afterwards ascertained, actually ran seven miles 
 without stopping; and, with his shrieks, sup- 
 posing the grim monster at his heels, almost raised 
 the whole country. I now proceeded onwards, 
 over the fields, listening to the warbling lark, 
 " springing blithely up to greet the purpling east." 
 The air was fresh and pure, and, in the beauties 
 of Nature, I awhile forgot the events of the pre- 
 ceding evening. With hasty steps I roved over 
 the faintly-recollected scenes, where I had, in 
 
THE TEST OF AFFECTION. 123 
 
 childhood, spent some of my happiest hours, 
 until, weary with my rambles, I returned to 
 breakfast. 
 
 o2 
 
[I wish I could have given the above tale as it 
 was related to me by my friend Laird Izaak 
 Mac Farragon — I might then have presented 
 my reader with a treat; the one before him 
 is the mere shade^ the bare outhne of the droll 
 yet fearful story he made of it. The beseem- 
 ing gravity with which he went through the 
 first part, — and the ^cast of his eye' towards 
 the conclusion, were perfectly inexpressible — 
 inimitable.] 
 
THE 
 
 WANDERINGS of an IMMORTAL. 
 
Was spurned and hated — but no more — I am 
 Immortal now — Hundreds of untold years, 
 That now lie sleeping in the gulf of time, 
 Shall rise and roll before me ere I die. 
 
 WERNER. 
 
THE 
 
 WANDERINGS of an IMMORTAL. 
 
 For me the laws of Nature are suspended : the eternal wheels 
 of the Universe roll backwards : I am destined to be triumphant 
 over Fate and Time. 
 
 I shall take my distant posterity by the hand ; I shall close the 
 tomb over them. 
 
 It was not a vain desire of life, or a fear of death, 
 that made me long for immortality; nor was it 
 the cupidity of wealth, or the love of splendour, 
 or of pleasure, that made me spend years of 
 anxious study to penetrate into the hidden 
 recesses of Nature, and drag forth those secrets 
 which she has involved in an almost impenetra- 
 ble obscurity ; but it was the desire of revenge. 
 
128 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 of deep-seated and implacable revenge^ that 
 urged me on^ till by incredible exertion and 
 minute investigation^ I discovered that which 
 it has by turns been the object of philosophy 
 to obtain,, and the aim of incredulity to ridicule — 
 the philosopher's stone. And yet, I wrs naturally 
 of a mild and compassionate disposition. I had 
 a heart open to the tenderest and best emotions of 
 our nature; injury heaped on injury, — ^received, 
 too, from one whose highest aim ought to have 
 been to manifest the gratitude which he owed 
 to me, who, in the hour of danger and adversity, 
 should have been the readiest to offer assistance, — 
 has rendered me what I am. 
 
 It is useless to add to the instances of human 
 depravity. I will not relate the miseries which 
 I endured. I will not look back upon the pro- 
 spects which have been blasted by the perfidy 
 of him whom I thought a friend ; suffice it, that 
 they have been such as the soul shudders to 
 contemplate ; such as planted in my soul a thirst 
 of vengeance, which 1 brooded over, till it became 
 a part of my very existence. 
 
 I soon found, that by human means I had 
 
OF AN IMMORTAL. 129 
 
 little chance of revenge. My enemy was power- 
 ful and ^vautious^ and all my plans were an- 
 ticipated and baffled. I determined to have 
 recourse to darker agents. I had been accus- 
 tomed to intense and mysterious study, and I 
 knew that there are beings who exercise an 
 influence over human affairs^ and are, like^vise, 
 themselves in subjection to the wise and omnipo- 
 tent Being, who is the mover of the first springs 
 of the mighty machine of the universe. I knew, 
 too, that it was possible to exert a power over 
 these beings ; and henceforth, I applied the whole 
 force of my mind to the acquisition of the know- 
 ledge, which would make me the possessor of this 
 power. Ten long years I employed for this 
 purpose, and my eflbrts were crowned with 
 success. But though I could summon these 
 spirits before me, and compel them to give an 
 answer to my inquiries, that was all; I could 
 not, I was sensible, subject them entirely to my 
 will, without making, on my part, certain con- 
 cessions, and to ascertain what these were, was 
 the object of my first trial. 
 
 I fixed on a night for tliis my first essay, and 
 it soon arrived. I repaired to the spot which I 
 g5 
 
130 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 had selected. Its secrecy was well calculated 
 for my purpose ; it was a dark and lonely glen^ 
 but it was rich in romantic beauty. Rocks^ 
 whose brinks were covered with underwood and 
 wild herbage, frowned on each side ; a few stunted 
 oaks threw out their roots clinging to the 
 precipice, and an immense elm on one side spread 
 its wide arms around. The bottom of the area 
 was covered with dark luxuriant grass, inter- 
 spersed with wild and fragrant flowers. At one 
 end a narrow but deep river tumbled its waters 
 over the precipice, and rushed down, sometimes 
 almost concealed by jutting fragments of rocks 
 covered with moss and plants, which clung to it 
 as if for protection from the force of the cataract ; 
 then again spreading out and dashing its roaring 
 waters along, till it finally vanished under ground 
 in a cloud of mist and foam. 
 
 The moon was shining brightly, and I ascend- 
 ed an eminence which commanded an extensive 
 prospect. On one side, wide and fertile plains 
 extended themselves, spotted at a distance with 
 stragghng cottages and small hamlets, bounded 
 with forests, whose dark and heavy masses con- 
 trasted finely with the Hght of the adjacent land- 
 
OF AN IMMORTAL. 131 
 
 scape. On the right, the river rolled its waves 
 in calm windings, between banks of lively green, 
 adorned with groves and clusters of trees, till 
 it terminated in the waterfall, which dashed far 
 beneath me with a softened mumaur. It was a 
 delightfvd scene. The sky was beautifully clear ; 
 fleecy clouds skimmed over it, lighted up with a 
 silvery lustre that they caught from the moon-beams, 
 which bursting from behind them as they passed, 
 fell on the waters of the stream and the cataract, 
 and trembled on them in liquid beauty. Waves, 
 rocks, woods, plains, all glittered in the lovely 
 rays, and all spoke of peace and harmony. 
 
 As I gazed on the beauties which Nature had 
 here scattered vdth so profuse a hand, I heard 
 the tinkling of a sheep-bell. What associations 
 did this slight sound conjure up to me ! All the 
 loved and well-remembered scenes of childhood 
 crowded on my mind. I thought of times and of 
 persons that were fled ; of those who were joined 
 to me by kindred, who were united by friendship, 
 or attached by a tender passion. Again, those 
 short but blissful moments were present — ^perhaps 
 more blissful, because so short — ^when I had 
 strayed, at this same witching hour, with one 
 
132 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 whose remembrance will survive the eternity 
 which I am doomed to undergo; — when we 
 had gazed with all the rapture of admiration 
 on the works which attest the power and mighti- 
 ness of Providence — ^had listened to the note of 
 the evening songster, and the sighs of the wind 
 among the leaves; and with hearts unstained by 
 one evil thought or passion, and feelings unmixed 
 with aught unworthy, had breathed forth our 
 pure and fervent vows to that Being, whose altar 
 is the sincere bosom, and whose purest, most 
 grateful oifering, is a tear. 
 
 Tlie night advanced. It was time for me to 
 begin my terrible solemnities. T trembled at 
 the thought of what I was about to do. 1 
 hesitated whether to proceed; but the hope of 
 revenge still impelled me on, and I resolved to 
 prosecute my design. It was soon done. The 
 rites were begun ; the flame of my lamp blazed 
 clear and bright; I knew the moment was ap 
 proaching when I should hold communion with 
 beings of another world ; perhaps with the prince 
 of darkness himself. I grew faint, a heavy Idad 
 weighed on my breast, my respiration grew" 
 ^ck and short, my eyes seemed to swell ii> 
 
OF AN IMMORTAL. 133 
 
 their sockets^ and a cold sweat burst from every 
 pore of my body. The flame wavered — it de- 
 creased — ^it went out. The heavens were darkened : 
 I gazed around^ but the gloom was too gTeat 
 for me to see any thing. I looked towards the 
 waterfall, and;, amid the mist and obscurity wliich 
 covered the place of its subterraneous outlet, a 
 star shone with wild and brilliant lustre. It 
 grew larger — it approached me — it stopped, and 
 a brighter radiance was difflised around. The 
 Evil One stood before me. 
 
 I gazed with wonder and astonishment on 
 the being that stood before me in terrible beauty. 
 His figure was tall and commanding, and his 
 athletic and sinewy limbs were formed in the 
 most exquisite proportions. His countenance 
 was pale and majestic;, but marked wdth the 
 mingled passions of pride, malice, and regret^ 
 which, we conceive, form the character of the 
 rebel angel ; and his dark and terrible eyes gave 
 a wilder expression to his features, as they 
 beamed in troubled and preternatural brightness 
 from beneath his awful forehead, shaded with 
 the masses of his raven hair, that curled around 
 his temples^ and waved down his neck and shauU 
 
134 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 ders; and amongst the jetty locks, a star, as 
 a diadem, blazed clear and steadily. Never had 
 I seen aught approaching to his grand and un- 
 earthly loveliness ; I saw him debased by the 
 grossness of sin, and suffering the punishment 
 of his apostacy; yet he was beautiful beyond 
 the sons of men. I saw him thus, and I 
 thought what the spirit must have been before 
 he feU. 
 
 Our conversation was brief: I wished not to 
 prolong it, for I was sick at heart, and his voice 
 thrilled through my whole frame. I rejected his 
 offers, strong as was my thirst for vengeance. 
 A small glimmering of cool reason, which I still 
 retained, prevented me from sacrificing all my 
 hopes of hereafter, to the gratification of any 
 passion, however ardent. The demon perceived 
 that I should escape his toils, and all the wild 
 and ungoverned force of his fiendish nature 
 burst forth ; and overcome with fear and horror, 
 I fell senseless on the ground. When I awoke, 
 all was still ; it was quite light. I felt the light 
 breezes sweep over me, and I heard again the 
 roar of the cataract. I arose and looked round, 
 but there was nothing to indicate the late presence 
 
OF AN IMMORTAL. 135 
 
 of the demon, ^vith whom I had held unhallowed 
 commmiion. I departed from the glen; the sun 
 was just rising, and his rays shining on the 
 summits of the lofty and distant hills. The 
 air was sweet and refreshing, and the sky, rich 
 in the glories of the opening morning, was painted 
 with beautiful tints, which blend insensibly 
 with each other, and present so lovely a feast 
 to the eye of one, who loves to study the beauties 
 which Nature offers on every hand, and in almost 
 every prospect. The birds were singing in the 
 trees ; the flowers, which had drooped and hung . 
 their faded leaves the evening before, again raised 
 up their heads, enamelled with dew ; every thing 
 was gentle, beautiful, and peaceful. The charm 
 communicated itself naturally to my disturbed 
 and agitated mind, and for a short time I was 
 calm and serene ; the headstrong current of 
 my passions was checked, and the thought of 
 revenge was forgotten. But I returned into the 
 werld; I found myself an object, by turns, of 
 scorn and pity, and of hatred. Again, I cursed 
 him who had wrought this wreck of my hopes ; 
 and again, was vengeance my only object. 
 
 I resolved to have no further communication 
 
136 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 with the beings of whom I have spoken, I 
 determined^ thenceforth, to depend on my own 
 exertions. I again applied myself to study, and 
 began to inquire after that secret which could 
 bestow immortal life and wealth. I sought 
 the assistance of none, but depended entirely on 
 myself. I laboured long, and was long unsuc- 
 cessful. I ransacked the most hidden cabinet of 
 nature. In the bowels of the earth, in the cor- 
 ruption of the grave, in darkness and in solitude, 
 I worked with unceasing toil. My body was 
 emaciated, and I was worn almost to a skeleton ; 
 but the vehemence of my passions supported me. 
 At last, I discovered the object of my search. It 
 will prove how strongly my mind was riveted on 
 one sole object, when I say, that when I beheld 
 myself possessed of boundless riches, and, through 
 their agency, of almost boundless power; when 
 the pleasures and temptations of the world lay 
 all within my grasp, I cast not a thought on them, 
 or on any thing, save the one great object, on the 
 furtherance of which I had bestowed such unre- 
 mitting toil of body and mind. 
 
 At this period, I learnt that the object of my 
 hatred was going abroad, and I lost no time iu 
 
OF AN IMMORTAL. 137 
 
 preparing secretly to follow him. He shortly de- 
 parted; and having disguised myself^ I also com- 
 menced the journey. I was always on the watch 
 for an opportunity when I could surprise my ene- 
 my alone; but I was still unsuccessful. We at 
 last arrived at a sea-port town, and it was deter- 
 mined to proceed by water, and I entered as a 
 passenger into the same vessel. I had never be- 
 fore been at sea, and the scene was new and as- 
 tonishing to me, but I could not enjoy it ; I saw 
 every thing through a cloud. The ardent passion 
 of revenge, which burnt within my breast, con- 
 sumed and obliterated every gentle or pleasant 
 feeling. At another time I should have enjoyed my 
 situation ; I should have beheld the seemingly 
 boundless expanse of water around me, and have 
 felt my soul expand at the view; but now I was 
 altered, and my views of surroundmg objects al- 
 tered with me. 
 
 I had much trouble to keep concealed, for on 
 board of a ship the risks of discovery were greater, 
 because my absence from the deck, where the other 
 passengers were accustomed to catch the fresh sea 
 breeze, though for some time unnoticed, might at 
 length cause me to be regarded as a misanthrope^ 
 
138 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 who detested the society of his fellow creatures, 
 which I wished to avoid equally with any other sur- 
 mise which might make me an object of attention. 
 I was standing one evening watching the gradual 
 dechne of the sun as he sunk into the heart of the 
 ocean, which reflected his rays, and the lustre of 
 the clouds around him. A sudden motion of the 
 ship caused me to move from the spot on which 
 I was gazing, when I observed some one looking 
 steadily at me. My eye met his — our souls met 
 in the glance — ^it was he whom I had followed 
 with such relentless hatred. I sprung towards 
 him. I uttered some incoherent words of rage. 
 He smiled at me in scorn. " Madman," he ex- 
 claimed, " dost thou tempt my rage? — Be cautious 
 ere it is too late — you are in my power — one word 
 of mine can make you a prisoner ; think you that 
 I am ignorant of your proceedings against my life ? 
 — No — every plot, every machination is as well 
 known to me as to yourself; — ^you confess it — your 
 eye says it — seek not to deny it ; for this time you 
 are safe." He staid no longer, but retiring to his 
 cabin, left me too astonished with what I had 
 heard, to attempt to detain him. Could it be that 
 he had spoken true ? was he indeed so well ac- 
 quainted with my actions ? But if so, why had he 
 
OF AN IMMORTAL. 139 
 
 not disclosed what he knew, when the civil power 
 could at once have forfeited my life^and deprived him 
 of an enraged foe ? Was it that he hesitated to add 
 to his guilt by the death of one whom he had dri- 
 ven to desperation by his treachery ? or did some 
 spark of awakening conscience operate on his 
 mind? I was confused with my thoughts, for I 
 knew not what to think; I passed the time in 
 gloomy and painful meditation, and was glad when 
 evening came, that I might retire to my place of 
 repose, 
 
 I was awakened by the sound of men trampling 
 over my head, the stretching and creaking of 
 cordage, the dasliing of waves, and the violent 
 and repeated motions of the vessel. The wind, 
 which had been remarkably still the preceding 
 day, was blowing with the utmost violence, and 
 Toared amongst the sails and rigging of the ship as 
 if it would split them to shivers. It would be 
 useless to attempt to describe what has so often 
 been described far better than I am able to do. 
 I was filled with most dark and melancholy ideas 
 - — I paced the cabin in a state of feverish anxiety ; 
 but yet I knew not why I felt so. It was not the 
 storm, for my existence was beyond the power of 
 
140 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 the ocean to destroy. The tempest raged with nn- 
 abating fury during the whole night. At length a 
 plank of the ship started_, and she rapidly filled with 
 water. The boats were got out^ and the crew and 
 passengers hastily endeavoured to get into them. 
 The boats were not large enough to contain the 
 whole number, and a dreadful struggle took place; 
 but it was soon terminated by those in the boats 
 cutting the ropes, fearful of perishing, if more were 
 added to their numbers. Just as the boats were 
 cut from the vessel, I saw my hated foe spring 
 out of the ship j he was too late, and was whelmed 
 in the ocean. I thought my hopes of vengeance 
 would be entirely frustrated. I sprung after him. 
 I fell so near him, that I caught hold of him. He 
 grasped me by the thro t, and we struggled a 
 moment ; but a wave dashed us against the ship's 
 side, and we were parted by the violence of the 
 shock. Daylight was breaking, and occasionally, 
 when lifted up by a wave, I could discern bodies 
 floating amongst casks, planks, and pieces of bro- 
 ken masts. In little more than a minute after we 
 had left the ship, I saw her sink. Her descent 
 made a wide chasm in the waves, and the rush of 
 the parted waters was dreadful, as they closed 
 over, and dashing up their white foam as they met. 
 
OF AN IMMORTAL. 141 
 
 seemed to exult over their victim. I was dashed 
 about in the water till I was exhausted : I could 
 no longer take my breath, and began to sink ; I 
 struggled hard to keep up, but the tempest sub- 
 sided, and I was no longer borne up by the force 
 of the waves. T descended — they were the most 
 horrible moments of my life. I gasped for breath, 
 but my mouth and throat were instantly filled 
 with water, and the passage totally obstructed; 
 the air confined in my lungs endeavoured in vain 
 to force an outlet ; I felt a tightness at the ^nside 
 of my ears; the external pressure of tlie water 
 on all sides of my body was very painful, and my 
 eyes felt as if a cord were tied tightly round my 
 brows. At last, by a dreadful convulsion of my 
 whole body, the air was expelled through my wind- 
 pipe, and forced its way through the water with a 
 gurgling sound : — again the same sensations recur- 
 red — and again the same convulsion. Then I 
 cursed the hour when I had obtained the fatal pos- 
 session which hindered me from perishing. Ardent- 
 ly did I long for death to free me from the suffer- 
 ings which I endured. In a short time I was ex- 
 hausted, the convulsions became more frequent 
 but less powerful, and I gradually lost all sense 
 and feeling. 
 
142 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 How long I continued in this state, buried in the 
 sea, I know not ; but when I recovered my re- 
 collection, 1 found myself lying on a rock tliat jut- 
 ted out into the ocean. Igot up, but could scarce- 
 ly stand, so great was my weakness; I soon, 
 however, regained my faculties, and my first ob- 
 ject was to ascertain where I was. I examined 
 the spot — it was desolate and barren, but it seemed 
 to be of* considerable extent. I wandered about 
 till hunger reminded me that I must look for food. 
 A few shell-fish, which I picked up on the shore, 
 satisfied for a time the cravings of my hunger. I 
 then sought for a lodging, which might in some 
 degree shelter me from the fury of the elements. 
 There seemed not to be a tree on the whole sur- 
 face of the place, nor were the slightest traces of a 
 human habitation visible. At length I discovered 
 a cave, into which I entered, and in which I passe<l 
 the remainder of the day and the following night. 
 I slept long and soundly, and was greeted, on 
 awaking, by the hoarse and sullen murmurs of the 
 waters breaking against the rock. I advanced to 
 the shore, and strained my eyes over the sea ; but 
 nothing was discernible, save the uniform sheet of 
 water, and the black clouds which seemed its only 
 boundary. The day was gloomy, and hoarse sea- 
 
OF AN IMMORTAL. 143 
 
 birds flew round, screaming and flapping their 
 wings. The hours passed slowly on, and this 
 day passed like the preceding one, except that I 
 discovered a spring of water, which in my present 
 situation was a treasure. At night I retired to 
 my cave, where a little sea-weed, spread upon sand, 
 was my only couch. The next day I determined 
 thoroughly to examine the place on which my un- 
 happy fortune had cast me, and 1 accordingly set 
 forth, dropping sea-weed and pebbles at short in- 
 tervals, to enable me to find my way back to the 
 cave. 1 wandered as near as I could guess about 
 two hours, without perceiving any difierence in the 
 scenes around me. I was about to return, when 
 a sound struck my ear. I listened — I turned my 
 head, and beheld at no great distance a humau 
 figui^. I rushed towards it — it was my enemy! 
 He saw me approach, and seemed astonished ; but 
 he did not move, nor attempt to avoid me. " At 
 last," I said, " I have met thee on equal terms ;" now 
 thou canst not escape me." " What seek you ?" 
 replied he ; " but I need not ask. It is my life you 
 wish to deprive me of — take it — in so doing, you 
 will rob me of that which I wish not to preserve — 
 a burden that I would gladly lose. You hesitate. 
 Why do you delay now ? — ^vengeance is in your 
 
144 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 power — do yourself justice — think of the wrongs 
 that you have suffered from me — the miseries you 
 have endured ; and then can you remain long in- 
 active ?" I knew not what it was, but something 
 restrained me from any deed of violence against 
 him, whom I had followed so long, in hopes of ven- 
 geance ; whom I had hated with unnatural hatred. 
 While I looked at him he suddenly grew paler ; 
 he staggered, and fell down. I found he had faint- 
 ed — I chafed his temples — 1 ran for some water, 
 with which I sprinkled his face, and after some 
 time he opened his eyes, but closed them again 
 with a faint shudder. In a few minutes he re- 
 covered, but was unable to walk, the hardships he 
 had undergone having weakened his frame, unsup- 
 ported by the charm which gave strength and en- 
 durance to mine. I supported him towards the 
 cave ; but the slowness with which we proceeded 
 was such, that it was near evening before we ar- 
 rived at it. When we came to it, I placed him on 
 my rude couch, and departed in search of food for 
 him and myself. I had much difficulty in doing 
 this, for even the wretched fare on which since 
 being cast on the island I had subsisted, was 
 scanty. When I returned, he was asleep, and I 
 sat down to watch by him. 
 
OF AN IMMORTAL. 145 
 
 I have not an idea what it was that induced me 
 at the time to concern myself about the welfare 
 of one_, whom I had such reason to detest as this 
 man. It is one of those contradictions which so 
 strongly marked all my actions, and which will 
 ever characterize, jthe proceedings of one of acute 
 feelings and ungbverned passions. 
 
 For several days -J .continued to >vatch over 
 him, with the attention of a brother j but he was 
 sinking rapidly, and I saw that a very short 
 period would put an end to his existence. During 
 the whole time, he had never spoken; but on 
 the day of his death he broke his silence. He 
 asked why I had attended to his wants, and why 
 I had not rather hastened to wreak my vengeance 
 on him. I would not suffer liim to talk long, 
 for he was too feeble to bear the least exertion 
 without injury. But the expression of his coun- 
 tenance spoke for him. His eyes rolled with a 
 wild and frenzied gaze ; his features were, by 
 fits, twisted and convulsed with agony, and 
 smothered and lengthened groans burst from 
 him. The evening drew on,, and the scene was 
 still more dreadful, by the uncertain and fading 
 light that prevailed. Suddenly he started; he 
 
 H 
 
146 THE WANDERINGS 
 
 gazed at me^ and asked^ in a voice which pierced 
 me to the soul, **if 1 could forgive him?" I 
 did forgive him ; God is my witness how sincerely 
 at that moment I forgave every injury, every 
 offence which he had committed against me. He 
 spoke not again. Two hours afterwards, he 
 caught my hand — he pressed it fervently, and 
 his dying look was such as I can never forget. 
 Although I shall live till the last convulsion of 
 the universe shall bury me in the ashes of the 
 world, that look can never be effaced from my 
 memory. 
 
 It was night. I could not remove the body 
 till morning, and the deep silence rendered my 
 situation doubly horrible. The next morning I 
 buried the remains of him, who, while living, 
 had been my direst foe. But every thought of 
 that nature had now departed; my injuries and 
 my thoughts of revenge were ahke forgotten. I 
 shortly after left the island: I was taken up 
 by a ship passing near to it, and conveyed again 
 to inhabited countries. Such was the termination 
 of my labours, my sufferings, my hopes, and my 
 fears. When I reflect on the time which was 
 consumed in this fruitless pursuit of revenge, it 
 
OF AN IMMORTAL. 147 
 
 seems like one of those frightful dreams from 
 which we start in terror, but even when awake 
 feel horror at the thought. The inconsistencies 
 of which I was guilty, more forcibly urge this 
 idea; — while I spent years of loathsome and 
 anxious labours in seeking for that gift, which> 
 when obtained, is a curse to the possessor, I 
 never thought of the probability, that the object 
 of my hatred might die long before I had dis- 
 covered the secret of which I was in quest. 
 Such is the contradictory conduct of one, over 
 whose actions reason no longer retains any 
 controul. 
 
 I am now a lone and sohtary being — ^isolated 
 from the rest of my species, for the social tie 
 which binds man to the world, and connects him 
 with his fellow creatures, cannot long subsist 
 without equality. I mean not the mere equality 
 of birth or fortune. I have, as it were, acquired 
 a nature different from the rest of mankind. The 
 spring of my affections is dried up. Should I 
 strive to acquire friends, to what purpose were 
 it? I should see them drop silently and gradu- 
 ally into the grave, conscious that I was doomed 
 to linger out an eternity. I care not for fame; 
 H 2 
 
148 WANDERINGS OF AN IMMORTAL, 
 
 wealth has no charms for me, for it is in my 
 power to an unlimited extent. I must wander 
 about, alike destitute of hope and of fear, of 
 pleasure or of pain. I look on the past with 
 disgust and inquietude ; I regard the future with 
 apathy and hstlessness. It may seem egotism in 
 me ^hus to intrude my personal feelings, but it 
 is thus only that! ican convey an idea of the 
 misery, which attends the acquisition of powers, 
 which nature has, for wise purposes, hidden from 
 the grasp of mortals; Tlitts only can I hope tb 
 deter other rash and daring spirits from a like 
 course, by showing the utter and abandoned 
 soUtariness, the exhaustion of mental and bodily 
 faculties, and the dead and torpid desolation of 
 spirit, which is the unceasing companion of the 
 Wanderings of an Immortal. 
 
THE SEA SPIRIT. 
 
Cat, The Spirit torments me : O ! 
 
THE SEA SPIRIT. 
 
 I do not lore to credit tales of magic ; 
 
 HeaT^s music, which is order, seems onstnmg, 
 
 And this brave world 
 
 (The mystery of God) unbeautified, 
 
 Disorder'd, m«n'd, where sach strange things are acted, 
 
 THE VPITCB. 
 
 Passing the in the summer of the year 17 — , 
 
 we were overtaken by a storm, which rapidly 
 increased, and threatened, by its violence, to 
 ingulf us in the waves. To one who has never 
 experienced such a scene, no description could 
 convey an adequate idea of its horrors; and 
 to those who have been so situated, the descrip- 
 tion would be superfluous. The roaring of the 
 wind, the raging of the waves, the shivering 
 
152 THE SEA SPIRIT. 
 
 canvas, and the noise of the creaking and strain- 
 ing cordage, can be but faintly imagined by any 
 but those who have known the reahty. As night 
 approached, our situation became more dreadful, 
 and darkness added to the other causes of terror. 
 The ship was" for hours together ddr ted along, 
 and again hurled back by successive waves. At 
 length day broke, and the light of the morning, 
 in some degree, revived'bur spirits ; but the sight 
 of our vessel was, in itself, enough to destroy all 
 hope. She had lost a mast, her rigging was 
 burst and shivered, and the torn sails flapped 
 about in long strips. It seemed that but little 
 chance remained of the vessel weathering the 
 storm, and the captain ordered the boats to be 
 got out ; and being speedily obeyed, the crew 
 and the few passengers crowded into them. We 
 left the ship, and in a few moments lost sight 
 of her. 
 
 We were now entirely abandoned to the mercy 
 of the elements. A few boards alone separated 
 us from the ocean ; we were exposed to the 
 wind, rain, and the waves^ and we liad little 
 prospect of escaping death. Added to these 
 evils, our provisions, were scanty> and damaged 
 
THE SEA SPIRIT. 153 
 
 by the water. Our prospects were melancholy 
 enough^ and despair sat on every countenance. 
 Bach of us gazed at his neighbour^ but shuddered 
 at the horror and dismay wliich met his glance. 
 Some satin a sullen torpor^ whilst others muttered 
 ejaculations of despair, and gazed with wild and 
 intense looks on the waves, which seemed ready 
 to ingulf us on every side. 
 
 The storm continued for several days ; we 
 were faint and weary with exertion and suffering. 
 Some lay down to endeavour to obtain rest, while 
 the others threw out the water which came into 
 the boat. A tremendous wave rolled towards us ; 
 and the other boat, which had continued to keep 
 at no great distance from us, was instantly 
 swamped, and one of our men washed overboard. 
 The fate of our comrades contributed to increase 
 our misery, for the same fate might every moment 
 overtake the survivors. Our provisions were 
 exhausted, and famine stared us in the face. We 
 chewed the soft leather of our shoes, to deaden 
 the sense of hunger, for every morsel of food had 
 been consumed. One of our number died. He 
 was to be thrown over into the sea. Two sailors 
 laid hold of the body to perform that last sad office 
 n 5 
 
154 THE SEA SPIRIT. 
 
 to it. A sudden thought seemed to seize their 
 minds ; they hesitated, and looked round. It was 
 dreadful; no one spoke, yet every one knew 
 what was meant. The sailors laid the body 
 down; some horrid feeling seemed to agitate 
 fivery breast, but it could not burst forth in words. 
 It was the deep silence of every one in the boat, 
 the motion of the eye, a certain pervading feeling, 
 which told each man why the body was again 
 placed in the boat, instead of its being committed 
 to its watery grave. 
 
 At last the captain spoke ; but his voice could 
 scarce be heard, amid the raging of the con- 
 tending elements. " Why is not the body thrown 
 into the sea?" he said ; "will ye keep him here to 
 rot and decay? or do you wish to satisfy your 
 hunger on the carcass of your fellow ?" He laid 
 hold of the body, and speaking to a sailor> 
 they lifted it over the side of the boat, and it 
 disappeared. 
 
 The weather soon altered, and grew calm. 
 One morning we were gree^d with the welcome 
 cry of land. We strained our eyes to see it, 
 and plainly perceived it at a considerable distance. 
 
THE SEA SPIRIT. 166 
 
 We laboured at our oars, and towards evening 
 arrived at it. With some difficulty we landed^ 
 and looked round on a barren and comfortless 
 track of country, principally level, and occasion- 
 ally interrupted by rocks jutting out of the ground, 
 or an ill-formed and bare tree. We were, 
 however, too much rejoiced to have escaped from 
 the sea, to examine minutely the spot on which 
 we were thrown. Exhausted with continued 
 fatigue, we lay down on the ground, and enjoyed 
 a profound sleep till morning. When we arose 
 from our slumbers, the bleak and cheerless pros- 
 pect depressed our spirits ; we were without either 
 shelter or food, and the latter want pressed us 
 most severely. For five days we had not tasted 
 food. We wandered about in hopes of meeting 
 with something, but there were no traces that 
 might indicate that any living creatures, save 
 ourselves, existed on this barren spot; a few 
 roots, however, rewarded our search, and in 
 some degree satisfied our hunger. We spoke 
 but little, and that little consisted in useless and 
 unavaihng repinings. At length, it occurred, that 
 we were totally destitute of any lodging to pro- 
 tect us from the rigour of the weather, and we 
 therefore set about looking out for a spot, suitable 
 
156 THE SEA SPIRIT. 
 
 for erecting some kind of shelter. Two rocW, 
 which were considerably elevated above the level 
 ground, formed an angle which would shelter us 
 on two sides. We stuck our oars in the ground, 
 and stretched on them a large piece of canvas, 
 which had been used as' a sail, and which we 
 had brought along with us in the boat. We were 
 uncovered and exposed over head, it was true, 
 but we were safe on ground, and even this most 
 of us considered far preferable to being tost about 
 on the ocean, in a boat which one wave might 
 swallow up forever. The weather was now fine 
 and dry; the few trees on the island were cover- 
 ed with verdure ; and the leiaves strewed on the 
 ground, composed our humble beds, and were 
 likewise of greater use in another manner. We 
 contrived, by means of a pistol and a little powder, 
 to light a fire with leaves and branches which 
 we broke off the trees. The scene in the even- 
 ing, when the mists began to gather around, was 
 highly picturesque. The flame rose in high and 
 curling flashes, threw its red glare over the island, 
 and blazed against the rocks. As it increased, 
 it was reflected on the waves, and extended in a 
 long red blaze over the water. My companions,, 
 US they moved about in the light, which shewel 
 
THE SEA SPIRIT. 157 
 
 more plainly their hard and deep marked features, 
 seemed Hke some strange and fearful beings^ 
 performing their unhallowed rites. We gradually 
 grew more cheerful^ and hope represented to us 
 the chance, that some vessel might pass by, and 
 relieve us from our present desolate situation. 
 Still our condition was wretched, and our food 
 scarce and unwholesome, consisting merely of 
 roots, and the few fish of various kinds that we 
 occasionally found on the shore. 
 
 An incident occurred, which rather startled us, 
 and did not contribute to add to our comfort. A 
 sailor, who had been wandering about the island, 
 had remained out later than usual, and came 
 running into our enclosure out of breath, liis eyes 
 starting from their sockets, and exhibiting all the 
 marks of violent terror. We inquired earnestly 
 the reason of this appearance. As soon as he 
 had sufficiently recovered himself, he exclaimed 
 " I have seen a ghost !" Sailors are generally 
 superstitious, and we stared at each other with 
 wild looks, as if each expected to encounter the 
 eyeless scull and bloody winding-sheet of some 
 terrible apparition. The captain only preserved 
 
158 THE SEA SPIRIT. 
 
 his composure unmoved ; he laughed at our fears, 
 and joked the ghost-seer unmercifully. The roan, 
 however, persisted in his tale. He v^as walking 
 on the shore, at a part of the island to which we 
 had seldom resorted in our peregrinations, on 
 account of its particularly rugged and barren 
 appearance. Here, as he was picking up some 
 shell fish, which lay at his feet, his attention was 
 engaged by a slight noise, and looking up, he 
 perceived, to his horror, the figure of a man, 
 which seemed to skim along the surface of the 
 water, and was followed by a female form who 
 pursued him, and whom he strove, but in vain, 
 to avoid. The woman overtook him, and with a 
 tremendous laugh, plunged him into the waves. 
 In a moment after, the apparition disappeared, 
 and he saw it no more. 
 
 Various were the speculations which this 
 narration gave birth to, among the members of our 
 society. A degree of fear prevailed among us, 
 and whispers were circulated, as if every one 
 had dreaded to hear the sound of his own voice. 
 The captain, too, it was remarked, who had 
 at first made the circumstance an object of 
 
THE SEA SPIRIT. 159 
 
 merriment^ now seemed inwardly troubled, and 
 strove in vain to dispel tbe melancholy which 
 clouded his brow. 
 
 On retiring to rest, all huddled together in 
 the farthest angle of the rocks. Sleep came 
 over us ; but the imaginations of many tormented 
 them with ghostly dreams, and occasionally, an 
 exclamation of horror would burst from some 
 one, and disturb the others, who, scared at the 
 noise, joined in the hubbub, thus increasing the 
 general confusion. 
 
 Morning broke, and dispelled the visions 
 which had haunted us. Our first operation was, 
 to accompany the man to the place where, ac- 
 cording to his narration, the spirits had appeared. 
 Nothing was, however, to be found, excepting 
 (what were much more acceptable than ghosts) 
 some shell fish, which, however, the superstitious 
 apprehensions of one or two of our number 
 prevented their touching. Others, who paid less 
 respect to the supernatural visitors, or were more 
 hungry, speedily devoured this sort of food. 
 The day wore away without any novelty oc- 
 curring, and the shades of the evening began to 
 
160 THE SEA SPIRIT. 
 
 descend. The sun^ which had sunk beneath the 
 sea, still illuminated the edges of the light clouds 
 that skirted the horizon. It was a sweet even- 
 ing ; one of those whose soft and gentle influence 
 steal upon the soul, conjuring up those delightful 
 reminiscences and lang-syne ideas, that the mind 
 dwells upon with unfading pleasure. The wind 
 was quite still, and we sat down near our habita- 
 tion (if such a.nam0 may be given to such a spot). 
 The captain, who had been silent all day, now 
 spoke, and informed us, that he thought he was 
 able to disclose some particulars relating to the 
 last night's occurrence. Every one drew nearer 
 to his neighbour, and prepared to listen, with 
 long faces and open mouths, not unmixed with 
 sundry twists of the eyes over the left , and right 
 shoulders, to have due warning, in case any un- 
 earthly visitant should clandestinely attempt to 
 attack us in the rear. To obviate the possibihty 
 of this, however, we drew, as by instinct, into 
 a circle, in which position, every side being guard- 
 ed, no undue advantage could be taken by any 
 emissary from the invisible world. '^ When I was 
 a cabin boy on board the Thunderproof," said 
 the captain, who, as orator, was stationed in the 
 centre of the assembly, " a plot was concerted. 
 
THE SEA SPIRIT. 161 
 
 by the greater part of the crew^ to murder the 
 captaiii> and take possession of the vessel. I, 
 with several others who were unconcerned in 
 the scheme, knew nothing of it till the moment of 
 its execution. We were suddenly seized and 
 pinioned ; and the captain, after being severely 
 wounded, was throvni overboard. His wife was 
 in the ship, and hearing the noise, came on deck. 
 
 ^ The villain who had concerted the plot, caught 
 her in his arms ; she struggled, and escaping his 
 grasp, ran to the ship's side, where stumbling, 
 she was again seized. Perceiving herself in the 
 wretch's power, she desisted from her endeavours 
 to free herself; and he, deceived by her apparent 
 submission, relaxed his hold. At this moment 
 she caught him in her grasp, and with a violent 
 eflfort, sprung over the ship's side, dragging the 
 ruffian along with her. We heard them fall into 
 the water ; we heard the shrill and heart-rending 
 scream of her victim, as he received his well- 
 merited punishment. We were afterwards un- 
 bound; perhaps the villains considered us too few 
 and too insignificant to excite alarm among them. 
 They did not long enjoy the fruits of their crimes. 
 The vessel was wrecked, and I and two others 
 
162 THE SEA SPIRIT. 
 
 alone escaped ; and since that time, the seas near 
 that spot have been considered as haunted by 
 the spirits of the victims and the murderers. 
 Doubtless, it was near this island that the events 
 took place ; but having lost our compass, we can 
 only guess at it ; and the appearance which was 
 seen by Jenkins last night, bears relation to the 
 events I have mentioned." 
 
 This narrative by no means tended to quiet our 
 fears, which rose to a considerable height. After 
 much deliberation, it was proposed that we should 
 sit up and wait in expectation of the unwelcome 
 visitants, which proposal was agreed to by many, 
 with fear and trembling, who, however, assented, 
 that they might not be thought to possess less 
 courage than their fellows. 
 
 Hour after hour passed; but we neither saw 
 nor heard any thing to justify our fears. The 
 diss^eeableness of the situation made the time 
 seem much longer than it was in reality. We 
 began to grow imeasy of waiting for spirits, and 
 some spoke of giving up the watch. Still 
 we delayed, when, on the surface of the ocean, 
 far off, a dim light appeared. Certainly it would 
 
THE SEA spirit; 163 
 
 be highly indecorous in me to speak aught re- 
 flecting on the courage of British sailors; but, 
 nathless^ I will venture to affirm^ that the hair 
 of every individual stood in a more upright and 
 porcupine position than they were wont to do. 
 The appearance presently assumed a more definite 
 form ; it seemed the likeness of a woman^ and we 
 perceived, with feelings by no means pleasant, 
 that it approached the shore. A second figure 
 was perceived in the act of avoiding the first. It 
 fled towards the shore, and was pursued with 
 incredible speed by the other. It had almost 
 reached the shore, when it was overtaken by the 
 female form. She seized on the hair of his head, 
 dragged him round, and with a laugh, that curdled 
 the blood in my veins, seemingly plunged her 
 victim in the waves, and disappeared. My com- 
 panions were petrified with terror, and the captain 
 lay senseless on the ground. At last we regained 
 some degree of self-possession, and raising the 
 captain, with much difficulty restored liim to the 
 use of his faculties. But the impression made 
 upon him by the scene was so strong, that it was 
 a considerable time before he perfectly recovered 
 from the effects of it. He declared that he knew 
 the features of the figures as well as he knew any 
 
164 THE SEA SPIRIT. 
 
 one living. He became extremely uneasy^ as did 
 the rest of us, at our abode on this island, and we 
 thought of again trusting to the boat for our 
 deliverance, when we were fortunatiely taken up 
 by a vessel, and conveyed to England. Our joy 
 at revisiting our native country may be conceived, 
 but not described; but, if I may Judge of my 
 own feelings, none of us wish again to tempt likej 
 dangers. :, 
 
 4i 
 
f 
 
 THE THEATRE. 
 
Oph, Belike this show impc^ts the argument of the 
 
 play. 
 Jffam, We shall know by this fellow — the players 
 
 cannot keep counsel : they'll tell all. 
 
THE THEATRE. 
 
 JPAa.—Thinke M^hat you will of it, I thinke 'tis done, and I 
 thinke 'tis acting by this time. Harke, harke, vrhat drnnunings 
 yonder ; I'll lay my life they are comming to present the shew I 
 spake of. 
 
 Com. Sense,— It may be so ; stay, wee'U see what 'tis. 
 
 I AM neither a disciple of Jeremy Collier, nor of 
 the author of Histriomastrix ; both of whom, with 
 more zeal than discretion, have occupied them- 
 selves in railing against stage plays and play- 
 goers. More especially, the latter author has 
 contrived to steal sufficient time from the labours 
 of his profession, to indite a goodly "quarto 
 tractate" of some thousand and odd pages, in 
 which he logically proves the immorahty of the 
 stage, by well arranged and subtle syllogisms; 
 
168 THE THEATRE. 
 
 such as^ Things derived from the devil ^re evil — 
 stage plays are sprung from the devil — argaly 
 stage plays are evil; which syllogism would,, in- 
 dubitably^ be conclusive on the subject^ were it 
 not that it is unfortunately necessary to prove his 
 major^ which he attempts to do^ by the testimony 
 of divers fathers of the Primitive Churchy and 
 among others^ TertulUan, Cyprian, Chrysostom, 
 Ignatius,, Lactantius, and many other long-named 
 men, whom few of the present time know, nor, if 
 they knew, would care for. 
 
 Leaving, therefore, the reverend and learned 
 gentlemen to slumber oujtjtheir days in undisturbed 
 forgetfulness, I confess that I am a play-goer, — 
 a confession, which certainly demands no extraor- 
 dinary share of resolution to make, as a thousand 
 people do the same every day. But I persuade 
 myself, that I enjoy many pleasures in my theatri- 
 cal hours, which other people do not experience. 
 I have not a greater number of senses than the 
 rest of my species ; but I possess, perhaps, in the- 
 atrical pleasures, a more lively power of associa- 
 tion than the hi ttoXKoi who throng the gallery, pit, 
 and boxes around me. Very probably, there may 
 appear in this a great degree of overweening ego- 
 
THE THEATRE. 169 
 
 tism^ but this I do not much regard. All people 
 are egotists in their hearts ; the only difference is 
 between those who keep it pent up, and those 
 who let it loose when occasion offers, without 
 caring where it flies, or whose habits or prejudices 
 it runs a tilt against. To proceed — the primsiry 
 object with most frequenters of the theatre is, I 
 presume, at least nominally. 
 
 THE PLAY. 
 
 No one goes, or at any rate acknowledges that 
 he goes, to sit in a box or on a bench. But many 
 make going to see a play an excuse for passing 
 away a portion of time, which they would not 
 otherwise know how to occupy. Some go to meet 
 their friends, — others, for less laudable meetings 
 with " fair mischiefs," as that facete personage. 
 Master Janus Weathercock hath it — some to clap 
 — others to hiss — these go to applaud, and those 
 to damn — some few, perhaps, go out of real love 
 to dramatic entertainments ; and a multitude, be- 
 cause they have nothing else to do. 
 
 As for myself, I go out of many motives ; there 
 
170 THE THEATRE. 
 
 are a variety of circumstances which conspire to 
 furnish the satisfaction I experience. I am not 
 cursed with that disposition to be displeased^ which 
 throws the darkest shade on every thing in life. 
 I derive pleasure from that^ which any body else 
 may derive pleasure from^ by using the same 
 means ; by resolutely banishing from the mind all 
 inclination to cavil and find faulty by looking on 
 the golden side of the shield, by encouraging that 
 spirit of optimism,, which softens down the harsh, 
 and elevates, or brings into more distinct points 
 of view, the mild and lovely features of what we 
 see spread around us. I go to the theatre pur- 
 posely as a recreation, and I determine, from the 
 moment I enter the pit-door, or box-lobby, not to 
 suffer any thing to divert me from my object. I 
 remember, with great delight, the feeUngs I used to 
 experience in my childhood, on a visit to the 
 theatre ; it was but seldom that I went, but it was 
 a real treat, and I know scarce any thing that 
 could equal my joy when I found myself fairly 
 seated. The portentous green curtain, on which 
 I was wont to gaze with expecting wonderment, 
 before me, while I waited with impatience for the 
 moment that should reveal the hidden scenes. 
 Then there was the midtitude of company, the 
 
THE THEATRE. 171 
 
 lights of the house, the painting, gildings and 
 other decorations, which, to my youthful eye, 
 seemed gorgeous magnificence. Then, too, when 
 the prompter's bell sent forth its silver accents, 
 and was immediately succeeded by the agitation 
 of the dark curtain, as it folded itself up, as if by 
 its own voluntary motion, disclosing the scene 
 behind, I felt my heart bound within me at the 
 sight of the varied scene, where castles, and rocks, 
 and woods, and cataracts, and trees, spread forth 
 in mimic beauty ; the heroes and kings of gorgeous 
 tragedy went sweeping by — I loved with Romeo 
 — ^smile not, gentle reader, at a lover of twelve 
 summers — I then but thought I loved, and my 
 imagination was ever on the wing ; with Juliet I 
 wept for her sad mischance, and listened with 
 mingled feelings to the " meaning in his madness " 
 of the Denmark Prince. But it was in Lear, 
 that my soul was then most strongly excited. 
 There was pity for his misfortunes — ^hatred for the 
 unnatural daughters to whom he had given his 
 all — wonder and commiseration for the maniac 
 whom the foul fiend torments — and pity, ad- 
 miration, and esteem for her, who exposed her 
 tender limbs and delicate frame to the ^ peltings of 
 the pitiless storm," to shield his head, and give 
 i2 
 
172 THE THEATRE. 
 
 solace to his misery, who had driven her from his 
 home and from his heart. 
 
 Amongst the [advantages and disadvantages of 
 increasing years, may be reckoned as one of the 
 latter, that familiarity with the scenes and 
 pleasures of our youth, which takes away their 
 sweetest bloom. The prompter's bell is no longer 
 dehghtful to me — it is no more the " sweetest 
 achromatic," — 
 
 the rarest and most exquisite, 
 
 Most spherical, divine, angelical. 
 
 The mystery of the green curtain has faded 
 away — the scenes are familiar to me — and the 
 multitude of company (for I cannot bear to 
 stay to look on empty benches), with the lights 
 and music and bustle, fail so powerfully to excite 
 me. But still I am fond of occasionally taking 
 my accustomed seat on the fourth bench of the pit. 
 'Tis to me Hke frequenting Will's coffee-house, 
 the metropolitan academy of Queen Anne's time ; 
 where Pope, and Addison, and Wycherley, and 
 Steele, and their fellow vdts, enjoyed the feast of 
 each other's converse, and laughed at the puny 
 
THE THEATRE. 173 
 
 critics, the Dennises of the day. They are gone ; 
 but at the theatre, and some other favourite haunts 
 of mine — the old Hummums in Co vent Garden is 
 one — I can sometimes meet w^ith a circle of men, 
 whose conversation is not inferior, I imagine, to 
 that of the author of the Dunciad, or the writers of 
 the Spectator. There is my friend, proud am I 
 to call him my friend, Charles Lamb, that sportive 
 child of fancy, quern qui non prorsics amet, ilium 
 omnes et virtutes et veneres odere. With his 
 endless fund of anecdote, derived from his acquaint- 
 ance with the old fellows, his various reading, his 
 skill in using his resources, and his free and open 
 nature; who has ever read his Essays, and not 
 rejoiced in their strong and energetic application . 
 the full, ancient, lovely quaintness of his style; 
 and then turned, with disgust, from the mawkish, 
 vapid, flat, medium insipidity of writers hke me 
 and my brethren ? 
 
 Then there are my friends C. and Scarlett, 
 two excellent fellows, and I know none that I 
 prefer to them, or that have more good qualities. 
 C. is such a man as one would wish to call a 
 friend. Warm-hearted and cool-headed, the im, 
 petuosities of his genius are held in due subjection 
 
174 THE THEATRE. 
 
 by the clearness of his judgment. Though some- 
 what reserved in company_, it is only needful to 
 overcome his backwardness^ to be delighted and 
 surprised by his conversation. To a fund of good 
 sense and correct ideas, called into constant exer- 
 tion by acute and diligent observation,, he adds a 
 facility and aptness of allusion which is astonish- 
 ing; the fruit of a deep acquaintance with, and 
 recollection of the beauties of the best vnriters in 
 every department of literature. Among our early 
 authors in particular (that wide, and, till late, ne- 
 glected field of research and pleasure), he is, in the 
 most literal sense of the phrase, "at home;" fa- 
 miliar with their times, their manners, their acqui- 
 sitions in learning and science, he enters into their 
 feelings with a fellowship and congeniahty of 
 sentiment, unknown to a mere modern man. The 
 result of his studies and acquirements is, that 
 whatever subject he handles, he is always himself ; 
 having always his treasures at command, he can 
 convert them to any use he pleases, and clothes 
 his thoughts in colours, which set off their native 
 beauties to still greater advantage. Over what- 
 ever he writes is spread a bright gleam of intelli- 
 gence, penetrating, with acuteness resembling in- 
 tuition, into the causes of events and phenomena. 
 
THE THEATRE. 175 
 
 and seizing with inconceivable rapidity on the 
 links of a chain of reasoning, which astonishes 
 while it convinces. His writings are the conclu- 
 sions of frequent examination and deep research, 
 and every where show the masterly and delicate 
 hand of a scholar and a gentleman. 
 
 Will Scarlett is a different, not opposite charac- 
 ter: younger than C, and without so great a 
 command over himself, his inclinations not seldom 
 get the upper hand of his discretion. More form- 
 ed for society, he possesses far more general at- 
 traction than his friend. Naturally gay, he brings 
 mirth and cheerfulness with him, and is therefore 
 every where a welcome visitor. But this is mere- 
 ly the outward ornament that covers the nobler 
 stuff within ; for his intellectual powers make him 
 »no less admired among his studious associates, 
 than his handsome person (of which by the way, 
 I imagine. Will is by no means insensible) and 
 conversational talents among the ladies, and his 
 lighter acquaintances. 
 
 I dwell with pecuHar delight upon the recollec- 
 tion of the dinner I had with C. It was the first 
 time I had been quietly seated in conversation 
 
176 THE THEA^rRE. 
 
 with him; and I had for some time previous en- 
 joyed the anticipation of the feast. C.^ Scar- 
 lett, and myself, formed the whole of the company ; 
 and with those two I enjoyed ten times the 
 pleasure which I have ever felt in large and for- 
 mal parties. The room was an old fashioned 
 apartment, with carved oak wainscotting, black- 
 ened with age ; a blazing fire roared up the chim- 
 ney, forming a pleasant contrast to the howhng of 
 the wind without (for it was a dull November 
 night). What real comfortable pleasure it was, 
 after dinner, to sit by the hearth, and while we 
 discoursed, to sip our host's, while the rich rough 
 flavour of the Falemian was seasoned by the ge- 
 nuine attic of C.'s conversation ! It was im- 
 possible not to think of the dissolve frigus of 
 Horace. These are the deUghtful hours, that, hke 
 good wine, charm not only in present enjoyment, 
 but leave a flavour behind them ; hours that we 
 recur to again and again, with unalloyed pleasure. 
 It is m reminiscences hke these that we feel the 
 full force of the poet's words : 
 
 Hoc est 
 
 Vivere bis, vit^ posse priore frui. 
 
THE THEATRE. 177 
 
 Over the chimney-piece hung a portrait of old 
 Izaak Walton * ; and it does one good to contem- 
 plate his coimtenance^ and compare the free^ open- 
 hearted;, hospitable character of the frank old 
 angler, with the precise, cold-blooded generation 
 of every-day beings that swarm aroimd us ; mere 
 motes in the sunshine — -fruges consumere nati, — 
 Let wits talk as they like about a rod, with a fish 
 at one end, and a fool at the other ; the idea that 
 a man like this thought such an amusement not 
 unworthy of devoting his leisure to, ought, at least, 
 to establish a title to respect for all anglers, and 
 for an art itself, which, however men's taste may 
 differ, has been the occasion of a work that every 
 one, to whom the expression of goodness of 
 
 ♦ I am fond of portraits of men who have made them- 
 selves worthy of remembrance. These lines of Rogers', 
 I always read with peculiar pleasure, and they may be 
 well introduced here : — 
 
 Ah I most that art my grateful rapture calls 
 Which breathes a soul into the silent walls ; 
 Which gathers round the wise of every tongue. 
 All, on whose words departed nations hung ; 
 Still prompt to charm with many a converse sweet. 
 Guides in the world, companions in retreat. 
 
 i5 
 
H9 THE THEATRE. 
 
 feeling, and generosity of disposition, and purity 
 and chastity of style, are sources of pleasure, will 
 read with delight and advantage to himself, and 
 feelings of admiration and esteem towards the 
 author. 
 
 But the play hour approaches, and I must give 
 up my ideal visionings, in order to enjoy the re- 
 alities of the scene. I hope to God there will be 
 a full house ; I abominate empty benches ; to sit 
 alone on a whole bench, whose very vacuity in- 
 creases its infernal extent ; the house like a desert ; 
 the musicians scraping away their rosined bows 
 with careless hands, creating harsh discords ; 
 actors staring about them, kicking their heels, and 
 looking with a most sleepy and insolent indiffer- 
 ence on the rari nantes, discernible in the house, 
 with here and there a stray wanderer like myself, 
 lolling at full length, or wandering in discontented 
 H8K)litariness from one side to tlie other ; and in the 
 boxes, the expected bright circle of splendour, to 
 spy occasionally a gloomy face looking abroad, or, 
 perhaps, a group of a dozen, — forming a half, 
 probably, of the whole set, — gathered together in 
 one box, to have something like the appearance 
 of close neighbourhood. I would rather see the 
 
THE THEATRE. 179 
 
 face of a printer's devil, importuning for his 
 damned proof sheet, or unfinished article. — Rap, 
 rap, rap ! — Zounds ! Speak of the devil, and he's 
 at your elbow — 'tis he, by all the gods ! And so, 
 kind and fair readers, and you, readers, who are 
 neither fair nor kind. 
 
 Good Night. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
Bards of passion and of mirth, 
 Ye have left your souls on earth ! 
 Have ye souls in heaven too, 
 Double lived in regions new ? 
 Thus ye live on high, and then 
 On the earth ye live again ; 
 And the souls you left behind you 
 Teach us, here, the way to find you. 
 
 KXAT». 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 The impartiallest Satyre that ever was seen. 
 That speaks truth without fear, or flattery or spleen; 
 Read as you list, commend it, or come mend it. 
 The man that penned it, did with finis end it. 
 
 TATfLOR. 
 
 Perhaps some of the most agreeable moments 
 in the mind of a scholar^ are those spent in the 
 retrospection of early studies, in recalling the 
 hours which first opened upon him the treasures 
 of learning, in tracing back his acquaintance 
 with a book to its first commencement in his 
 youth, and in seeking in associations of thought 
 for the causes of that endeared and superadded 
 
184 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 value^ with which a volume is frequently enhanced 
 from the soft and infused light of other days. 
 For myself, I can only say^ that when seated at 
 home in my library,, and in a contemplative 
 humour, it is in such speculations that I most 
 delight, — it is then , rr t t / - 
 
 A thousand pleasures do me bless, 
 And crown my soul with happiness, 
 
 as I fly back to that period when, uncramped by 
 the restraint of any particular study, and unre- 
 strained by the fetters of academical regimen, 
 the mind was left to traverse the wide domain 
 of literature, and seek amusement in perpetual 
 variety: dipping into the driest and welcoming 
 the most unpromising topics. With what renewed 
 gusto did I range over the contents of a well 
 fed library, from Rabelais to the Fathers, and 
 from Cory ate 's Crudities, to the sums of Aquinas, 
 and the theological works of Boethius! With 
 what keenness of antiquarianism did I turn over 
 the dusty volumes of Hohnshed and Stowe, or 
 linger over the uncouth cuts, and thrilling details 
 of Fox's and Clarke's Martyrology! How I 
 delighted to immerse myself in "all such read- 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 185 
 
 ing as was never read," and neglect the more 
 common and customary paths of every-day 
 study for the huge' folios and quartos, (which 
 the sons of this degenerate age can hardly lift) 
 for the miracles of industry which our forefathers 
 have achieved! How happy was I, when only 
 a boy of fifteen, if I could get into a corner 
 with Hooker's Ecclesiastical Polity, or Sir 
 Walter Raleigh's History, and pounce upon the 
 contents, as a kite pounces upon a sparrow! 
 The writers of the Augustan age I left to the 
 perusal of others, for they were read by every 
 body; solacing myself, instead, with the poetry 
 of Claudian, Ausonius, Sidonius; Apolhnaris, 
 and Prudentius ; and the prose of Aulus Gellius, 
 Macrobius, and Ammianus Marcellinus. To me 
 the productions of declining Rome were more 
 valuable than the glories of her zenith. How 
 refreshing to my view were those bulky and 
 endless tomes of commentaries, which the era 
 of the Scaligers and Casaubons poured forth! 
 The text of a writer, without its due modicum 
 of annotation, was to me as arid and ungrateful 
 as a plain without a tree. The Fathers were my 
 boon companions; through them I ranged from 
 Hermes to Saxon Bede, passing ever and anon 
 
186 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 from the pure Latinity of Sulpitius Severua to 
 the sharp and caustic epistles of St. Isidore, and 
 the hard and embrowned quaintness of Tertullian. 
 How light of heart was I, if at some of those 
 dinners which my father used to give to the 
 reverend sons of the church, I could amaze 
 them, by edgings in some quotation from the 
 Cassandra of Lycophron, or the Dyonisiaca of 
 Nonnus, and procure the appellation of the 
 learned boy ! What delightful visions of young 
 hope then presented themselves; never, alas! to 
 be realized ! 
 
 Quas premit atra dies et funere mersit acerbo. 
 
 One subject which at one time formed the 
 principal part of my study, and for which I still 
 feel a partiality, which only grows stronger 
 by a lapse of time, was the Old English Drama. 
 At that time, the productions of our early drama- 
 tists did not excite as much attention as they do at 
 present; and Mr. Lamb's Specimens had not 
 been the means of introducing them to pubHc 
 notice : I therefore feel some degree of pride in 
 having, as I may truly say, been one of the first 
 to discover the inexhaustible mine of literary 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 187 
 
 riches, which was concealed in their truly exquisite 
 compositions. The first circumstance which 
 drew my attention to this class of writers, I well 
 remember, and if my readers will excuse the 
 egotism which occurs in such frequent reference 
 to myself, I will simply state it. 
 
 Passing one vacation in the country with an 
 old maiden lady, a distant relation, when I was 
 yet very young, among the treasures which her 
 library (none of the most capacious, by-the-bye) 
 afforded, I by chance met with an old copy of 
 Marlowe's Doctor Faustus, a personage whose name 
 had no small attraction to me, from the eager 
 interest with which, in my younger days, I had 
 devoured the adventures of his most extraordinary 
 life and exit. I immediately took possession of it, 
 and carried it with me, for my own private read- 
 ing, into a small room, which was a kind of 
 sanctum sanctorum, and from which I excluded, 
 without mercy, the profane inmates of the house. 
 This Httle room, which I remember with feelings 
 of fondness and affection, is still present to my 
 mind's eye. Well do I recollect its antique 
 casements, and the view it presented into the 
 thickset shrubbery or labyrinth, in which I used 
 
188 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 to construct my fortifications and retreats, when 
 I assumed the part, and no mean part did I think 
 it then, of the Captain of Banditti. The soft 
 green hue of the trees, forming a pleasing con- 
 trast to the neat and unsullied whiteness of the 
 wainscotting, and the kind of fairy prospect 
 which was visible through the boughs of a large 
 oak, which overshadowed this part of the build- 
 ing, I never can forget. Alas ! now that that 
 room and mansion are the property of another, 
 I can almost say to it, 
 
 O Domus antiqua quam dispari dominaris doming ! 
 
 But pardon me for this digression — young as I 
 was, 1 was able to perceive that the Faustus of 
 Marlowe was a little different from the accounts 
 of his exploits, which had formerly attracted my 
 attention. There was a something of undefined 
 and breathless interest attached to it, which 
 seized a firm hold on my mind, and communicated 
 to it a kind of excitement which did not cease 
 with the bare perusal of the work that caused 
 it. The continual appearance of the good and 
 bad angels, to exercise their powers of persuasion 
 on the unhappy Faustus ; his internal and heart- 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 189 
 
 rending struggles, or, as they may be termed, 
 his agony and bloody sweat ; the exaltation which 
 he feels, at the consciousness of his own super- 
 human power, and which but lifts him on high 
 for a while, like the waves of a troubled sea, 
 to sink him to the lowest abyss of misery ; and 
 the last scene of agonized and maddened 
 humanity — ^had so deep an impression upon my 
 feelings, that I have not at this time forgotten their 
 intensity. I have since read the Faust of Goethe ; 
 but whether it be from the influence of temporary 
 associations, or from the real inequality of the 
 work, I must say, that it did not operate upon 
 me in any thing like the same powerful degree ; 
 and I cannot but think the love adventure which 
 is there introduced, has the eifect of dissipating 
 the peculiar, strange and extraordinary interest 
 which the fate of Faustus excites ; it throws more 
 the appearance of earthliness upon the doomed 
 and devoted subject of the Prince of Hell. In 
 Marlowe, the mind is kept more closely to the 
 hero of the drama ; there is a kind of environing 
 circle around him, which seems to cut off all 
 hope of assistance or escape ; the very farcical 
 means themselves have the effect of deepening 
 the horror of the story; the burlesque is like 
 
190 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 the laugh of a maniac resounding in the Golgotha, 
 or place of sculls. His dreadful supremacy is 
 only misery carried to an unnatural pitch, and 
 appears like Luke's iron crown, made to burn the 
 temples on which it reposes. Marlowe has been 
 called no poet; but if there be poetry more 
 surpassingly beautiful than the address of Faustus 
 to Helena, and the noble concluding chorus, 
 which almost puts one in mind of the best of 
 Grecian dramatic writers, I have never had the 
 luck to meet with it*. From the delight which 
 
 ♦ I thoroughly agree with you as to the German Faus- 
 tus, as far I can do justice to it from an English 
 translation. It is a disagreeable canting tale of seduc- 
 tion, which has nothing to do with the spirit of Faustus-— 
 curiosity. — Was the dark secret to be explored, to end 
 in the seducing of a weak girl, which might have been 
 accomplished by earthly agency ? When Marlowe gives 
 his Faustus a mistress, be flies him at Helen, flower of 
 Greece, to be sure ; and not at Miss Betsy or Miss Sally 
 Thoughtless. 
 
 Cut is the branch that bore the goodly fruit, 
 And withered is Apollo's laurel tree ; 
 Faustus is dead! 
 
 What a noble, natural transition from metaphor to plain 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. f§i 
 
 I received from this old drama, I was naturally 
 led to seek for others of the same kind. I 
 got possession of Dodsley's Collection of Plays, 
 and went through them with most laudable dili- 
 gence. The most tedious and tiresome of them 
 all did not serve to dispirit my resolution ; and 
 at the age that I tlien was, I cannot help giving 
 myself some credit for such an exertion. After 
 all this, it is perhaps needless to say that what 
 formed the amusement of my boyhood, has con- 
 tinued till the present hour a source of uninter- 
 mitted pleasure. 
 
 My readers will perhaps excuse these egotisti- 
 cal details, and impute them to the chartered 
 garruHty of old age. To be able to forget the 
 present in the past, is a principle which nothing 
 earthly can outweigh ; and those trains of feehng 
 which call forth delight in one, may strike a 
 sympathetic chord in the heart of another, and 
 recal distant prospects, which look, from afar, like 
 
 speaking, as if the figurative had flagged in description 
 of such a loss, and was reduced to tell the fact simply! 
 
 Annot. V. C. 
 
192 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 the sun-gilt pinnacles and steeples of some magni- 
 ficent city. Happy shall I be, if any thing which 
 I have here written, may serve to lead to retro- 
 spects, which will always certainly be productive 
 of pleasure, and, as such, cannot but be con- 
 ductive to good. 
 
II. 
 
 VoT him was lever ban* at his beddes bed. 
 Twenty books cloth'd in biake or red, 
 Of Aristotle and his philosophic ! 
 Than robes riche, or fidel, or sautrie. 
 
 I CERTAINLY SO far resemble Chaucer's lene 
 clerk, that a well filled library is one of mj 
 highest treats. I seem to increase in my own 
 estimation, at being admitted to the company of 
 the wise, the learned, and the witty, of all times 
 and all countries, to listen (though but mentally) 
 to their instructions, to be the confidant of their 
 thoughts, the associate of their inquiries; and, 
 when thoughts like these press upon me, I am 
 
 K 
 
194 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 lifted up into another and superior sphere. Under 
 the influence of this pleasing Utopian dream^ I gaze 
 on the venerable works of antiquity around me_, 
 with a pleasing awe, while fancy would almost 
 persuade me, that, from their embrowned cover- 
 ing, I see, looking out upon the intruder who 
 disturbs their sacred rest, the countenances of 
 the sages whose wisdom lies snugly between two 
 sheepskin-covered pasteboards, a prey to moths, 
 and obscured by cobwebs, save when some 
 literary wanderer, like myself, draws a volume 
 from the shelf, where it might otherwise have 
 slumbered for ever. 
 
 I am sometimes inclined to regret the times 
 when customs and principles, now old and un- 
 fashionable, were the current coin of the day; 
 when the gallant knights and lovely ladies of 
 romance were substantial personages, who might 
 be seen without its being considered that a won- 
 der was abroad, or that the marble sepulchre had 
 yielded up its dead ; those times when, if people 
 had not perhaps all the wisdom, or, to speak 
 more properly, the knowledge, of the present 
 erudite generation, the deficiency was counter- 
 balanced by more substantial and comfortable 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 195 
 
 havings. Then the populace were a merry, unlearn- 
 ed, shrewd body, who attended to their business 
 on common days, and rejoiced and played at 
 their accustomed sports on Sundays and holidays. 
 Then each class knew its own station, and 
 hastened not to tread on the heels of the next 
 in rank. Then a yeoman was a yeoman, a gentle- 
 man a gentleman, and a nobleman a nobleman ; 
 instead of the universal intermingling of ranks — 
 the hotch-pot of precedency, which prevails in 
 these enlightened days. 
 
 After all, I should not a whit wonder if our 
 ancestors have been much more favourably pour- 
 trayed than is their due. Notwithstanding my 
 reverence for antiquity, I can imagine a mob of 
 Elizabeth's times, rioting in the streets of Lon- 
 don after dark, knocking out the windows of the 
 houses, as the lights of their heads became 
 darkened with Hquor, when some event had 
 taken place which did not suit their humours; 
 and I can fancy with tolerable spirit the ap- 
 pearance of the thieves, bullies, pickpockets, 
 and rascals of all kinds and sorts, which were 
 wont to parade up and down Paul's walk, or toss 
 the dice, or handle the dagger, as occasion 
 k2 
 
196 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 offered, in Whitefriars. Alas! for the glorious 
 days of good Queen Bess ! 
 
 There are three things in this world which^ 
 like a certain king_, I do more particularly relish 
 — old books to read — old wine to drink — and 
 old friends to converse with. Indeed, the first 
 and the last are in one view the same, for I 
 attach an individual interest to each volume from 
 which I have collected information or amuse- 
 ment ; but I would here speak of them separately. 
 I have, then, in that whitewashed recess, with 
 the black oak groins supporting its roof, sat 
 with friends whom I loved — some of whom I 
 lived to mourn for ; yet it is still the same. There 
 are the stained panes, meant to represent saints 
 and martyrs ; there still the old chesnut waves its 
 branches, — and their solitary rustlings bring back, 
 with more vivid intenseness, those happy days 
 and happy hours, the memory of which, when 
 the realities are things but of memory, comes 
 back upon our hearts with softened, reflected 
 lustre. The old black tables and shining chairs, 
 are the furniture of two centuries since; the 
 inanimate materials are the same, but the soul 
 of friendship and mirth, which gave light to the 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 197 
 
 '"moments, and wings to the hours, is fled, and 
 I look upon the place, and feel I am alone. Yet 
 there is pleasure in these retrospections, though 
 mournful ; there is joy in tears ; and here it is 
 that I resort, when the cares of the world press 
 heavy upon me, and feel myself lightened of half the 
 load, by the sympathy, the association of the spot 
 where 
 
 Peaceful Memory loves to dwells 
 With her sister, Solitude ! 
 
 What have we here ? Ah ! my old companion 
 and once daily intimate and adviser. Sir Thomas 
 Browne. Shame on me, that 1 have suiSered thee 
 to lie here untouched and unopened. Let me 
 see — seven — eight — 'tis nine months this most 
 excellent volume has lain here, ever since the 
 day I read it with L. ; what a crowd of recollec- 
 tions rush upon me ! 
 
 It was the latter end of August when L. 
 visited me ; he had been on his annual journey to 
 see his sister, and he had passed a week in her 
 cottage, for he was one of the kindest and most 
 affectionate sons or brothers; and when he had 
 
198 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 paid the tribute of affection to his kindred, his 
 friends were next in his thoughts. Towards 
 evening, we rambled into the library, and taking 
 up our old friend Sir Thomas, we sat down in 
 the recess. The sun was setting, and his rich 
 mellow beams fell upon the floor and table, tinged 
 with the hues of the painted window, and dancing 
 about as the branches of the old chesnut tree 
 waved to and fro, intercepting part of the light, 
 and throwing about grotesque shadows. We had 
 a bottle of ancient Port before us ; it was some- 
 thing more than quadrimum merum. We had 
 sat thus twenty times before, and the remembrance 
 of those past times, gilded the present with a 
 lovelier tinge of sociality. Then was the digni- 
 fied, beautiful, and heart-touching sentiments, 
 and language of the most philanthropic of physi- 
 cians, whose works lay before us. If any of my 
 readers have not read them, they have a feast 
 in store. If beauty of style, and goodness of 
 feeling are interesting to them, they will be de- 
 lighted with the works (strange and paradoxical 
 as some of the positions contained in them 
 may appear) of this practical lover of toleration, 
 who sympathized with men of all countries and 
 all sects y " neither believing this, because Luther 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 199 
 
 has affirmed it^ nor denying that, because Calvin 
 hath disavouched it ;" to whom, with more pro- 
 priety than any writer I can name, applies the 
 so often quoted "nihil humanum a me alienum 
 puto." Not that he blazes out his love of man 
 kind at every page, — not that he makes a boast 
 and a by-word of his humanity ; nowhere are 
 we told, in express words, that the author is 
 better or wiser than the rest of his species ; but 
 we are told, by the spirit of humanity which 
 breathes through his pages, by the lovely and 
 beautiful touches of natural feeling which burst 
 from him, by the whole strain and tenor of his 
 writings, that he was one who looked upon him- 
 self as a citizen of the world, and upon man- 
 kind as his brethren ; who sympathized deeply 
 in the joys and distresses of his fellows ; whose 
 religion, though often mixed with singularity, 
 was pure and humble ; and whose views towards 
 his feUow creatures were founded upon that great 
 rule of moral conduct, " Do unto another as thou 
 would'st he should do unto thee." But it is 
 time to bid farewell to the author of the Religio 
 Medici, and pass on to other subjects. Suppose 
 we take a stroll through the library. See — ^here — 
 this is the Theological division, which my good 
 
200 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 ancestors thought proper to heap up, not for the 
 benefit of me, for the volumes are never opened 
 by their unworthy descendant. I care, indeed, 
 very little about the discordant opinions of 
 theologians, nor do I ever take from the shelf 
 the Tela Ignea Sathanae, or Montague's Treatise on 
 the Invocation of Saints. We shall therefore direct 
 our attention to something more interesting. 
 
 Do you see that little black cupboard^ with a 
 crown on the top? that is filled with works of 
 royal origin. 
 
 These are the writings of James the first of 
 Scotland, the poet and the lover who spent '' the 
 long days and the nightes eke" in writing verses 
 to celebrate his ladye love; and of James the 
 first of England, the persecutor of papistry and 
 tobacco, the monarch who was a pedant when 
 he should have been a king, and a squabbling 
 polemic, when he should have been a warrior 
 and a statesman. These two are the writings 
 of his less fortunate but superior son, Charles. 
 They breathe a spirit of loftiness which becomes 
 the subject, and the author. I shall not now 
 detain my readers with any remarks on the vo- 
 
' RECOLLECTIONS. 201 
 
 lume bearing Charles's name ; whether it belong 
 to him or Gauden^, is not at present to our 
 purpose. 
 
 Here are my friends, the old dramatists — here 
 are the works of those who formerly gave de- 
 light to the crowded audiences of a tavern room^ 
 or temporary shed. There's rare James Shirley ; 
 Nat Lee; the awful and solemn Webster; the 
 witty, comical, facetiously quick, and unparalleled 
 John Lily; the spirited, but irregular Chapman; 
 the satirical Marston, Dekker, Greene, Middle ton. 
 Bishop Bale, with his seven-in-one mysteries ; 
 and sporting Kyd, and Tourneur, of whom, by 
 the way, nobody seems to know any thing. But 
 stay, I shall say nothing new of them, and had 
 therefore better hold my peace. There are plenty 
 of modern eruditi, who 
 
 talk of Jonson's art, 
 
 Of Shakspeare's nature, and of Cowley's wit ; 
 
 How Beaumont's judgment check'd what Fletcher writ. 
 
 The poets have ever found a welcome place 
 among my volumes ; not that I choose to incum- 
 ber myself with the dull, cold verses of Garth^ 
 K 5 
 
202 RECOLLECTIONS. ^ 
 
 Broom^ BlackmorC;, and the 6l ttoXXoi, who com- 
 pose the poetical list from the Restoration to the 
 close of the last century. I dive into those old 
 and neglected fields, from which sweets may be 
 gathered, far different from the languid insipidity 
 of such writers as I have mentioned. Of Chaucer 
 it is not necessary to speak ; but there are many, 
 almost unknown, in whom the richness of poesy 
 appears. The beautiful and touching simplicity 
 of the elder Wyatt ; the majestic pinion of Cham- 
 berlayne's muse; the far-fetched, but glowing 
 and animated conceits, mingled with innumerable 
 beauties of a higher order, of his contemporary 
 Crashaw; and the graceful fluency of Herrick, 
 have charms of no small power for the lovers of 
 ** heaven bom poesy." But the number of poets 
 who may be called excellent, are, of course, few, 
 and many are around me which do not merit the 
 appellation. Sir Thomas Davies, though elegant, 
 and frequently highly poetical, does not belong 
 to the first class. Du Bartas's "divine" works, 
 as somebody calls them, are pompous and heavy ; 
 and wearisome indeed is the lengthy doggrel of 
 Warner's Albion's England. 
 
 I had much to say on many other poets, and 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 203 
 
 some of our earlier prose writers ; but as evening 
 is lending a deeper gloom to the heavy dark 
 wainscotting of the library^ I must leave this 
 collection of 
 
 -^ books of all sorts. 
 
 Folios, Quartos, large and small sorts, 
 
 till a future period. And yonder is C. coming to 
 partake of my frugal meal^, and to ramble in 
 imagination with me over the scenes of our youth. 
 It is a treat I would not miss for the v^orld — 
 
 DULCE EST DESIPERE IN LOCO. 
 
III. 
 
 He loves books : 
 Not that he has a scruple more of learning 
 Than will suffice him to say grace, but, like 
 Some piteous cowards, who are oft thought valiant 
 For keeping store of weapons in their chambers. 
 He loves to be esteemed a Doctor by 
 His volumes. 
 
 WIT IN A CONSTABLE 
 
 I HAVE just closed and placed upon the shelf, 
 a book^ the perusal of which has been a con- 
 siderable fund of entertainment to me. The 
 Epistolae Obscurorum Virorum, the production 
 of Hutten, either solely, or with the assistance 
 of Rubianus and others, is a poignant satire, 
 the lash of which was directed against the ignorance 
 ifind folly of the monkish theologians ; had it sue- 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 205 
 
 ceeded in exposing those against whom it was 
 levelled; Leo X. issued a bull for its condem- 
 nation. 
 
 This work was published at the time when, 
 owing to various causes, that suspicion of the 
 proceedings of the Holy See, and of its members, 
 were spreading abroad, which was immediately 
 followed by the Reformation. Monasteries and 
 their secluded inhabitants, were no longer sacred 
 from ridicule, contempt, or hatred; the triple 
 crown shook, and infallibdity became a jest. It 
 is not to be wondered at that the pubhcation of a 
 work like the present, shoidd raise a considerable 
 ferment, and excite, against the author, all that 
 malignity which attends those who pull down the 
 screens, and expose the secrets of imposture and 
 falsehood. 
 
 Here are more epistles : Epistolae Hoeliante, 
 another interesting and entertaining work. Howell 
 was the ornament of James's time, and his letters 
 abound in that famihar chit-chat, which is the . 
 soul of epistolary correspondence. A great 
 traveller, he imports the news of foreign climes, 
 and hashes up his account of strange countries 
 and manners with lively anecdotes, and apt and 
 
206 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 entertaining remarks^, in a way that engages our 
 attention without fatigue, or the least shadow of 
 weariness. 
 
 I love collections of the letters of eminent cha- 
 racters. The light which they throw on their 
 thoughts, manners and habits, is delightful ; pen- 
 cilling out, as it were, those minute, and more 
 delicate marks which are overlooked in the 
 sketches of history, and seldom, if ever, accurately 
 pourtrayed by biographers, even when individuals 
 have themselves been their own recorders. Then 
 there is the intimacy you seem to have with a 
 man whose letters are open to you ; his peculiar 
 modes of expression, and his light discursive wit^ 
 unchecked by fears of criticism, give a sort of 
 actual presence to the writer. I wish I could 
 have seen the letters of my most favourite episto- 
 lary writers in their own hand-writing. What- 
 ever is the work of a great man, receives a mag- 
 nitude proportioned to his fame, or our own fond- 
 ness for him. This latter motive, the delight 
 which we have taken in any particular writer, 
 would weigh most strongly with me in wishing to 
 peruse the manuscript of his letters. I should 
 not care very much to see the hand-writing of Co- 
 pernicus, or Marlborough, or of Charles V. of 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 207 
 
 Spain, or XII. of Sweden, or Peter the Great 
 Barbarian, or any other of those people who have 
 made wonderful discoveries, or achieved great 
 exploits ; but for whom I care not, that is, I have 
 no personal interest in them. I may appreciate 
 and admire the greatness of their talents, and 
 value their works or actions ; but I care little about 
 their private characters or pursuits, further than 
 is explanatory of their operations. But I would 
 give any thing to see a letter, a friendly familiar 
 letter, of Sir Thomas Browne, or old Izaak 
 Walton. The writing of the first might be a 
 neat close reflective hand, sometliing like Lamb's, 
 with the m'a and n's close atop, with an occasional 
 sharp-turned y tail, or a strange preternatural cross 
 of a ty and his I's, not to be distinguished from his 
 e'a; but I am writing an essay on hand-writings, 
 when I should be talking of other things. 
 
 Had Erasmus possessed no wit, no liveliness, his 
 letters would be interesting to us, from the notices 
 they contain of the occupations and customs of 
 our forefathers. But he is one of the most enter- 
 taining correspondents you can imagine. His 
 fund of amusement is inexhaustible. If he de- 
 scribes a curious foreign usage, you see it per- 
 
208 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 formed before you; you are acquainted with it in 
 a moment ; you perceive that you have been in the 
 habit of seeing it since you was born. Does he 
 give you a character? The person described is 
 your intimate acquamtance ; the Hkeness is pal- 
 pable; you can shake hands with him. Such 
 are the epistles of Erasmus. They are in folio : 
 such of my readers^ as a folio does not fright^ will 
 find pleasure in perusing them. 
 
 I have got a large collection of ^' Epistoloi^'' 
 here ; but let us pass by them. Here are a mul- 
 titude of fictions^ some of the productions of the 
 Eastern Romance. I must stop a little with these^ 
 my Mahommedan friends. 
 
 The first work which I remember reading was 
 Robinson Crusoe. What a vast number of 
 editions; what a circulation has this most enter- 
 taining work had ! What is the fame of Byron^ or 
 Scott, or Rogers, or Lamb, compared to Daniel 
 Defoe's ! Great as the multitude of their readers 
 have been, how far do they fall short of the count- 
 less perusers of the shipw recked mariner of York ! 
 Lives there a boy of twelve, a milliner's or man- 
 tua maker's apprentice, old or young, gentle or 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 209 
 
 simple^ who has not sympathized in his distresses, 
 assisted him in his architecture, and with him 
 prowled forth clad in skins, conquered savages, 
 and built boats ? The reading of Robinson is one 
 of those events which forms an era in a man's hte- 
 rary life. He dates from it, as the Romans did, 
 ^ ab urhe conditd.^ It is the time when he ac- 
 quired a mass of new ideas, a second hfe. Another 
 era is reading the treasures of Asiatic fiction. 
 Here they are, Persian, Turkish, Chinese ; and here 
 is the one generally first and oftenest read, the 
 Arabian Nights, which is in style and manner 
 purely Persian, and probably originally the work 
 of a Persian. Be they what or whence they may, 
 how vast has been the difiiision of these legends 
 of genii, and spells, and caliphs, and camel- 
 drivers ! The power they have acquired over the 
 mind of readers is obvious, not merely from the 
 multiplication of copies, but from the imitations 
 which have from time to time been sent forth. 
 An unread work is never imitated. Why are 
 not the treasures of Asiatic literature more fre- 
 quently translated, and more of their beauties 
 widely disseminated? or why are some of those 
 which have been so brought forth, so little known ? 
 Does one person out of a thousand know that 
 
210 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 there is a dramatic work^ beautiful for its sim- 
 plicity and elegance, Sacontala, which has been 
 translated from the language of one of the most 
 ancient nations, by Sir William Jones, whose 
 name, as a gentleman, a scholar, and a lawyer, is, 
 or ought to be, equally a passport to whatever he 
 considered worthy of notice ? It is to be hoped 
 that this literature, neglected as it is, except by 
 those who are in its very birth-place, will become 
 more general, and an object of greater research ; 
 and the names of Ferdusi, Haiiz, and Sadi, be 
 spoken of as authors, whose merits are known 
 and acknowledged. 
 
 I know not how I have been led into this di- 
 gression ; my purpose here is with those eastern 
 relics, which are estimated. I read the Arabian 
 Nights in my twelfth year. What a world was 
 opened to me ! the bright and fairy land of en- 
 chantment, of splendour, of romance, lay before 
 me! with what zeal did I devour the narrations 
 themselves, possessing the magic power of which 
 they speak, which tell of the astonishment of the 
 boy Aladdin, at first witnessing the power of 
 his wonderful lamp 5 of the miserable fisherman, 
 who had inadvertently placed himself in the 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 211 
 
 power of a mighty and malignant being, and the 
 ingenious trick by which he delivered himself, and 
 turned the tables upon the humbled genius ! Long, 
 very long, the tale of the Thousand and One Nights 
 haunted my imagination, and started up in my 
 dreams ; and now when the light hues of youth 
 and wonderment have faded away, and age has 
 shewn the emptmess and vanity of much that 
 caught my early eye, I recur to these volumes, 
 as a traveller who, after many wanderings, seeks 
 his native home, and recognises in every tree, 
 and rivulet, and mossy stone, the friends and con- 
 temporaries of his infancy. 
 
 Here are more romances; but they are the 
 romances of our own, or neighbouring countries. 
 Here is that treasure of chivalry, that memorial 
 of knights of great worship, of fair ladies, of 
 furious joustings, of smitings on the brain-pan, 
 and throwings over horses' cruppers, which has 
 so long preserved its existence and popularity — 
 Le Morte d' Arthur. But there are others which, 
 though they find a place on my shelves, I have 
 never been able, nor indeed inclined, to wade 
 through; Pharamond, or the famous History of 
 France ; Clelia ; the famous History of Parismes 
 
212 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 and Parismendus ; the Arigales and Parthenia of 
 Quarles ; Purchas's Pilgrimage ; the Hermetic 
 Wedding, and many more^ whose names are 
 probably nnknown to my readers. I marvel if 
 the ladies of the olden time were as great devour- 
 ers of the romances of chivalry,, as the modern 
 are of the novels and the romances of horrors. 
 Compare a damsel of Queen Elizabeth's times, 
 clad in all the outrageous stiffness of the day, 
 sitting on a chair of a hundred weight, as firm 
 and immoveable as it, save when she gracefully 
 cooled herself with her fan of ostrich feathers, 
 reading Sir Philip Sidney's Arcadia; with a fine 
 lady of George the Fourth's day, languishing and 
 miser ahlising, (to take the privilege of coining 
 a word,) over some tender tale of sympathy or 
 sentiment, (which is the correct phrase?) the 
 production, perhaps, of a milliner's apprentice, or, 
 at most, a gentleman in private lodgings, i. e. the 
 top garret. 
 
 From romances in prose, to romances in verse, 
 
 . is an easy transition. But stay, here is one more 
 
 proser whom I would mention. The Voyage of 
 
 the Wandering Knight, is a most entertaining 
 
 work, written in the style of continued allegory. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 213 
 
 in which so many of the old writers indulged, 
 and admirably sustained throughout. It is dedi- 
 cated to Drake. And now for our versemen : — 
 
 Of these, the most beautiful is the Pharronida 
 of Chamberlayne, the wild wandering story of 
 which, abounding, as all of that time do, in strange 
 adventures, mistakes and double entendres, 
 battles, sieges, and what not, is clothed in stately 
 but sweet and beautiful verse ; it abounds with 
 admirable passages, and possesses more unity of 
 design than most of the similar poems of the 
 time. But the greater number of these works, 
 including some of the best, are to be found 
 among the productions of the continental writers. 
 We, in this country, have never had the fortune 
 to be attacked by Moors or Saracens, and there 
 fore have wanted the opportunities of recording 
 achievements of our warriors, in delivering the 
 land from sable invaders ; in which deficiency, we 
 are inferior to the poetasters of Spain and Italy. 
 Ariosto, Boiardo, Pulci, Zinabi, had opportunities 
 of tliis kind, which we want. We have one 
 name, however, which may be set against all 
 these — a name which it is now the fashion to 
 
^14 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 speak of and to praise, without knowing much 
 of the works of its possessor — Spenser. 
 
 I have been writing here an hour or two^ 
 meditating on the productions of men; may I 
 turn from them, to indulge for a few moments in 
 other thoughts? Around me are the works of 
 mortals like myself, greater probably in station 
 than I am — far superior in talents, power, and 
 fame. Yet, what has their repute done for them, 
 more than my obscurity for me ? They have faded, 
 as I shall fade ; their memory is slowly perishing, 
 as mine also shall more quickly perish. A few 
 worm-eaten leaves are perhaps all that remain to 
 tell of the former lustre of a forgotten name. So 
 is it with all things. I look from this window ; 
 it is a little gothic-shaped aperture, with panes 
 an inch square : I look around, every thing seems 
 fresh and blooming ; yet, examine them closer ; 
 there are fruits falling, some leaves are withered, 
 some are fallen, and blowing about at the impulse 
 of every breeze. The evening too is coming on, 
 and the gloom is sinking; there is a spirit of 
 melancholy, of peace, of holiness, around, which 
 hallows every scene, and gives enchantment to 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 215 
 
 every spot : the wild associations of youths or the 
 graver recollections of manhood^ spring up in 
 every place. See that little arbour^ with the 
 tender jasmines twining round it^ and a small 
 stream running bubbling by it^ glittering in its 
 purity. Thirty years since^ I planted the trees 
 which form it ; and there, in my later days, I love 
 to sit and read my favourite authors. 
 
 It grows darker — I can see no longer in the 
 venerable gloom which encompasses me here I 
 will go and sit in the little arbour, and read old 
 Izaak. Farewell. 
 
IV. 
 
 The Bacred taper's light is gone, 
 Orey moss has clad the altar stone. 
 The holy image is o'erthrown, 
 
 Tlie bell has ceased to toll. 
 
 The long-ribbed aisles are burst and shrunk ; 
 The holy shrine to ruin sunk, 
 Departed is the pious monk, 
 
 God's blessing on his soul ! 
 
 I AM sometimes almost inchned to regret the dis- 
 solution of the monasteries. This is, however, but 
 the mere outstraying of imagination, which 
 judgment admits not the thought of. The re-es- 
 tablishment of papacy, the return of superstition, 
 and of the long exploded infallibility and supreme 
 power of the Vatican, is what no one could with 
 patience contemplate. 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 217 
 
 Yet there are moments when sterner reason is 
 subjugated to wild fancy, when the paths of pro- 
 bability are deserted, to ramble on and often to 
 overstep the verge of possibility ; when we seek 
 no foundation for our speculations but our own 
 chance ideas^ and on so slight a bottom fear not to 
 raise our vast and airy edifices. So it is with me. 
 I am an inveterate castle builder ; and splendid 
 and beautiful,, in my own estimation, at least, are 
 the faery scenes which rise to my imagination. 
 
 Of these one of my most favourite is the min- 
 gled picture of beauty, and holiness, and grandeur, 
 the adoration of a body of creatures, shut from 
 the world, uncontaminated with the evil of sensual 
 and earthly thoughts, in a state of happy peace, 
 neither injuring nor injured ; 
 
 No eye to watch y and no tongue to vsound them ; 
 All earth forgot, and all heaven around them ! 
 
 their views concentrated on one object, towards 
 which, their meditations, their feelings, and their 
 passions, were directed. The present entered not 
 into their calculations ; it was to another state, a 
 
 L 
 
218 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 state of enjoyment, which was to compensate for 
 their mortifications, to which they looked forward. 
 
 Such is the most favourable light in which to 
 regard the subject ; but, unfortunately, it is not 
 borne out, or rather it is contradicted, by history. 
 We find that rancorous and malignant passions 
 existed within the embrowned walls of the monas- 
 tery, as in the precincts of courts, and the luxury 
 of cities. Luxury indeed, if credit is to be given 
 to the accounts of their contemporaries, was not 
 interdicted to the inhabitants of the cloister. 
 Probably, however, about the same degree of credit 
 is to be given to the virulent abuse, as to the un- 
 qualified praise of this or any other class of indi- 
 viduals. It is not, however, my intention to enter 
 into any disquisition on this point. I was led to 
 it, by accidentally taking up two entertaining 
 works, directed to the abuse of the monastic pro- 
 fession, the Epistolge Obscurorum Virorum, which 
 I have before mentioned, and a small volume, 
 Joannis Physiophyli Specimen Monachologise, 
 in which the facete author professes to class the 
 several species of genus ^ Monachus,' or Monk, 
 according to the Linnaean arrangement. Both of 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 219 
 
 these works are in the Latin tongue^ and in both 
 the principal merit consists in the closeness of 
 the parody; in the first, of the barbarous Latinity 
 of the men whom it was intended to ridicule ; 
 and, in the second, of the scientific phraseology 
 made use of by the classifiers of natural history. 
 The ' Epistolae' of Hutten, is one of the most 
 pleasing and entertaining burlesques I know — the 
 * Specimen Monachologiae,^ though inferior to the 
 first, contains a fund of amusement, not altogether 
 unmixed with information. Both of them concur 
 in vilifying the manners, knowledge, acquirements, 
 and characters of the monks, in a degree surely 
 unwarranted by fact. But the scandal is de- 
 livered so pleasantly, that we overlook the ill- 
 nature in the delight we experience in the wit 
 and adroitness of the writers. 
 
 But whatsoever may have been the general 
 character of the monastic class, it is not to be 
 denied that many individuals among them have 
 been exemplary in their conduct and doctrines. 
 This was naturally to be expected. From so 
 large a body, it would have been strange if none 
 had possessed minds and principles above the 
 rest, approximating in some degree to my ideal 
 L 2 
 
S3& RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 representation of the character. The examples 
 were probably but few, yet they might be more 
 numerous than we are aware of. They would 
 seek a more retired situation and deeper solitude, 
 for the indulgence of their contemplations, where 
 they might be separated equally from the open 
 vices of the world, and the concealed, and there- 
 fore more odious ones of the monks. This se- 
 clusion from the affairs and communion of the 
 world might have produced a splenetic mis- 
 anthropy, an affected hatred and contempt of 
 those, from whose pleasures, employments, and 
 society they had separated themselves, had their 
 motives been less pure, or their determination 
 more wavering. Still a seclusion so entire, de- 
 manded something to preserve it from disgust 
 and insipidity. Those whom no extraordinary 
 piety influenced, would seek for some other em- 
 ployments to beguile away the time. This would 
 be the more remarkable in men of strong and 
 active minds, whose thoughts would not be suffi- 
 ciently occupied by the monotonous services of 
 their profession. They would turn to other pur- 
 suits. If these were laudable, it was well for 
 themselves and mankind ; and if not, hypocrisy 
 must be resorted to, to cover what they durst 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 221 
 
 not openly avow. The latter would perhaps be 
 the most numerous. But enough of them ; it is 
 unpleasant to dwell upon instances of human 
 frailty and dissimulation. 
 
 Of the works of those whom better motives in- 
 fluenced, it is perhaps hazardous to speak. Much 
 difference of opinion has subsisted, regarding the 
 service wHch this class has done to the cause of 
 letters ; some denying them any merit, and others 
 ascribing to them the revival, or at least the prepa- 
 ration for the revival of science and learning. As 
 usual, the middle way seems best ; if they pre- 
 served some manuscripts, the monuments of 
 ancient wit and philosophy, we know that the 
 study of the classics was prohibited in religious 
 houses ; we know also that Boccaccio wept to find 
 the library of a monastery transferred to a barn, 
 where the books were perishing with damp, while 
 those that escaped, were seized on and erased by 
 the rapacious owners, that the materials might 
 serve to write psalters and legends on. Let us 
 leave this vexata questio. 
 
 I have before hinted at the contemplative 
 spirit, which in some minds was likely to be en- 
 L 3 
 
4S2 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 gendered by monastic discipline, where the tone 
 of natural feeling was such as easily to receive 
 impressions of an abstracted nature. The fruit of 
 this was — ^mysticism — a state of mind which was 
 aspired after by some in the remote ages. The 
 eclectic sect of Platonists sought after a deifi- 
 cation of the human mind, and probably con- 
 tinued in some degree till the second century, 
 when Ammonius Sacca adopted its doctrines^ and 
 was succeeded by the Christian mystics, St. 
 Clement of Alexandria and Dionysius the Areo- 
 pagite. In the middle ages mysticism flourished 
 among the theological schoolmen, and in modern 
 times, several of the Saints of the Roman Calendar 
 have written on the subject. This state, which is 
 described by the initiated as conferring unimagin- 
 able pleasure, consisted of several stages, during 
 which the soul progresses to an absolute and 
 perfect absti'action from worldly thoughts, and 
 seeks after, and at length attains, an immediate 
 communion with the Deity. However fanciful these 
 opinions may appear to us, it is by no means impro- 
 bable that the continued abstinence and excitement 
 of feeling in which the devotees lived, might produce 
 effects, which to them might seem that intimate 
 connexion with Supreme Power, that exaltation 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. J»3 
 
 above the worlds which they so eagerly sought 
 after. 
 
 It may be thought that a life of undying mo- 
 notony^ of everlasting sameness, would be insuffer^ 
 able. But use reconciles to every thing, and 
 to me, who think with the feeUngs of age, the still, 
 uninterrupted ease and pious serenity of the 
 cloister, seem like the lovely gloom and deepening 
 shade of evening, which, though it wants the 
 brightness, is free from the fervent and scorching 
 heats of noon. To those, too, to whom the denial 
 and seclusion of monastic life were not a cloak 
 of hypocrisy, whose choice had not been made 
 merely from a disgust to a world, which their 
 vices and passions had rendered hateful to them, 
 to those whom true piety, and the influence of 
 holy musings, had led to a deliberate and steady 
 adoption of such a life, the monotonous existence 
 which is complained of, would not be without its 
 charms. The moments which were unoccupied 
 by religious services, could be dedicated to intel- 
 lectual improvement, to useful and strengthening 
 meditation. 
 
 Secluded from the pleasures of the world, they 
 
224 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 were without many of its calamities. When 
 once separated from society — once cut oiF from 
 the bulk of mankind — when the pain of that 
 one parting was over^ they had nothing more to 
 dread — they had taken up their abode for life; 
 whatever storms might agitate the wayward pas- 
 sions or feelings of others^ they had no connexion 
 with them — they were secure in their loneliness. 
 True, they saw the companions of their soHtude 
 fall around them — one by one they followed them 
 to their common bed_, and strewed upon the 
 lifeless clay, the fresh plucked flowers — the em- 
 blems of mortality. But this was all — they had 
 no other partings. 
 
 To me this would have been the greatest, the 
 most valuable of their immunities. 1 have a 
 vivid sensitiveness to the associations of time and 
 place. I do not care to have any of these ties, 
 feeble and gossamer-like as they may seem, 
 rudely snapped asunder ; I cannot leave a place 
 where I have passed even a few days, without 
 regret, sometimes not without sorrow. To those 
 spots where I have made a longer residence, I 
 am more strongly bound. And yet I have fre- 
 quently parted from scenes endeared by a thousand 
 
RECOLLECTIONS. 225 
 
 sweet and soothing remembrances. I have passed 
 my childhood, boyhood, manhood, and old age, 
 amid different scenes, and in widely varied situa- 
 tions; yet I cannot revisit any of them without 
 finding something which has a hold upon my best 
 affections, something which awakens a flood of 
 grief, whose luxury joy could never equal. But 
 this is the softened down feeling — the reflected 
 emotion robbed of its poignancy — the grateful 
 shadow of what I felt at the time of separation — 
 the moment of parting — that moment when every 
 dear and cherished feeling, connected with the 
 scenes we leave, rises up more vividly to our 
 hearts — when, even if we part with no friends, 
 nor kindred, none whom sociable and constant 
 interchange of good wishes and friendly services, 
 have made, as it were, part of our very being, 
 necessary to our existence ; yet the very inanimate 
 objects to which we have been accustomed — a 
 book, a drawing, an instrument, seem to claim 
 the rights of old acquaintances, to expostulate 
 with us, to upbraid us for our departure — it is 
 then, that in all the fulness and bitterness of 
 feehng we know the pain of parting, the rending 
 of the heart, which accompanies a separation from 
 
^26 RECOLLECTIONS. 
 
 the things which have grown around us, and 
 twined round our very souls. 
 
 Much of our happiness here depends upon 
 possibilities ! Such is the pleasure which we 
 derive from friends, kindred, and relationship. 
 How great is the possibility that we may part 
 from them — that we may be left solitary and lonely 
 sojourners — desolate in the' midst of crowds — 
 wretched, while joy is every where sparkling round 
 us. There is one possibility upon which I rest 
 with pleasant and grateful expectation: it is, 
 that when the writer of these trifles shall have 
 withered away, and become as a thing that was, 
 some one who may casually peruse them may be 
 led by the brief mention he may find of those 
 whose talent and writings have adorned his 
 country, to look farther into them ; to explore 
 their beauties, and venerate their genius ; and that 
 something may be found amid these hasty 
 thoughts and rambUngs of imagination, to touch 
 the feeling, and awaken not ungrateful associations 
 in the hearts of his reader. If so, his wish will 
 have been fulfilled, and his aim accomplished. 
 
s^/t. 
 
 L'ENVOY. 
 
L'ENVOY. 
 
 Though long usage has rendered a preface an 
 almost necessary part of a work,, a kind of ex- 
 pected " how d'ye do^" salute^ to neglect which 
 is considered a breacli of the courtesy which a 
 writer owes to his readers^ I am not equally 
 authorized by custom in prolonging the time of 
 separation by a valedictory address. And yet 
 I feel a kind of reluctance to leave the volume, 
 trifling and insignificant as it is, without a shake 
 of the hand, and a parting " good-bye." The fond- 
 ness of an author for his works is indeed 
 excessive, and it is not without feelings of regret 
 that he lays down the pen, after adding the 
 finishing stroke to his production. I feel, with 
 
 M 
 
230 L'ENVOY. 
 
 Gibbon, a sober melancholy spread over my ' 
 mind, by the idea that I have taken an everlasting 
 leave of an old and agreeable companion; there 
 is a kind of vacancy in one's daily routine of 
 occupations, and though the task may at times 
 have been irksome, the want of it is felt as an evil. 
 
 To spin out sentences in this manner, after the 
 proper termination of the book, may perhaps be 
 deemed egotistical. But, in the writer of tales, 
 this egotism may be forgiven. His chance of 
 fame is slight indeed. Longevity is denied to his 
 labours. The philosopher, poUtician, divine, or 
 scholar, may endure for ages. What has once 
 been well said, and established in the walks of 
 science, needs not repetition, and is preserved 
 in the works of its author. But, with the writer 
 of amusing volumes, it fares differently. New 
 novelties spring up ; to be read, he must have 
 allurements of style ; and as style rapidly changes, 
 his writings please no longer. Bacon and Sidney 
 were contemporaries ; each was the leader in his 
 own pecuhar walk ; the Novum Organum is quoted 
 with reverence, and relied on as authority; but 
 the dust accumulates on the unopened tome of 
 the Arcadia. 
 
L'ENVOY. 231 
 
 Farewell then to these_, the (at least) harmless 
 amusement of my solitary hours. That they 
 may amuse his readers, is the highest ambition of 
 the writer. Philosophical theories, or learned re- 
 searches, he has not to offer. To wile away an 
 idle hour in a not unpleasant, perhaps not un- 
 profitable manner, is all he aspires to. If he suc- 
 ceeds in this, he will be satisfied. Too humble 
 to attract the smile, he will also escape the lash 
 of criticism. How it is received, will matter 
 little to him. In the words of a great moralist 
 he can say, that he dismisses it with tranquillity, 
 having " little to fear or hope from censure or 
 from praise." 
 
 THE END. 
 
 J. G. BARNARD, 
 Skinner Strtet, London. 
 

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