;\-
 
 Libris 
 K. OGDEN 
 
 THE LIBRARY 
 
 OF 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF CALIFORNIA 
 
 LOS ANGELES
 
 THE REVERIES 
 
 OF 
 
 A RECLUSE; 
 
 OR, 
 
 SKETCHES OF CHARACTERS, PARTIES, EVENTS, 
 WRITINGS, OPINIONS, &c. 
 
 " Laugh where we must, be candid where we can. 
 But vindicate the ways of God to man." 
 
 EDINBURGH; 
 
 PUBLISHED BV 
 
 OLIVER & BOYD, TWEEDDALE-COURT, HIGH-STREET: 
 
 AND 
 
 G, & W. B. WHITTAKER, AVE-MARIA-LANE, 
 LONDON. 
 
 1824.
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 In introducing this volume to the notice of our 
 readers, we have no wish to tire their patience by a 
 long, prosing, formal preface, but shall proceed, as 
 briefly as possible, to explain to them its nature, drift, 
 and design. 
 
 The articles which form its contents embrace a 
 variety of subjects. Some are of a purely moral, 
 others of an imaginative character. Of these little 
 more need be said, than that we have endeavoured, 
 to the best of our humble powers, to give them as 
 much the air of originality as the subjects would per- 
 mit. The other articles — at least a portion of them 
 — relate to subjects of deeper interest, and far greater 
 difficulty ,^-on which, we must confess, we have ven- 
 tured to touch with fear and trembling ; — we say 
 touch, for to enter deeply and thoroughly into them 
 was a task to which we had not the vanity to suppose 
 ourselves equal. Indeed, what we have said on those 
 
 .1.889713
 
 vi ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 subjects may rather be regarded as scattered thoughts 
 and meditations, brought together from the repository 
 of memory, than as learned treatises, or profound 
 disqviisitions. We have, it is true, both read and 
 meditated deeply on the subjects to which we allude; 
 still our ideas, we are av^are, want that stamp of eru- 
 dition, and systematic arrangement, which the regular 
 student would deem indispensable in treating each 
 svibject. All, in short, we have aimed at, was to bring 
 into one view, in as clear a manner as possible, 
 whatever appeared to us most important relating to 
 them. 
 
 But while we feel thus conscious of the difficult 
 and hazardous ground on which we have ventured 
 to tread, we are emboldened to hope at least for the 
 indulgence of our readers, if, in glancing over these 
 pages, they should discover a spirit of candour per- 
 vading them, and that the motives by which we ap- 
 pear to be influenced are such as they cannot but 
 approve. 
 
 To come more immediately to the point, we beg 
 leave distinctly to state, that we are neither opposed 
 nor attached to any party or sect, nor to any indivi- 
 dual, further than their writings, practices, or avowed 
 opinions appear to us calculated to injure or promote
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. VU 
 
 the real interests of our country, or of mankind ; — 
 and while we fearlessly expose whatever we conceive 
 reprehensible, we are equally ready to offer the 
 humble tribute of our praise wherever it is due. 
 Without this candour and impartiality, views of the 
 characters, principles, and writings of men are gene- 
 rally little better than hackneyed panegyrics, or 
 virulent tirades, — -each party exalting itself and its 
 partisans, while it cries down every other. We 
 would, if we could, reconcile and luiite all parties in 
 one bond of brotherly love; though that, we are satis- 
 fied, is as hopeless a consummation as that of the dis- 
 covery of the philosopher's stone, the universal pana- 
 cea, or any other of those grand desiderata which 
 puzzled our wise forefathers. We avow ourselves to be 
 at war with all pernicious prejudices, though those of 
 a harmless kind we would rather laugh at than be 
 angry with ; and there may be some, whose removal 
 would be productive of far more injury than good, 
 Avith which we would deprecate all interference. 
 
 As we write under no bias whatever — unless a 
 leaning towards that which we think beneficial to 
 our country and mankind may be deemed such, — 
 so neither have we any other reward in view than
 
 Vlll ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 the approbation of the pubhc, and the consciousness 
 of an endeavour to do some good, by shewing the 
 folly and inanity of many of the prejudices, jea- 
 lousies, and antipathies which produce strife and 
 animosity among mankind. We neither wdsh to of- 
 fend nor flatter any party, or individual ; a love of 
 truth is our leading principle ; and if, at times, this 
 draws us into strictures that are displeasing to any, 
 we are sorry for it ; but, conceiving, as we do, that 
 it is an imperative duty in those who profess to write 
 impartially on such subjects not to shrink from the 
 truth, such strictures are necessarily unavoidable. 
 We at least anxiously avoid all unqualified cen- 
 sure; we give no partial views — no ex-parte state- 
 ments — ^we exhibit the lights and shades of the pic- 
 ture — the obverse and reverse of the medal ; or, if 
 we have a leaning, it is, we trust, to the side of candour 
 and charity. If, at times, we have a distrust of our own 
 jvidgment on any subject, w^e merely give a pour et 
 contre view of it, by stating the leading arguments on 
 both sides of the question. If we reprobate writings 
 of an immoral or irreligious tendency, ovu* censure is, 
 in fact, but the echo of the public voice; and 
 nothing is more pleasing to us than to have it in our
 
 ADVERTISEMENT. IX 
 
 power to qualify the rebuke by the notice of some 
 redeeming merit, or favourable trait of character, in 
 the writer. 
 
 Having said thus much explanatory of the subject- 
 matter of our book, we beg to assure our readers 
 that, far from having the presumption to suppose 
 that our opinions are invariably correct, we are 
 quite sure that we are just as liable to errors of opi- 
 nion and judgment as other men. We state our 
 opinions, such as they are, candidly, yet with diffi- 
 dence, leaving it to our readers to judge of them as 
 they may see occasion. Under this consciousness of a 
 liability to error, if it can be shewn that we have 
 done wrong to any party or person, nothing would 
 be more gratifying to us, than to make the fullest 
 atonement by a prompt and candid acknowledgment 
 of our mistake. 
 
 We have only to add, that, our work being be- 
 fore the public, it is equally open to that fair por- 
 tion of praise or censure to which its merits may 
 entitle it. We neither court the one nor deprecate 
 the other — it would indeed be folly to do so ; a book 
 will find its proper level in the public estimation, 
 in spite either of the partiality or the enmity of
 
 X ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 individual criticism. From the candid and en- 
 lightened class of readers we are sure, at least, of a 
 fair and unprejudiced verdict, and that is all we 
 desire. 
 
 Edikburgh, January 2, 1824.
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 Page 
 
 A Glance at the last Half Century, ~„,.. 1 
 
 Party Spirit, 18 
 
 Uses and Benefits of a Newspaper, 35 
 
 Liberalism, 4G 
 
 Novels, o8 
 
 Libel and Satire, 77 
 
 Modern Criticism, 94 
 
 Honour defined, 108 
 
 Religion, 120 
 
 Advice of a Quakeress 147 
 
 The Loss of a beloved Friend, — 151 
 
 Hospitality 159 
 
 Old Maids and Old Bachelors, 169 
 
 Semblances and Realities, 181 
 
 A Tale, 189 
 
 Analysis of Curiosity, 221 
 
 Social Conversation, 228 
 
 The Debating Society, 237 
 
 Story-Telling, 252 
 
 The Maniac, 264 
 
 Good Nature, 268 
 
 King George the Third, 278 
 
 Privileges of the Bar, 285
 
 Xll CONTENTS. 
 
 « 
 
 Page 
 
 Criminal Laws, 295 
 
 The Drama, 302 
 
 English and French Populace, 309 
 
 Medical Practitioners, 313 
 
 Napoleon, 321 
 
 ERRATA. 
 
 p. 22, 1. 20, delete ministerial. P. 48, 1. 15. /or its read their. P. 110, 1. 26, for 
 formed read forward. P. 114, 1. 8. fur both read he. P. 11."), 1. 18, /or education 
 i-ead eduction. P. 187, 1. 20, for infringer read impugner. P. 191, 1. 9, for de- 
 butante read debutant. P. 240, !• 4, '/or who read whom. P. 254, 1. 24, for 
 story-tellers read story-telling. P. 278,1. 17, for has read had.
 
 REVERIES OF A RECLUSE. 
 
 A GLANCE AT THE LAST HALF CENTURY, 
 
 " Thou seest not all ; but piecemeal thou must break 
 To separate contemplation, the great whole ; 
 And as the ocean many bays will make, 
 That ask the eye — so here condense thy soul 
 To more immediate objects." 
 
 We mortals of the present day may well be said to have 
 lived in the age of wonders — political and moral, as 
 M'ell as scientific. Within the last half century — nay, 
 within the last thirty years, — circumstances and events 
 have been compressed of far greater magnitude and 
 interest than we find spread over the history of three 
 or four centuries of former times. When we look 
 back and contemplate what has taken place within that 
 brief period, the whole appears like a wild dream, full 
 of monstrous improbabilities — we might almost say, 
 impossibilities. What would have been thought of
 
 2 
 
 that man who, forty or fifty years ago. would have 
 predicted that such things Avould come to pass, but 
 that he was downrightly insane — a fit inhabitant for 
 bedlam ? — who, for instance, would have foretold that 
 France — who had not before been a match for single- 
 handed England — would, in a few years, after a re- 
 volution, or rather series of revolutions, more stupen- 
 dous than any recorded in history, make herself mis- 
 tress of two-thirds of Europe, and become the arbiter 
 of the whole, with the exception of Great Britain — 
 that, after renouncing monarchy, and declaring eternal 
 enmity to kings, she would, soon after, bend to the 
 imperial sway of a foreigner, raised from obscurity, 
 Avho would exercise over her a more uncontrolled 
 dominion than her lately murdered legitimate sove- 
 reign — that the man so raised to sovereign authority 
 Avould carry his conquests over civilized Europe far- 
 ther than any other conqueror ever did — that emper- 
 ors and kings would bow down to him and eagerly 
 court his friendship, — and that, at length, after at- 
 taining this tremendous height of power, he would, 
 by his own folly and infatuation, demolish and crum- 
 ble in the dust the mighty fabric,- leaving " not a 
 rack behind,"* and with far greater rapidity than 
 that with which he had built it up — that Great Bri- 
 tain, amidst this conflict and Avreck of empires, would 
 not only maintain her independence — though at one 
 time she would be opposed to the whole continent of 
 Europe, — but, in the end, mainly contribute to de- 
 stroy the colossal power, and make a conquest of
 
 3 
 
 this her ancient rival — though at an expense, on the 
 whole, of one thousand millions of money ! — that 
 during, or a few years previous to this most eventful 
 period, mankind would discover the art of perform- 
 ing journeys in the air, at the distance of a mile or 
 more from the earth ! — of sailing, by means of the 
 steam from boiling water, against both wind and 
 tide, at the rate of seven miles an hour, or fourteen 
 miles without these to oppose — of putting in motion, 
 by the same power, machines capable of crushing the 
 hardest metals, or forming the most exquisitely fine 
 fabrics of cotton or of silk — of superseding or ame- 
 liorating a loathsome and dangerous disease, by a 
 species of infection taken from a cow ! — of lighting 
 our streets and houses with a subtle fluid extracted 
 from coal, conveyed to them by subterraneous pipes, 
 —or of saving shipwrecked mariners by a boat capa- 
 ble of living on an ocean where a ship would perish. 
 All, or most of those things, we say, must have ap- 
 peared to those who lived half a century ago as utter 
 impossibilities. Yet have they been realized — toge- 
 ther with many other astonishing proofs of man's 
 genius, invention, and courage. 
 
 The last half centur}^, as far as regards the political 
 interests of the British empire, has been, beyond all 
 comparison, the most eventful in its history. It may 
 be said to have been made up of a motley mixture of 
 glories and humiliations, acquisitions and losses, vic- 
 tories and defeats. From the turmoil of her strusr- 
 gles and various fortunes, England at length retired,
 
 4 
 
 covered with the clearly-won wreatli of victory it is 
 true — thanks to the intrepidity of her soldiers,* and 
 the skill of their commander, — but withal crippled, 
 exhausted, enfeebled — burdened with a tremendous 
 debt, her commerce diminished, her manufactures at 
 a stand, her people discontented, and revolutionary 
 principles spread over tlie country. From this dis- 
 astrous situation she ha^ at length in a great degree 
 recovered, through the wisdom, vigilance, and firm- 
 ness of her government and legislature : and if peace 
 can only be maintained for a few years longer, there 
 is a fair promise of her rising to a still higher degree 
 of prosperity and vigour. 
 
 The first great and important event during the 
 period of which we are speaking, was the separa- 
 tion of the British American colonies from the parent 
 country — an event, the probability of which wovild 
 have been laughed at ten years before it took place. 
 The wise statesmen of those times took it into their 
 heads that America was incapable of any great effort. 
 The result of the contest is a salutary lesson to fu- ■ 
 ture statesmen of the danger of goading a people be- 
 yond the point of bearing. This event, it required no 
 great depth of prophecy to foresee, would lead to 
 many other great events and changes in the world. 
 The American United States are already a great, 
 
 * We speak not of her sailors, for of late they had little else to do 
 but fight a few American frigates, having swept every other enemy 
 from the ocean. '
 
 powerful, and growing nation. Since their separa^ 
 tion from Great Britain, they have achieved mighty 
 things, and they have still mightier things in perspec- 
 tive. Within the first five and twenty years after that 
 event they doubled their population, and they have 
 more than doubled their territory and resources. 
 They present the phenomenon of a vast republic, 
 composed of separate and heterogeneous states, held 
 together by a federal compact, and quietly and pros- 
 perously governed in the midst of such jarring mate- 
 rials. Should this their union be maintained, it is 
 probable that the United States will, in less than a 
 century more, be the most powerful nation in the 
 world, both by sea and land. 
 
 But an event of still more vital importance to 
 Great Britain, from the turn it took, was the French 
 revolution — beyond all comparison the most stupen- 
 dous moral and political prodigy which history re- 
 cords. From all which we have read and reflected 
 on the subject, we cannot help being of opinion, that 
 it would have been better had Great Britain avoided 
 a war with France, on account of the proceedings in 
 that country in the first years of the revolution — at 
 the same time that she put herself in such a com- 
 manding attitude as would have given her a powerful 
 ascendency and influence over these proceedings, and 
 have enabled her, should circumstances absolutely 
 have required it, to have struck a decisive blow. In 
 such an attitude remonstrance would not have been 
 in vain ; but once the gauntlet was thrown, by the
 
 6 
 
 abrupt dismissal of the French envoy, and France 
 began to feel her own strength, there was an end 
 both to remonstrance and intimidation. A nation, 
 thro^vn into a violent combustion by a revolution, 
 will, if left to itself, exhaust its strength and energies 
 by internal struggle. Attacked and invaded by fo- 
 reign powers, for the purpose of dictating to it a go- 
 vernment and polic}' of their own, at the point of the 
 bayonet, it becomes furio\is, desperate, and concen- 
 trated in its strength. The revolutionists became more 
 united by a common danger, and numerous armies 
 sprang up, Avith whom the question was — whether 
 their country should be sacked and pillaged by foreign 
 armies, and a government forced upon them which 
 they detested, or they should sack, pillage, and revo- 
 lutionize the territories of their enemies ? Nor are the 
 bravest and best officers of a country, thus circum- 
 stanced, wanted on such occasions. " What have I 
 to do with politics," said the gallant Blake ; " my bu- 
 siness is to fight whenever my country is attacked." 
 
 What England has gained by her premature in- 
 terference we need not here repeat. She and her 
 august allies at length succeeded, at a fearful ex- 
 pense of blood and treasure, in putting down her 
 ancient rival ; but they could not destroy that revo- 
 lutionary mania which made France a more terrible 
 enemy than all her victories ; it broods in secret even 
 in the very bosom of then- empires — kept down, it is 
 true, for the present, by the sti'ong arm of power, 
 but watching for events which will again call it into
 
 action. The storm is hushed, but the elements 
 which raised it remain. This revolutionary mania — 
 equally the enemy of the throne and the altar — is as 
 widely different from the love of a rational, salutary, 
 and practical freedom, as the French and Spanish 
 revolutions are different in circumstances and charac- 
 ter, though the ultra advocates for absolute power 
 have a trick of confounding them. More in fact 
 has been done towards putting down Jacobinism 
 (which this mania is styled) by the very man whose 
 power the sovereigns overthrew, than by all their 
 combined efforts. He had a very summary way of 
 deahng with it. True, he had little merit in this, it 
 being merely a sacrifice to his ambition ; but such 
 was the fact, and could any reasonable reliance have 
 been placed in his promises of future forbearance, it 
 would have been good policy, perhaps, to have suf- 
 fered him to remain on the throne of France. But 
 ambition was his ruling passion, to which he scrupled 
 not, whenever it suited his purposes, to sacrifice the 
 most sacred engagements. The war with France 
 had in fact, during the last ten years of it, altogether 
 changed its object ; it was no longer carried on for 
 the purpose of putting down Jacobinism, but con- 
 quering an ambitious despot, whose avowed aim was 
 vmiversal dominion. We are not of the number 
 of those who pronounce Mr Pitt to have been an 
 enemy to the liberties of mankind, because he in- 
 volved the nation in this ruinous contest. Mr Pitt 
 really believed that all Europe was in danger from
 
 8 
 
 the promulgated principles of a mad faction who had 
 declared eternal hatred and hostility to the throne 
 and the altar, and he conscientiously conceived it to 
 be his duty to counteract those pernicious doctrines 
 by taking up arms against the nation which had 
 given birth to them. The faction Avhich ruled over 
 France at the commencement of this war soon pe- 
 rished, and was succeeded by others, which were 
 destroyed in their turn — not in consequence of the 
 war waged against France, but from the violence 
 and atrocity of their conduct, and the eagerness of 
 all to possess themselves of power. But while those 
 sanguinary struggles were going on in the capital, 
 the armies continued rapidly increasing in number 
 and audacity. They had no time to take part in 
 the struggles which convulsed their country ; their 
 attention was fixed by objects of more immediate 
 interest to them ; foreign conquest and foreign plun- 
 der promised a ridier harvest than the uncertain 
 triumphs of party. If they had had no foreign ene- 
 mies to contend with, they would, like the Roman 
 soldiery in the later years of that empire, have be- 
 come instruments in the hands of contending factions 
 at home. 
 
 From the time of the American war down to the 
 pi'esent day, France has exhibited an example of 
 political tergiversation not a little amusing. While 
 Great Britain, eminently to her honour, has remained, 
 for a century and a half, steady and faithful to her 
 principles of liberty, this, her neighbour and ancient
 
 9 
 
 rival, has been the mere sport of ch'cumstances — the 
 weathercock of every whid that blew over the political 
 horizon. Her vacillations and inconsistencies are 
 indeed incredible, and are a striking illustration, if 
 any were wanted, of the levity and inconstancy of 
 the national character. First, we find her, though 
 under an absolute monarchy herself, assisting to pro- 
 cure liberty and republicanism to the colonies of 
 England — under a limited monarchy. Next, we 
 behold her mad for liberty and equality — murdering 
 her sovereign — the least deserving the name of tyrant 
 of any she ever had — erecting herself into a republic 
 — abolishing every remnant of her ancient institu- 
 tions, not sparing even the altar — swearing eternal 
 hatred to crowned heads, — and, soon after, submit- 
 ting to be absolutely governed by a Corsican adven- 
 turer, on whom she conferred the title and authority 
 of Emperor ! At length she returns, like a wayward 
 child, tired of playing its pranks, to fealty and alle- 
 giance to her ancient race of kings ; — and, lastly, to 
 crown all, we now see her armies — those once stern 
 and uncompromising republicans — engaged in a cru- 
 sade against the liberties and independence of a neigh- 
 bouring nation — her friend and ally in the day of her 
 peril — who exhibited in their bloodless revolution an 
 example of moderation and humanity the very anti- 
 pode of the horrors and atrocities of France in the 
 hour of her revolutionary madness ! This conspiracy 
 against the independence of nations is an atrocious as 
 well as a dangerous policy; it is repugnant to the 
 
 a2
 
 10 
 
 hitherto received laws of nations, and no one can 
 foretell, once the principle is established, where it 
 will end. Even Great Britain herself, were she 
 equally wilnerable as Spain, might have constitu- 
 tional improvements forced upon her at the cannon's 
 mouth ! One thing is certain — and that is, that how- 
 ever events may turn out for the present, a combina- 
 tion of sovereigns is not likely to crush, for any con- 
 siderable time, the universal spirit of liberty that is 
 gone forth — we do not mean a reckless, subverting 
 spirit like that by which republican France was 
 actuated, but a rational desire for safe and salutary 
 improvements, in accordance to the existing state of 
 knowledge and civilization. 
 
 During this memorable half century, science and 
 the arts have made an astonishing progress. It is 
 true, other countries divide with Great Britain the 
 merit of the improvements and discoveries in these, 
 but more especially her ancient rival, and late inve- 
 terate enemy, France. To the honour of the literati 
 of both countries, there existed no other rivalship 
 between them, during the deadly and desperate 
 struggle of their governments, than a noble emula- 
 tion which should excel the other in the furtherance 
 of science and knowledge. A friendly correspon- 
 dence, and generous desire to assist each other's 
 labours, was kept up amidst the din of arms, proud 
 defiance, and fierce contention. So nuich for the 
 pacific spirit of scientific pursuit. 
 
 Which nation has excelled the other in this pur-
 
 11 
 
 suit it would not be difficult to determine. It will be 
 acknowledged that Great Britain has given birth, if 
 not to more numerous, at least to more important 
 discoveries and inventions than France. In geogra- 
 phical discovery the former has far outstripped every 
 other country, in consequence of the liberal spirit of 
 her government, and the enterprise of her people, 
 during the reign of her late venerable sovereign. In 
 physiology, the discovery of the vaccine inoculation; 
 and in experimental philosophy and mechanics, the 
 steam-engine and its practical application to the va- 
 rious purposes for which it is used, stand pre-eminent, 
 as most importantly beneficial to mankind, among the 
 numerous other discoveries and inventions made by 
 Englishmen within the period in question, — to enu- 
 merate and describe all which would require volumes. 
 The arts and sciences which have made the most 
 wonderful advances, during this period, are natviral 
 and experimental philosophy, geography and navi- 
 gation, chemistry, agriculture, and mechanics. In 
 astronomical discoveries, and perhaps in chemistry, 
 we have been equalled, if not excelled, by our neigh- 
 bours. In useful mechanical inventions, and in va- 
 rious manufactures, more especially cutlery and cot- 
 ton and woollen fabrics, we stand unrivalled. In the 
 fine arts, painting, sculpture, and engraving in par- 
 ticular, have been carried to a high degree of perfec- 
 tion in England. 
 
 With respect to general literature, it has made a 
 brilliant and respectable figure during the last fifty
 
 12 
 
 years ; although it is questionable, on the whole, 
 whether the writers of that period eclipse those of the 
 sixty or seventy preceding years, which includes what 
 has so justly been styled the English Augustan age. 
 In history, biography, criticism, and in the narratives 
 of travellers, the former unquestionably excel their 
 predecessors. The three first have been more culti- 
 vated during the late reign than at any former period ; 
 and with respect to the last, the laudable spirit of in- 
 quiry and enterprise which has led so many indivi- 
 duals to explore unknown regions, or such as were 
 but imperfectly known, has furnished ample and in- 
 teresting materials for it. The moral and didactic 
 writings of the elder period have, however, never 
 been equalled, and cannot well be surpassed. In the 
 drama, too, the writers of that period have not been 
 equalled by their successors. The style and manner 
 of writing has undergone a great revolution — perhaps 
 we should rather say, a series of revolutions, within 
 the last century. Whether it is improved is a ques- 
 tion for mere matter of taste to determine. The 
 style of the present day, generally speaking, is more 
 ornamental, more flowery, more animated and im- 
 passioned, than that of the Augustan age ; but it is 
 inferior to it in strength, clearness, simplicity, and 
 dignity. We have heard it remarked, that our 
 style undergoes a marked change every twenty years. 
 This is saying too much. Such a remark would be 
 more intelligible if there were such a thing as a uni- 
 form standard of style. But the truth is, almost
 
 13 
 
 every writer has got his own peculiar style. We 
 have, at the present day, a great variety of styles ; to 
 borrow the lanfjuase of architecture, we have the 
 Corinthian, the Ionic, the Doric, the Composite; 
 and we have what may be called a non-descript style, 
 in which novelty and effect is aimed at, and for 
 which the authors are not a little indebted to the 
 point, antithesis, and quaintness of the writers of the 
 reign of Charles the Second. We have also a glit- 
 tering gaudy style, in which there is much display 
 and little meaning — many fine words and high-flown 
 metaphors, to dress out a meagre or common-place 
 subject. 
 
 With respect to poetry, it would perhaps be hard 
 to say to which period to assign the palm. There 
 have been some excellent poets in both times. There 
 appears to be a sort of fashion in poetry as well as in 
 dress. The style and manner which pleases one age 
 will not go down with another. Pope's and Dryden's 
 tuneful numbers are no longer the rage. To please 
 the fastidious taste of poetical readers, novelty was to 
 be sought for, both in style and subject. A new 
 style of versification was to be invented, or one 
 which had existed ages past revived, while imagina- 
 tion was ransacked for strange, wild, horrific inci- 
 dents and characters — something that would startle, 
 appal, or shock the reader — no matter how improba- 
 ble or unnatural. We of course speak only of a pro- 
 portion of our most eminent productions, for there 
 are some that would do honour to any age. The
 
 14 
 
 next age — perhaps the next generation — may be 
 equally cloyed with productions in this style, as the 
 present is delighted with them. There is, however, 
 a reach in poetry which soars above the changes and 
 caprices of popular taste, and beyond which no poet 
 can well go. For this poetical perfection we must 
 go back — we are speaking of our English poets — to 
 the times of Shakspeare, Spencer, and Milton, whose 
 poetry is of the universal kind, suited to all tastes 
 and times, — and for this plain reason, that it is the 
 language of nature, and the true sublime. There 
 have doubtless been poets — indeed there are more 
 than one at the present day — who have equalled, and, 
 in some respects, surpassed the two last-mentioned 
 poets, but none that have reached the towering height 
 of the great bard of nature. 
 
 Lord Byron and Sir Walter Scott are unquestion- 
 ably the most eminent poets of the present day. The 
 former is the greatest, the latter the most pleasing 
 poet of the two. There are innumerable passages 
 scattered throughout his Lordship's works, of un- 
 equalled beauty and sublimity — the rare emanations 
 of a great and original genius. His language is 
 powerful, and his images and descriptions grand, 
 striking, and deeply impressive, — yet terrible, heart- 
 harrowing, and gloomy. They are so intensely 
 Avrought, and so true to nature, that they bring 
 home to the reader's feelings and perceptions all the 
 dreadful things in which it is his Lordship's delight to 
 dwell. Sir Walter Scott we conceive to be the great-
 
 15 
 
 est poet Scotland ever produced, and Burns the most 
 wonderful. Burns' muse was the untutored, unso- 
 phisticated child of nature, and the sweetness and 
 simplicity of her song is unrivalled. The muse of 
 Scott, aided by the lights of a richly-stored mind, 
 has soared to a loftier height, and expatiated in a 
 wider field. Each has shone in his own sphere— so 
 peculiarly, too, his own, that neither of these poets 
 could, with advantage, have encroached on the pro- 
 vince of the other. Burns was as little qualified to 
 sing the deeds of Flodden field, or the gathering of 
 the clans, as Scott is to rival the beautiful and touch- 
 ing simplicity of the Cotter's Saturday Night, or 
 pourtray, with the master hand of its author, the 
 characters and sports of Hallowe'en. It is the opi- 
 nion of the chief admirers of Sir Walter Scott, as 
 a poet, that he would have been a greater if he had 
 been a less voluminous one. Like certain other of our 
 distinguished poets, he had nearly broken the spirit 
 ofhisPegassusby too hard riding. That once noble 
 and generous animal — fit in his day for the course, the 
 chase, or the battle-field — was in danger of degene- 
 rating into a spiritless hack. Happily the poet saw 
 this himself, and has since given him a proper share 
 of repose. Of Sir Walter, as a novelist, we shall 
 elsewhere take occasion to speak — in this province 
 indeed he has ^ 
 
 " No brother near the throne." 
 
 Besides Lord Byron and Sir Walter Scott, we have.
 
 16 
 
 at the present day, a numerous list of poets of con- 
 siderable celebrity — at the head of which stand 
 Campbell, Moore, Southey, Coleridge, Wordsworth, 
 Crabbe, Wilson, Rogers, Lloyd, Lamb, Mrs He- 
 mans, &c. 
 
 There is one phenomenon in the literaiy history of 
 this period almost unknown in former times, namely, 
 the many extraordinary untutored geniuses who have 
 sprung up, during it, from the humblest walks of life, 
 some of whose productions have astonished the world, 
 and staggered the literati. Among these the Cale- 
 donian bard of nature. Burns, shines with unrivalled 
 lustre — next to Avhom may be ranked his countryman 
 and predecessor, Fergusson, to whom Burns is in 
 part indebted for some of his comi^ humour and rus- 
 tic delineations — Bloomfield, author of the Farmer''s " 
 Boy — Chatterton, a youth of sixteen, with a maturity 
 of genius and fertility of invention most incredible at 
 such years — Dermody, an Irish youth, little inferior 
 to Chatterton — Hogg, the Ettrick Shepherd, cele- 
 brated for his poem of the Queen's Wake, and other 
 productions — Clare, the English ploughman, — and 
 several others of lesser note. 
 
 Perhaps there is nothing for which the last half 
 century has been more distinguished, than the hu- 
 mane and liberal efforts that have been made to im- 
 prove the condition of the human race. At no period 
 has there been so great a number of individuals who 
 have nobly devoted their time, talents, and fortune 
 to the rescuing of their fellow-creatures from misery.
 
 17 
 
 ignorance, and oppression — we mean in the British 
 empire. Numerous beneficent institutions and charit- 
 able foundations have been added to those before in 
 existence. The means have been vastly extended, and 
 the system improved, of educating the poor. The 
 blind, the deaf, the dumb, who in former times were 
 too generally abandoned to intellectual darkness, 
 are now instructed, and trained up to be useful to 
 themselves and to society. The interior of prisons 
 and lunatic asylums has been explored, and the 
 immediate sufferings of their inmates made known 
 and alleviated. Religious toleration has been ex- 
 tended. Many of the sanguinary laws that disgrac- 
 ed our criminal code have been modified or repealed. 
 That opprobrium of England, the slave trade, has 
 been abolished ; and slavery in our colonies is soften- 
 ed down by successive improvements, and a more 
 humane system.
 
 18 
 
 PARTY SPIRIT. 
 
 " The reign of George the Third was the triumph of Toryism. 
 The Whigs had power for a moment ; they quarrelled among 
 themselves, and thereby lost the King's confidence, lost the people's 
 confidence, and lost their power for ever ; or, to speak more philo- 
 sophically, there was neither Whiggism nor Toryism left ; excess 
 of riches, and excess of taxes, combined with excess of luxury, had 
 introduced universal sclfistn.'' Bishop Watson. 
 
 The history of the Whigs and Tories (properly so 
 called), forms a prominent feature in the annals of 
 Great Britain, from the Revolution down to the 
 commencement of the reign of George the Third. 
 With this we have nothing to do ; these parties 
 became extinct Avith the last hopes of the house of 
 Stuart. — But the names are still strangely retain- 
 ed. The Tories and Whigs of the present day are, 
 in few words, the ministeriahsts and antiministerial- 
 ists — the Ins and the Outs — those who oppose, and 
 those who cry out for reform. There is, indeed, a 
 third class of men — a party we cannot call them— 
 Avho are neither absolute Whigs nor Tories, but 
 something between the two — that is, though not en- 
 tirely neutral, yet not systematically attached or op. 
 posed to either party, but willing to second either 
 in whatever has the good of the constitution and the
 
 19 
 
 welfare of the people in view. This is a highly re- 
 spectable and valuable class of men, distinguished 
 alike by their probity and patriotism. But their 
 number is too inconsiderable to be productive of 
 much good, in the existing state of parties, either 
 in remedying abuses and resisting encroachments on 
 the one hand, or checking the impatience of innova- 
 tion on the other. In all political struggles, the still 
 small voice of reason and moderation is little heeded 
 — it is drowned in the clamour and fury of contending 
 factions. Each side striving for the mastery, seeks 
 for partisans who will go all lengths with it. They 
 want no compromise, no neutrality ; they view each 
 other, politically, as sworn and systematic enemies — 
 though setting politics aside — or rather, we should 
 say, ambition, the love of power and the rivalry of 
 party — they would no doubt be as good friends as 
 men in general are disposed to be whose views and 
 interests do not violently clash. A Whig — we will 
 not say a very honest Whig — may, by the magic of 
 a place or a pension, be transformed into a Tory ; 
 while a neglected Tory may console himself by join- 
 ing in the hue and cry of the Whigs. How differ- 
 ently the Whigs and Tories of a century back were 
 placed from what they are at present ! Whiggism 
 was then the order of the day at court ; and well it 
 might, for by the Whigs was the reigning family 
 placed on the throne, while the Tories were worse 
 than a suspected party. 
 
 The Tory of the present day is simply one who is
 
 20 
 
 an adherent of government, and a friend to the exist- 
 ing state of things. He opposes, generally, all 
 changes, or reform, beyond what ministers themselves 
 deem advisable, and he is prone to regard all those who 
 are of a different way of thinking as persons whose 
 patriotism is at least questionable. Men may be Tories 
 either from principle, or from mere love of power, 
 place, or emolument. The latter are by far the 
 most bigoted and intolerant. This may be easily 
 accounted for. A Tory of this stamp is indeed a 
 mere man of pretence, whose chief anxiety is about 
 the good things which are in the gift of his patrons ; 
 interest alone dictates to him the line of pohcy he 
 pursues. The possession or expectancy of a place, 
 a pension, or a sinecure, has a wonderful effect on his 
 intellectual optics, disposing him to view every mea- 
 sure of administration as not only blameless, but high- 
 ly praiseworthy. He sees no faults, no blemishes, in 
 the existing order of things. He may either give a 
 silent vote, or, if gifted with the talent of writing or 
 speaking, blazon forth the wisdom and pohcy of the 
 proceedings of ministers, while he cries down and 
 abuses all who oppose them as disaffected persons — 
 enemies to the government — encouragers of sedition, 
 and so forth. If he fails in these duties, he ceases 
 to be an efficient partisan, and, consequently, to en- 
 joy those good things which he has in view. It 
 is of no consequence that he has once been a patriot, 
 at least professed himself one ; he is now converted 
 —he has adopted a new creed, and he finds all this
 
 21 
 
 very convenient and agreeable. His political prose- 
 lytism has been brought about in a very natural sort 
 of way. He is ambitious — he wishes to aggrandise 
 his estate — perhaps he has a hankering after a title ; 
 the means are before him ; he has only to shut his 
 eyes to every political defect or abuse, at least to 
 view it as a necessary part of the great state machine, 
 and he saves his conscience all uneasiness on the 
 subject. Should his servile compliances be exposed 
 and reprobated, he has only to repel the attack by 
 calling it the factious clamour of a party inimical to 
 all the friends of government. And should he even 
 dabble in the foul stream of corruption, he may in- 
 dulge a reasonable hope that he will not be called to 
 a very severe account. 
 
 Such is the picture of what may be called a mere 
 speculating Tory — as different from the man who is 
 a Tory from principle, as an upright Whig from a 
 mere factious declaimer against government. It 
 were preposterous to suppose that there are not 
 honest and conscientious men among both parties, 
 though this is a proposition which the bigots of both 
 will hardly allow ! A Whig may find fault with the 
 measures of ministers, without seeking to supplant 
 them ; and a Tory may be a placeman or pensioner 
 with the most honourable and upright intentions. Tlie 
 great Lord Chatham was a pensioner, and so was his 
 son, who was also a distinguished Tory leader ; yet 
 the former was a truly great patriot, and the latter 
 though he pursued a policy which has entailed a 
 
 6
 
 22 
 
 enormous burden on the nation, was as pure and in- 
 corruptible a statesman as ever guided the helm of 
 this or any other country. But how small the num- 
 ber of such exalted characters, compared with that 
 of the mere creatures of power and office, whose 
 great aim is to take care of themselves, whatever be- 
 falls the country. How few of those who side inva- 
 riably with ministers, are men of pure and disinter- 
 ested views, there can be little difficulty in conceiving. 
 They know the terms on which they are employed, 
 and the consequences of a violation of the compact 
 into which they have entered. Their services are 
 held by that master-spring of our nature, interest. 
 It seems to be a maxim — for what good reason we can- 
 not imagine — that the moment that ministers are 
 left in a minority, on any question of importance, 
 they cease to be ministers. To secure and organize 
 a majority is therefore deemed necessary ; and if men 
 cannot be persuaded into an acquiescence in every 
 ministerial measure they propose, they must be 
 bribed into it. This is the root of those corrupt 
 practices, in and out of parliament, which, as an up- 
 right and eminent living statesman observed, were 
 " as notorious as the sun at noon-day." 
 
 To bring about such a reform as would strike at 
 the root of those corrupt practices, has been the ear- 
 nest wish of the most enlightened statesmen of dif- 
 ferent times — among the rest, Mr Pitt himself, in 
 the outset of his political career — and is the great 
 object of the moderate reformers— or by whatever
 
 23 
 
 other name we may choose to call them — of the present 
 day. They propose for this end, — First, Triennial 
 parliaments, for the purpose of bringing the represen- 
 tatives of the people more frequently before their con- 
 stituents. Secondly, The extension of the right of 
 suffrage to all householders paying direct taxes to 
 a stated amount, it being thought nothing more than 
 fair, that the man who contributes to the revenue of 
 the country, should have a voice in the disposal of 
 it, through his representative. Thirdly, The dis- 
 franchisement of the rotten boroughs, which are a 
 mere mockery and avowed source of corruption — and, 
 Fourtldy, The giving the elective franchise, of which 
 the rotten boroughs would be so properly deprived, 
 to those wealthy and populous towns, which, strange 
 to say, have hitherto had that right withheld from 
 them. In the meantime, the Whigs call loudly for 
 economy. They assert (certainly not without rea- 
 son), that there never was a period in the history of 
 the country, in which retrenchment was more impe- 
 riously demanded than the present. As a first and 
 great step towards this retrenchment, they demand 
 the abolition of all sinecure and useless offices, the 
 curtailment of overgrown salaries and enormous fees 
 of office, and the withdrawing of all pensions and 
 grants, excepting for real and substantial services to 
 the nation, or injuries sustained in its defence. It 
 is but fair to say, that the present ministers have not 
 been backward in carrying into effect such plans of 
 economy as they deemed practicable — though not to
 
 24 
 
 the extent which the Whigs recommended. With re- 
 spect to the reforms the latter desire, they are pro- 
 nounced by their opponents to be wild, irrational, 
 and dangerous theories, involving the very safety of 
 the state ; though, as has been said, brought forward 
 and supported, as salutary and necessary, by some 
 of the most distinguished patriots and statesmen 
 England has produced. Such are the diversities of 
 opinion among politicians ! How (say the Whigs) 
 does the fact stand ? If a return to the pure prin- 
 ciples of the constitution — if a putting down of the 
 hydra of corruption — if the adoption of a salutary 
 system of economy, — ^be of a revolutionary tendency, 
 then have the Whigs revolutionary designs. If the 
 machinery of government can only be conducted by 
 means of corruption and the existence of abuses, 
 then must there be something wrong about the ma- 
 chine. But such a proposition is monstrous. Who 
 will say that an upright and patriotic ministry would 
 not have the love and confidence of the nation, and 
 the warm support of every honourable and independ- 
 ent legislator in it ? Nay, if even at times in a mi- 
 nority, that confidence and support would not be 
 withdrawn from them. Thus wovdd they be raised 
 above the puny efforts of the factious by the voice of 
 the people. 
 
 But it is alleged by the Tory adherents, that all 
 this cry for reform, on the part of the Whigs, is 
 nothing more than a ruse de guerre — a hollow pre- 
 tence to amuse the people, and render them hostile
 
 25 
 
 to their rulers, whose places they, the Whigs, are 
 desirous of filling. That there are not a few of the 
 Whigs who have an eye to power and place, as the 
 main chance, and that this longing sharpens their 
 opposition to ministers, we can readily believe. 
 We, in fact, conceive that there are just as man}' 
 Whigs, who want to get into power, as there are 
 Tories who wish to keep possession of it as long as 
 they can ; and, moreover, that the former, if in power, 
 would just be as tenacious of its emoluments, jealous of 
 encroachments, and prone to bestow favours on their 
 friends, as the latter. But who will say that there 
 are not independent and highly respectable men, of 
 Whig, as well as of Tory principles, whose ample 
 fortunes place them beyond the power of temptation, 
 - — whose talents enable them to distinguish between 
 speculative change and salutary reform, — and whose 
 integrity will not suffer them to lend themselves to 
 any party, whose views are at variance with the public 
 good ? 
 
 The attempt which is made to identify the Whigs 
 Avith the Radicals is quite ridiculous. It is a spe- 
 cimen of that spirit of rancour and misrepresenta- 
 tion, by which party is too often characterized. 
 Nothing can be more opposite than the views and 
 principles of those parties. The Whigs are for 
 what they conceive to be a safe and salutary re- 
 form ; the Radicals are for an entire change, even 
 to subversion. The former seek for economy and 
 retrenchment ; the latter — at least the more violent
 
 26 
 
 amonff them — would not be content with less than a 
 spoliation of the rich for the benefit of the poor, — 
 in other words, universal equality, the fruitful pa- 
 rent of anarchy and crime. How such an assertion 
 can be gravely put forth it is difficult to conceive : 
 it, in fact, carries absurdity and contradiction on 
 the very face of it. That man must be insane who, 
 having character and property at stake in the coun- 
 try, would make common cause with revolutionists. 
 The truth is, the Whigs detest the Radicals as much 
 as the Tories do, and are, in return, hated and abused 
 by them. The independent portion of the Whigs 
 would steer a middle course between high-handed 
 power and popular phrensy, and are therefore the 
 objects of suspicion and dislike to both Tories and 
 Radicals. 
 
 The ostensible doctrines of the Radicals may, 
 with some slight variation, be traced back to the 
 famous declaration of the articles of reform, deemed 
 indispensable by Major Cartwright and his coad- 
 jutors, the principal of which were annual parlia- 
 ments and universal suffrage ; to which has since 
 been added election by ballot. The Radicals have, 
 however, carried their views of reform much farther 
 than the Major intended. We believe the Major 
 to be a well-meaning, conscientious man, who has 
 made politics the study, or rather liohhy of his 
 whole life, and who verily considers himself as 
 the champion of the liberties of his country, while 
 he is only pursuing an iffnis Jatuus. Sir Francis
 
 27 
 
 Burdett, and other advocates of those opinions, 
 are, we beheve, actuated by the same purity of 
 motive. They differ from the Whigs, in so far 
 as they overstrain the different points of reform. 
 We are inchned to think that Sir Francis is no 
 longer an advocate for the whole of his original 
 doctrines of reform. That these, if carried into 
 practice, would be productive of much confusion 
 and mischief there can be little doubt. Be this as 
 it may, the conduct and character of the Radicals 
 are such as to alienate the minds of all moderate and 
 well-informed men from any system of reform be- 
 yond that safe and practicable one advocated during 
 the last fifty years by statesmen, whose talents and 
 integrity have never been called in question. We 
 will not go the length of joining in the opinion, 
 that all the Radicals have it deliberately in contem- 
 plation to pull down the institutions of the country, 
 and to incite the populace to rebellion and blood- 
 shed ; but we will say, that the bringing together the 
 lower orders in immense bodies, and making and 
 framing inflammatory speeches and resolutions before 
 them, has a direct tendency to produce those frightful 
 evils. It is probable that some among them, being 
 men of turbulent and ambitious minds, wish to 
 bring themselves into notice — perhaps to attract 
 the attention of government so far as to induce 
 it to purchase their neutrality, or, at worst, to 
 be regarded as martyrs of liberty by the people. 
 Whatever their views may be, their conduct is dan-
 
 28 
 
 gerous, and, as already said, calculated rather to 
 injure than forAvard the cause of rational liberty 
 and sound reform. It is easy to assemble a vast 
 multitude of people, and to work on their passions, 
 but it is not quite so easy to wield so mighty an 
 engine of mischief. That there are characters in- 
 listed among the Radicals, whose aim is to destroy 
 the whole frame of the social fabric, there is too 
 convincing proof. Religion, moral obligation, the 
 laws — all must perish, in order that anarchy and 
 the reign of terror may succeed, — out of which they 
 hope to rake some fragments of the general wreck ! 
 
 The only occasion on which the Whigs and 
 Radicals appear to have acted in concert, was in the 
 affair of the Queen; and undoubtedly every man, not 
 blinded by the bigotry of party, must allow that cer- 
 tain of the Whigs carried that Jarce to a very ridicu- 
 lous length. We fio-ure to ourselves some future his- 
 torian thus commenting on this very amusing affair. 
 
 " It is a singular proof of the facility with which 
 men can be brought by party feelings to adopt and 
 maintain the most preposterous opinions, that, dur- 
 ing the trial of the Queen, and up to the period of its 
 close, the nation Avas completely divided on the 
 question of her guilt or innocence, though the one or 
 the other must have been made manifest by the dis- 
 closures Avhich were made on that memorable occa- 
 sion ! It must have been not a little amusing to im- 
 partial men (of whom we fear there were few) to mark 
 with what grave solemnity and affecting appeals to
 
 29 
 
 honour, the Whig leaders represented the innocence 
 of her Majesty to be " pure as unsunned snow !" 
 while the opposite party maintained that she stood 
 convicted even on the testimony of her own witnesses 
 — a conclusion to which every unbiassed mind was 
 at length brouglit. Never was a more barefaced 
 hoax practised on the credulity of a nation. Never 
 did the Whigs give more just occasion to their 
 adversaries to call in question the soundness of their 
 principles and the integrity of their views. They 
 had evidently made an instrument of the unfortu- 
 nate Queen for the sinister purposes of party ; 
 though it must, in fairness, be allowed, that there 
 were temperate and unprejudiced men of Whig 
 principles, who blushed for this overacted fury of 
 their brethren, and trembled for the consequences. 
 Sedition stalked forth undismayed — the name of 
 Majesty had lost its sanctity — the nation was con- 
 vulsed, and stood as it were on the brink of a civil 
 war. The Tories mustered their forces and their 
 means. They now conceived that the time was 
 come when no method of attack, no weapon of 
 offence, should be spared against their adversaries, 
 whose audacity had infused a double portion of 
 bitterness and distrust into their minds. Accord- 
 ingly slander was resorted to, not only against the 
 private character of the Whigs, but even their wives, 
 sisters, and daughters ! The sanctity of domestic 
 privacy was invaded, and the reputation of defence- 
 less females blackened, and held forth to public
 
 30 
 
 contempt ! Truth, honour, dehcacy, were alike dis- 
 regarded, — all those feelings and courtesies which 
 govern men in civilized society were thrown aside, — 
 the coarsest and most vulgar epithets were applied — 
 BiUingsgate and St Giles could not have supplied 
 more choice specimens of blackguardism, — the as- 
 sailants, in short, exhibited a picture of human 
 malevolence sickening to the heart, and hardly 
 paralleled in savage life ! The Whigs were not 
 slow in retaliating; but, on this occasion, they fell 
 short of their opponents in the gentlemanly act of 
 flinging dirt about them ; though some of their 
 champions had been thought to be tolerably expert 
 at it. Such are the blessed fruits of party spirit — 
 such the glorious privileges of the liberty of the 
 press ! 
 
 " Though this demoniac spirit of party in some 
 degree subsided, it still left a rankling hatred behind 
 it, which no event, during this reign, could after- 
 wards fully allay. The leaders of the two parties 
 regarded each other as sworn enemies — in so far, at 
 least, as the loaves andjishes were concerned ; while 
 the ultra-partisans of each adopted a certain politi- 
 cal creed, to which they referred with as much 
 reverence as to ' proofs of holy writ !' " 
 
 Such, or something like them, will probably be 
 the reflections of some unborn historian on the vio- 
 lent spirit of party which disgraced the first years of 
 the reign of George the Fourth. 
 
 The following may be some of the leading articles
 
 31 
 
 of the political creeds, to which we suppose the said 
 historian to allude. 
 
 TORY CREED. 
 
 None but Tories can be depended upon as real 
 friends to king and constitution. 
 
 They are the only genuine supporters of the throne 
 and the altar — of legitimacy, of the sacred right of 
 kings, and of their impeccability. 
 
 A Whig is an enemy to religion, order, and good 
 government. 
 
 A Whig is not to be trusted in any shape what- 
 ever, for it is next to impossible that he can be an 
 honest man. 
 
 All the outcry of the Whigs about parliamentary 
 reform, economy, and so forth, is all lunnhug ; what 
 they want is to get into power — after which let re- 
 form and economy take care of themselves. 
 
 To jostle and jockey ministers is their sole aim. 
 
 The affair of Manchester and that of the Queen 
 Were got up for this purpose. The Queen was 
 thought to be an excellent stepping-stone by them ; 
 and accordingly a great effort was made ; their forces 
 were mustered, they called in the aid of the Radicals, 
 and every stratagem was put in requisition — but it 
 would not do. 
 
 Buonaparte was the idol of the Whigs ; they pro- 
 nounced him invulnerable, and nothing mortified 
 them so much as that the result of the battle of 
 Waterloo should have belied their prophecy.
 
 32 
 
 It is a trial of patience to a Tory to be in a private 
 party where there are Whigs ; but to go to one of 
 their public meetings would be downright contami- 
 nation. 
 
 WHIG CEEED. 
 
 A Tory is one who barters his conscience, and sur- 
 renders his judgment, for a place, a pension, or a 
 promise. 
 
 He is a slavish dependant — a hireling — a hanger- 
 on — a toad-eater — one ready to perform any dirty 
 work required of him by his employers. 
 
 He is a mere creature of legitimacy, and a wor- 
 shipper of the Holy Alliance — a foe to the sacred 
 and glorious maxim, that kings are made for the 
 people, not the people for kings. 
 
 To him white is black, and black white, if a mini- 
 ster or his patron but say so — and he will prove it, 
 too, if so required, like Drawcansir, at all hazards. 
 
 In his view a king can do no harm ; and, though, 
 in his character and actions, a Nero or a Heliogabu- 
 lus, still he is the Lord's anointed. 
 
 Whether in puffing a patron, or blackening an op- 
 ponent, a Tory has as little regard for truth as for 
 decency. 
 
 Candour, honesty, fairness, liberality, are not to be 
 found in his political vocabulary. 
 
 Such are the epithets and accusations which are 
 liberally l^andied by the ultras and bigots of the two 
 parties ; their tirades are estimated according to the
 
 33 
 
 quantum of personality and abuse with which they 
 are seasoned, and any thing hke candour or modera- 
 tion is thought feeble and imbecile. And yet, after 
 all, to make use of a vulgar but expressive phrase, 
 it is nothing but sheer humbug. The Tory wants 
 to keep his place, and the Whig would fain get into 
 it. This is the real bone of contention. Perhaps 
 the man least tinctured with the bigotry of party 
 spirit in the kingdom is he who holds the highest po- 
 litical station in it — and for this plain reason, that he 
 wants no additional emoluments, and is so surfeited 
 with honours and obeisances that he would often 
 gladly exchange his sceptre even for a distaii. Like 
 Solomon, he is old enough to see the nothingness of 
 these things ; and as to the balderdash of party, he 
 is, we dare say, heart-sick of it, and would, if he 
 could, bring about a reconciliation of all parties. But 
 that is impossible, except by one simple but imprac- 
 ticable expedient — namely, removing the temptation 
 to hunting after public offices and honours, by a 
 suitable reduction of the emoluments of the one, and 
 conferring the other on merit alone, without regard 
 to party. The great root of strife and animosity — 
 interest — being thus removed, Whigs and Tories 
 would very natvirally amalgamate, and become bro- 
 thers and friends. Strange transformations, both of 
 places and principles, would then be witnessed. Here 
 a disappointed and rapacious Tory would be seen 
 entering the ranks of opposition, and there a needy 
 Whig would be quietly stepping into his place. 
 
 b2
 
 34 
 
 The former would no longer see the danger of re- 
 form, nor the latter the necessity for it ! while all 
 the noisy, abusive libellous crew of underlings, no 
 longer encouraged to keep up a foolish farce, would 
 give vip their pens in despair.
 
 35 
 
 USES AND BENEFITS OF A NEWSPAPER. 
 
 This folio of four pages, happy work ! 
 
 "What is it but a map of human life, 
 
 Its fluctuations and its vast concerns ?" — Cow per. 
 
 We do not know whether our readers will agree in 
 opinion with us or not, but we have often conceived 
 a newspaper to be a far more extensively useful spe- 
 cies of publication than it is commonly esteemed to 
 be. The whole extent of usefulness which some dry, 
 plodding moralists are disposed to allow it, seems to 
 be — in addition to its advertising merits, — its capa- 
 city to gratify that eager passion, or restless craving 
 of human nature, yclept curiosity — without practi- 
 cal benefit to us, or such useful instruction as would 
 assist in forwarding our moral and professional in- 
 terests. This is an egregious mistake. Do not the 
 legislator, the lawyer, the soldier, the merchant, &c. 
 find innumerable lessons and illustrations of their pro- 
 fessions or pursuits in the columns of a newspaper ? 
 Do they not lay before us the current history of all 
 which relates to human affairs — the revolutions of 
 empires — the contentions of parties — the conflicts of 
 war — the march of science — the improvement of arts 
 and literature ? A newspaper is a sort of camera-ob- 
 scura, or magic-lantern, through which we behold all
 
 86 
 
 the great and little changes on the theatre of the world 
 — the bubbles which alternately sparkle and disappear 
 on the stream of time as it passes by us. Those v^ho 
 would narrow the benefits which flow from a news- 
 paper, do not, we presume, go very deeply into the 
 subject. A newspaper, in fact, is eminently use- 
 ful in numerous important respects, and in most of 
 the concerns of life. 
 
 What essential assistance literature receives from 
 a newspaper! — The divine, the philohopher, the poet, 
 the historian, — or at least their booksellers, who 
 may well be styled the gentlemen-ushers of science 
 and the muses, — regularly announce to the world, 
 through its columns, the forthcoming of those ele- 
 gant and Imninous works, which flow from their 
 jDens, to the great edification of mankind. Of the 
 important assistance which the historian of his own 
 time receives from these " chronicles of the times," 
 little need be said, as it is obvious that from them he 
 takes the substance of his work — the outhnes of the 
 picture he is about to draw, — which he has only to 
 fill up with the lights and shades which genius, elo- 
 quence — and sometimes prejudice — supply. Then 
 there are the statesman, the legislator— how infinitely 
 indebted are they, on many occasions, to the editor 
 of a newspaper, who, with the assistance of a clever re- 
 porter, most accommodatingly sits down in his par- 
 lour to pen for them brilliant speeches which they 
 never delivered, or at least embellish those which 
 they did deliver, with such finishing touches as were
 
 37 
 
 by no means, for obvious reasons, displeasing to the 
 orators. 
 
 With respect to the annals of private life — though 
 it be not meet that we should pry too minutely into 
 this branch of history — do they not, at times, through 
 the medium of a newspaper, furnish us with practical 
 maxims of wisdom, and lessons of moral conduct ? 
 When, for instance, we read of a gamester who has 
 been led by his losses to the commission of some act 
 which makes him seriously amenable to the laws of 
 his country — of a duellist who has fallen by the pistol 
 of his antagonist — or of a wedded couple, who have 
 agreed on ^friendly separation — the only affair in 
 which they could ever agree, — are we not naturally 
 reminded of, and of course warned against, the fatal 
 effects of habitual and desperate gambling, of a vio- 
 lent and vindictive spirit, and of that unconcUiat- 
 mg — we use a mild expression — sort of behaviour in 
 married life, which either freezes the heart into 
 apathy, or hurries it to violence. Every offence, 
 either against public law or private morals, we will 
 find frequently set forth in this moral register — to- 
 gether, at times, with the unhappy consequences of 
 those deviations from social duty. 
 
 If pondering on the frail tenure by which we hold 
 this fleeting life — on the uncertainty of all sublunary 
 possessions and enjoyments, we have no need to re- 
 sort to Hervey's Meditations, to Young's Night 
 Thoughts, or the sage and practical lessons of the 
 wisest of men, when the obituary of a newspaper
 
 38 
 
 supplies us with such impressive realities as the fol- 
 lowing : 
 
 On the , died suddenly, in the prime of life, 
 
 and in the apparent enjoyment of health and vigour, 
 Mr . 
 
 On the , the Right Hon. . He 
 
 enjoyed, at the time of his decease, more distinguish- 
 ed honours and lucrative employments than any 
 other man in the kingdom. 
 
 On the , in a fit of apoplexy, Mr Grub. 
 
 This man had amassed an immense hoard of wealth, 
 whicli his sordid parsimony would neither allow him- 
 self to enjoy, nor his fellow-creatures to reap the 
 least benefit from. 
 
 On the , Miss . This elegant and 
 
 fascinating young lady, so highly spoken of and 
 admired in the fashionable world, was to have been 
 led to the altar by the heir apparent of one of the 
 most distino-uished families in the kino-dom. She 
 fell a victim to a severe cold, caught on returning 
 from a splendid rout given by the Marchioness of 
 
 Besides this viemento-mor'i catalogue, what dis- 
 tressing accidents and shocking catastrophes, by 
 shipwrecks, fires, the overturning of coaches, the 
 foundering of boats, &c., do we not meet with in a 
 newspaper — all calculated to teach us a proper esti- 
 mate of human life ! 
 
 If we feel disposed to reflect and moralize on the 
 various conditions, fortunes, characters, and pursuits
 
 39 
 
 of mankind, we shall find a vast field for it in the 
 columns of a newspaper ; and, by way of rendering 
 this species of contemplation still more interesting, 
 we may occasionally place in contrast the dissimilar 
 items and notices which supply it. As, for ex- 
 ample : — 
 
 The present season has been an unusually gay 
 one in the capital ; the numerous routs, fetes, mas- 
 qvie-balls, and other fashionable entertainments, which 
 liave been given by our dashers of both sexes, have 
 been marked by a splendour and voluptuousness 
 unprecedented in the annals of fashion and gayety. 
 
 From various parts of the sister island afflicting 
 recitals are received of the wretched condition of 
 the peasantry. Numerous families are reduced to 
 the uttermost extremity of want, and are only pre- 
 served from absolute starvation by the scanty dona- 
 tions of the charitable few who are witnesses of their 
 raiser v. 
 
 General — and Colonel — are among 
 
 the most distinguished patrons of a certain house of 
 gambling notoriety, not a hundred miles from St 
 James'' Square, where the fickle goddess scatters, 
 with capricious hand, her thousands and ten thou- 
 sands among her midnight votaries. 
 
 The non-commissioned officers and privates of the 
 
 regiment of dragoon guards have generously 
 
 subscribed a day's pay each towards the relief of the
 
 40 
 
 widows and orphans of the brave fellows who fell in 
 the glorious battle of . 
 
 The late pastoral letter of the Right Reverend 
 
 the Bishop of breathes a spirit of universal 
 
 charity and of becoming humility, which reflects on 
 him the highest honour. The worthy prelate has 
 vested considerable sums in the public funds. His 
 Lordship is a strenuous opposer of the catholic and 
 dissenting claims. 
 
 Last week v/as distributed the benevolent donation 
 of ]\Ir Stock, to the ten poorest curates of the church 
 of England, some of whom have to support large 
 families on a stipend hardly equal to the income of a 
 working mechanic. 
 
 Mr , to Avhom serious charges of peculation, 
 
 in a certain situation, lately attached, has, we are as- 
 sured, had the offer of a borough from a certain 
 quarter. 
 
 Yesterday, a poor, wretched-looking woman Avas 
 fully committed by the sitting Magistrates for steal- 
 ing two quartern loaves, one of which she had parth' 
 devoured; as was also a half-famished man, for 
 taking a ham from the kitchen of the inn. 
 
 Mr , who last year came to the possession 
 
 of a vast estate, in consequence of a will surreptiti- 
 ously obtained, has been elected one of the mem-
 
 41 
 
 bers for the ancient, respectable, and independent 
 borough of . 
 
 But why need we multiply examples, when the 
 reader has only to turn over a file of newspapers to 
 find hundreds such ? 
 
 To descend from moral uses to corporeal benefits, 
 does not a newspaper punctually supply us with in- 
 formation where may be obtained infallible remedies 
 for every disorder which can afflict the human frame ? 
 — nay, where may be purchased, for a trifling sum, 
 panaceas applicable to almost every malady — to- 
 gether with chemical compositions for every possible 
 purpose ? Had it not been for the universality of a 
 newspaper, how many unfortunate martyrs of disease 
 would have remained in ignorance of the sanative 
 and health-dispensing virtues of Dr Brodum's and 
 Dr Solomon's sovereign remedies — not to mention 
 the many other regular and irregular members of 
 the faculty, who are so kind as to let us know, 
 through the medium of a newspaper, that they have 
 made certain wonderful discoveries in the science of 
 medicine, the result of long experience and deep re- 
 search, for the benefit of their fellow-creatures— and, 
 not the least important part of the affair — their own 
 great honour and emolument ! 
 
 Do we not also meet, in these useful repositories, 
 with accounts of innumerable discoveries and inven- 
 tions in the arts, conducive to the comfort, the con-
 
 42 
 
 venience, and the happiness of human life — from 
 Pack wood's far-famed razor-strop, and Turner's black- 
 ing, of superlative brilliancy, which even poets have 
 lauded — to that magnificent discovery, Rowland's 
 Macassar oil, which gives a glossy beauty and an au- 
 burn hue to locks unfavoured by nature, or blanched 
 by the hand of time — and those cosmetic prepara- 
 tions, of latest discovery, Avhich perpetuate the reign 
 of youth and beauty, and plant the rose on the cheek 
 and the lily on the neck, where only unsightly frec- 
 kles and the hue of saffron had lately been seen ? 
 
 What a benefit to mankind to be informed where we 
 may behold, at a cheap rate, whatever is most rare, 
 curious, and splendid in nature and art — where we 
 may borrow money on the most advantagemis terms — 
 where we may purchase sundry articles at half their 
 real value — where the best advice will be given, and 
 the most honourable secrecy observed, to applicants 
 of both sexes, in certain delicate situations — where we 
 may find either an agreeable companion, suited to 
 our taste, or a partner for life, of a disposition and 
 habits congenial to our own ! 
 
 But it would be an endless task to enumerate the 
 many incalculable advantages of a newspaper to all 
 classes and descriptions of mankind. We have mere- 
 ly stated tlie foregoing as a specimen of these, in or- 
 der to show how unthinking those are who would 
 circumscribe its merits. 
 
 And, then, in what picturesque contrast — in what 
 beautiful juxta/-position are the various articles fre-
 
 43 
 
 quently placed ! Take, for example, the following 
 items : — 
 
 Grand State Lottery Scheme. Proprietors of a 
 House of Gambling Notoriety bound over to appear 
 at the Sessions. 
 
 Crim. Con. in High Life. Owner of a House of 111 
 Fame indicted by tlie Society for the Suppression of 
 Vice. 
 
 Elopement to Gretna Green. Suing for a Divorce, 
 or a Man wanting to get rid of his Wife — ^being an 
 Illustration of the Words of an old Poet — 
 
 " Blarriage is like a rabble rout ; 
 Those who arc out want to get in. 
 And tliose who are in want to get out." 
 
 Luminous and eloquent Speech of Mr , on 
 
 the State of the Nation. Lottery Puff, introduced by 
 Moral Reflections on the Feminine Kindness of For- 
 tune to bold Adventurers. 
 
 Obituary. Eouts and other Fashionable Parties, 
 
 Extracts from Lord Byron's last Poem. Lines 
 laudatory of Warren's Blacking. 
 
 The new Novel. Improved Lobster Sauce. 
 
 Valuable Collection of ancient Coins and Intaglias. 
 A Hoax. 
 
 Vaccine Establishment. Preservation of Female 
 Beauty. 
 
 Suicide. Art of prolonging Life. 
 
 Important Benefits of the genuine Balm of Gilead. 
 Humbug Extraordinary.
 
 44 
 
 Authentic Account of Carlile's Trial, including his 
 Commentaries on the Scriptures. Prosecution for 
 the Sale of Blasphemous Wiitings. 
 
 The circulation of newspapers has been increased 
 to an astonishing extent within the last quarter of a 
 century. This prodigious increase is mainly to be 
 attributed to the important events produced by the 
 French revolution. Buonaparte was the greatest 
 promoter of the circulation of newspapers in modern 
 times, notwithstanding that many of them were in 
 the constant habit of abusing him. For our part, 
 we humbly conceive, that the least their proprietors 
 and editors can do, now that so active a friend of 
 their interests and vocation has paid the debt of 
 nature, is to erect a monument or statue to his me- 
 mory. The Holy Alliance are also likely to furnish 
 matter for the newspapers. Peace and concord 
 among mankind Avould, indeed, be as fatal to the 
 interests of the proprietors of the public prints, as to 
 those of the gentlemen of the law. They would then 
 have to draw more largely on their inventive powers 
 for food for the curiosity of the public. Literature 
 is a great help to them at the present day. Every 
 editor of a newspaper must now be a critic ; the 
 discussing the merits of a new book helps to fill up 
 many a " dreary void"" in its columns. 
 
 To be serious — newspapers have as much im- 
 proved in spirit and intelligence, as they have in- 
 creased in circulation, v/ithin the period we have 
 mentioned, This is not to be wondered at ; all
 
 45 
 
 things have progressively improved — why then 
 should not newspapers ? Many, or most of the 
 editors, are men of education and talent, and the 
 reporters are in no respect inferior to the editors. 
 
 A newspaper now is become a sort of freehold, a 
 share in which may be either sold, bartered, or be- 
 queathed, like any other property. The property 
 in some newspapers is valued as high as from 
 L.40,000 to L.50,000, and they sometimes yield 
 a profit of from fifteen to twenty per cent, on their 
 estimated value. — So much for newspapers.
 
 46 
 
 LIBERALISM. 
 
 " When we observe any tendency to treat religion or morals witii 
 disrespect and levity, let us hold it to be a sure indication of a 
 perverted understanding or a depraved heart."— Dn Blair. 
 
 The present age is, unquestionably, in many re- 
 spects, what may be called a liberal age. Liberal 
 encouragement is given to arts, science, and litera- 
 ture, under which they have flourished, and been 
 greatly and surprisingly extended. Liberal ideas 
 prevail in religion, politics, and juiisprudence, — 
 though not, perhaps, so liberally put in practice 
 as could be desired ; and liberal efforts have been 
 made to improve the condition of all classes of man- 
 kind. This ha§, also, by a noble lord, been styled 
 the " Age of Bronze," — a title not without point ; 
 for certainly many bold and strange things have been 
 said and done in it, but perhaps by none more than 
 by the noble lord himself. But of this anon. 
 
 The plain and literal meaning of the v/ord li- 
 beral every one knows, yet there is hardly one 
 in the English language which, at the present dav, 
 bears such various and discordant interpretations. 
 In politics, there is Tory liberality. Whig liberality,
 
 47 
 
 and Radical liberality,*— all differing in kind and 
 degree. Then there is, in religion, the liberality of 
 the High Churchman, the Roman Catholic, the 
 Unitarian, the Methodist, and other denominations 
 of pious Christians ; and, lastly, the superlative 
 liberality of those who put faith in no religion, and 
 are even in doubt as to the existence of their own 
 souls and of a Divine Providence ! 
 
 The Whig thinks the Tory a bigot in politics 
 — in other words, a man of no liberality ; while 
 the Tory opines that Whig liberality is nothing 
 more than cant and pretence ; and accordingly he 
 has affixed a sinister meaning to it, in the same 
 manner as he has to the word Radical, which, ac- 
 cording to the new political nomenclature, signifies 
 Jacobin and Revolutionist. The Radical professes 
 to have a better opinion of Tory than of Whig 
 Hberality, because the latter Avill not go all lengths 
 with him in the work of reform. " The Tories,'^ 
 say they, " are at least open, manly, and consis- 
 tent, — they speak what they think, and adhere to 
 their principles ; while the Whigs are mere men of 
 pretence and humbug, — selfish, whining, vacillat- 
 ing — with no other view than to jostle and elbow 
 out the Tories, if they can, that they may slip into 
 their places — and then a fig for economy and reform. 
 The Tories believe that the Holy Alliance are 
 guided by wise and liberal views, though they do 
 not choose openly to advocate their doctrines of 
 divine right and non-resistance — that the legislature
 
 48 
 
 have already been sufficiently liberal to the Catho- 
 lics, and have got little thanks for their pains— 
 that Englishmen enjoy a too liberal share of free- 
 dom in some respects, especially the freedom of the 
 press, of which they do not make a very liberal or 
 temperate use — that, in short, the laws and all the 
 institutions of the country are as unexceptionably 
 liberal as could be devised. 
 
 The Whigs think that the Holy Alliance are liberal 
 in nothing but promises to their subjects, extracted 
 from them, in a moment of danger, by their dread of 
 a great conqueror, of whom, by the loyalty and bra- 
 very of those very subjects, they at length got rid — 
 that government is liberal in little else than in spend- 
 ing the people's money — that the laws are liberal only 
 in heaping up expenses against all Avho require its 
 aid — that the constitution has been very liberally in- 
 vaded, altered, and disfigured, — and that the hire- 
 lings of ministers are liberally paid for abusing and 
 revilins: all those who find fault with their mea- 
 sures. 
 
 Such are a few of the political applications of the 
 word liberal, which, though so much at variance, 
 are very natural and quite consonant to the feelings 
 and views of the respective parties. 
 
 On the subject of religious liberality we have a 
 very wide field on which we might expatiate. We 
 shall not, however, stop to inquire what religious 
 classes are most liberal in their views of the proper 
 duties of a Christian, — which by some would be 
 
 6
 
 49 
 
 thought not quite Hberal, — but we will state what 
 we conceive to be the character of a liberal-minded 
 and rationally pious Christian. 
 
 Such a man reverences his Maker with true de- 
 voutness of heart, and offers to him that homage of 
 his worship which his conscience and judgment 
 point out as the fittest ; while he at the same time 
 fulfils all those duties towards his fellow-men which 
 the Christian precepts enjoin. He does not, like 
 the fanatic and the bigot, doom another to the 
 eternal punishment of another world, because of a 
 different way of thinking from himself, or because 
 not so perfect as it is thought we should be to se- 
 cure the favour of Heaven. He knows that the 
 errors, either of doctrine or of conduct, of a brother 
 mortal, as far as regards a future state, lie between 
 his God and him, and that it is not for man to mete 
 out the future judgments of the Almighty, or to 
 pronounce visible calamities the manifestations of his 
 wrath, — as if he had been admitted into his coun- 
 cils and was commissioned to reveal them ! Pre- 
 sumptuous impiety ! to pretend to set bounds to 
 infinite mercy — to snatch the thunderbolt from the 
 hands of the Most High, and pronounce for what 
 purposes the winged lightning, the tempest, the 
 earthquake, or the pestilence was sent ! In his 
 view, love, charity, justice, mercy, between man 
 and man, are more pleasing in the sight of Heaven, 
 than sacrifice and ceremony. He is an eneni}' to 
 intolerance in any shape ; as he deems it impious to 
 
 c
 
 50 
 
 denounce the divine wrath on his fellow-mortals, 
 so is he equally repugnant to all pains and penalties, 
 of man's ordaining, on account of religious opinions. 
 Against wicked and wanton blasphemy alone would 
 he have the arm of authority interposed — not for a 
 vindictive, but beneficent purpose — as a protection 
 to society, a safeguard to the morals, the happiness, 
 the hopes of mankind. Such a man is as opposite 
 to the hypocrite, the mere pretender to sanctity, — 
 wdio, clothing himself in the garb of holiness, exacts 
 a respect to which he is not entitled, — as the hght of 
 noonday is to the gloom of midnight. Such, in short, 
 is the rational, liberal, sincere Christian, which title 
 embraces all that is excellent and amiable in human 
 nature. But, if mankind were abandoned to a 
 heartless scepticism — if they threw off all religious 
 hope and dependence, and disbelieved in a future 
 state, and in the mercies of an over-ruling Provi- 
 dence, we should in vain look for such a character 
 — or, if here and there we met with a solitary ex- 
 ample of native integrity and beneficence, we should 
 find the great mass of mankind utterly deteriorated 
 and demoralized, abandoned to their passions — with- 
 out principle, without the reciprocities of kindness 
 or of confidence. No rational person, we think, 
 can for a moment doubt that such would be the 
 result of the destruction of religious principles and 
 religious feelings among a people. 
 
 What, then, shall we think of that modern school 
 of free-thinkers, self-styled Liberals, who are perpe-
 
 51 
 
 tually stunning our ears with sarcasms on tlie Chris- 
 tian rehgion — who tell us it is nothing but a farce — 
 that all that we are taught respecting it is mere child- 
 ish invention — the bugbear of weak and bigoted 
 minds — that all who attribute moral rectitude, even 
 in part, to the influence of religion, are rank hypo- 
 crites and pretenders ? Certainly, either that they are 
 very weak, or very bad men. The Liberals take 
 care to avoid any ground on Avhich they may be fairly 
 met; they rarely bring forward any thing in the 
 shape of argument which may be answered and re- 
 futed, — but deal mainly in sneer and general reviling, 
 which admit of no reply. 
 
 Were the enemies of religion confined to such cha- 
 racters as Carlile, who make their hatred and revil- 
 ings of it subservient to their interests, it would ex- 
 cite no other feeling than scorn and contempt ; but 
 when we see a man of highly-gifted mind employing 
 his great talents in the dissemination of impiety and 
 ribaldry, how must we lament their perversion and 
 debasement ! The Liberals — we do not use the term 
 as applied to mere political opinions — no doubt look 
 up to a noble Lord, of high poetical celebrity, as a 
 sort of leader or chieftain|; — and certainly his Lord- 
 ship has been at no small pains to acquire a title to 
 that distinction. Every new poem he puts forth, of 
 an anti-religious, anti-moral, anti-social tendency, is 
 hailed by the Liberals as a splendid triumph over 
 cant and hypocrisy. It would be worth while to 
 examine the meaning of this word canty about which
 
 52 
 
 so great a fuss is made by the noble Lord, and 
 his brother Liberals. In our judgment, it applies 
 to the pretensions and advocacy of certain prin- 
 ciples and opinions, which have, or are supposed 
 to have, some paramount merit, by persons whose 
 characters and actions belie their professions, and 
 shew the hollowness of their reasonino-s in favour of 
 their system. It is, in short, applicable to all hypo- 
 crites and pretenders, religious, moral, and political. 
 But to apply it indefinitely, would be to assume that 
 there is neither piety, virtvie, nor patriotism in the 
 world — a most revolting proposition, happily refuted 
 by the history of mankind in ail times. Experience 
 shews that among the human race there are good, 
 bad, and indifferent characters, in every rank and 
 station, and this, w^e have reason to believe, has al- 
 ways been the case. If there are hypocrites and pre- 
 tenders, so also are there men who really are what 
 they would appear to be — benefactors and examples 
 to their fellow-men. We feel as much contempt for 
 the cant and whining of hypocrites and pretenders as 
 his Lordship can do ; but if any one attempted to 
 persuade us that all men were alike pretenders, we 
 should certainly suspect that he had not been conver- 
 sant Avith the choicest of his species, or that there 
 was something in his own character on which he 
 grounded such a conclusion. Were his Lordship's 
 views and opinions of the character and destiny of 
 the human race to take root in their minds, what 
 would be the result .'' misery, hatred and distrust
 
 o3 
 
 t^ 
 
 would be multiplied in the world, society would be 
 unfit to live in, and life would be a burden and a 
 punishment. Why seek to heap up the load of hu- 
 man misery, as if life had not a sufficiency of evil 
 and suffering in it without such addition ? What 
 kind of a spirit must that be which would prompt us 
 — because desolate, discontented, miserable ourselves 
 — alike unhappy in this world, and without hope in 
 another, — to bring down our fellow-mortals on a level 
 with us ? If this is liberalism. Heaven defend us 
 against it. 
 
 While the noble Lord so liberally applies the word 
 cant to all whose opinions are at variance with his 
 own, it would be well if he looked at home. Is there 
 no cant in all this gratuitous outcry against moral and 
 religious professions, and this trumpeting forth of his 
 own liberality ? To our conception this appears the 
 Avorst of all cant, the most unsufferable of all egotism. 
 For what purpose is all this studied display of mis- 
 anthropy and scorn for mankind, and contempt for 
 their opinions and professions, but to gratify the 
 vanity of being thought a man of superlative genius 
 — a lofty and daring spirit — a bright but eratic star 
 in this our hemisphere of darkness .'' — for we cannot 
 have so poor an estimate of his Lordship's under- 
 standing as to suppose that he does not perceive the 
 pernicioustendency of some of his later productions, 
 nor so bad an opinion of his heart as to suppose that 
 he would promulgate them for the sole purpose of 
 mischief.
 
 54 
 
 We admire the noble Lord's great genius — we ad- 
 mire the splendour, the loftiness of his almost un- 
 equalled productions ; but we condemn his utter 
 want of sympathy (real or affected) for mankind, his 
 heartless scepticism, and, above all, the reckless and 
 persevering audacity with which he circulates profa- 
 nity and the grossest indecencies. How lamentable 
 to behold a highly-gifted mind, capable of embellish- 
 ing and giving dignity to the most exalted themes, 
 thus ministering to infidelity, and pandering to a de- 
 praved taste ! We have, it is true, no right to cen- 
 sure his Lordship for entertaining maxims and opi- 
 nions injurious to religion and morals — with him and 
 his opinions the world has nothing to do, — but we 
 have a right to call in question the propriety of his 
 publishing to the world writings of an irreligious and 
 immoral tendency, more especially if with a deter- 
 mined mischievous activity, as if utterly regardless 
 of the consequences. The question is not, Avhether 
 these writings would have a deteriorating influence on 
 the characer of a few men of superior minds, but 
 whether they would not corrupt and demoralize the 
 great mass of mankind. His Lordship, for example, 
 may be — and it is alleged he is — a man of generous 
 feelings ; but that is no proof either that this trait of 
 character is the result of his opinions, or that, if it 
 were, they would produce a similar effect on men's 
 minds in general. His Lordship's ample fortune 
 enables him to be generous without any extraordi- 
 nary efibrt of self-denial ; and the pride of birth.
 
 55 
 
 and rank, and the high eminence he has attained as 
 a poet, must naturally raise him above Avhatever is 
 base or grovelling. But Lord Byron, in respect to 
 the rare union of rank, fortune, fame, and talent, is 
 as one to fifty thousand of the human race : the ge- 
 neral motives to rectitude of conduct among mankind 
 are the respect of the world, the approval of con- 
 science, and the hopes of a happier existence beyond 
 the grave — all which would be destroyed by the 
 deadening influence of sceptical doctrines, and the 
 heartless persuasion of the nullity and hoUowness of 
 all human merit. Those observations cannot have 
 escaped his Lordship's penetrating mind. How then, 
 it may be asked, can he so far forget what he owes to 
 his country, to mankind, and himself, as to put forth 
 to the world publications, the gross indecency, the 
 vulgar ribaldry of Avhich even his warmest admirers 
 have not failed to condemn ? Indeed, when we first 
 read certain cantos of Don Juan, we were inclined to 
 suspect that they were not the production of his 
 Lordship, but of some impostor who had audacious- 
 ly published them under his name. Is it possible, 
 we asked, that such trash could have emanated from 
 the same mind which gave birth to Childe Harold, 
 the Corsair, the Bride of Abydos ? But so it is — the 
 poems are avowedly his, and his Lordship can best 
 answer the question we have here put. He has bold- 
 ly set the opinions of the world at defiance — he pro- 
 fesses himself a despiser of mankind—mankind will 
 be even with him — they will smile at the estimate
 
 56 
 
 formed of them by one whose writings and opinions 
 are calculated to make them far worse than even he 
 supposes them to be ! 
 
 With respect to the common fraternity of Liberals, 
 as they are pleased to style themselves, there is little 
 danger, we conceive, to be apprehended from their 
 attacks on religion and morals, except when brought 
 into notoriety by imprudent prosecutions. The 
 truest wisdom perhaps would be, to let them write 
 and talk as much as they pleased, provided they ab- 
 stained from downright blasphemy ; they and their 
 vituperations would soon shrink into insignificance, if 
 thus left to find their proper level. It is only when 
 reinforced and kept in countenance by a distinguish- 
 ed genius, hke his Lordship, that they are likely to 
 be very mischievous. 
 
 In what we have here said, we advocate the princi- 
 ples of no party ; we have kept the bewildering 
 subject of politics altogether out of view — we have 
 no wish to offend his Lordship — we can have no pos- 
 sible motive for doing so, for we are utter strangers 
 to him, except in so far as we have been made ac- 
 quainted with him through his writings ; of his pri- 
 vate character we have heard of some very honour- 
 able traits : — These remarks have, in short, been call- 
 ed forth solely by the conscientious belief, that cer- 
 tain writings, which have lately appeared under his 
 Lordship"'s name, are calculated to injure the best in- 
 terests of mankind. We can only say, that, while 
 we lament the misapplication of his great and
 
 57 
 
 splendid talents, we indulge a hope that he will ere 
 lonir see the fault into which he has fallen, and re- 
 deem it in a manner worthy of his genius and his 
 fame. 
 
 We have sometimes, indeed, been inclined to think, 
 that his Lordship is desirous of making himself ap- 
 pear Avorse than he really is. There is an amusing 
 sort of affectation — not yet noticed by moralists or 
 satirists — of being thought not what Ave sJiould be, 
 but what we should not be, produced, we suppose, 
 by the apprehension of being thought hypocrites and 
 pretenders. We have heard of a parson, who, to 
 avoid being thought sanctified, swaggered, swore, and 
 got half seas over, when in company. There is a 
 species of hypocrisy even in this assumed vulga- 
 rity. At the present day there is a strange taste for 
 Avhat may be called literary balderdash, — to which 
 some periodical and other writers, Avho wish to be 
 thought devilish clever, are in the habit of pandering. 
 This taste has by no means the merit of novelty to 
 recommend it — it is in fact nothing but an oldjhshioti 
 revived, with some improvements. Like other fa- 
 shionable monstrosities, it will have its day, and pro- 
 bably be succeeded by a purer and more rational 
 taste. Should a fragment of the precious stuff with 
 which the present public is sometimes entertained 
 find its way down to posterity, it Avill no doubt be 
 quoted as an illustration of the coarse and barbarous 
 manners of the age. 
 
 c2
 
 o6 
 
 NOVELS. 
 
 Novels grow tedious, but, by choice or chance, 
 
 I still had interest in the wild romance : 
 
 There is an age, we know, when tales of love 
 
 Form the sweet pabulum our hearts approve ; 
 
 Then as we read we feel ; and are indeed, 
 
 We judge, the heroic men of whom we read ; 
 
 But in our after life these fancies fail. 
 
 We cannot be the heroes of the tale. C'rabbe. 
 
 Novels have long been a favourite and fashionable 
 source of amusement in the female world. During 
 the last half century, these productions have multi- 
 plied, under the special patronage of the ladies, with 
 a rapidity, and to an extent, almost incalculable. And 
 yet it would seem that the annual contributions to 
 the list are by no means diminished, though one 
 would be inclined to think that the field of invention 
 was completely ransacked and exhausted to discover 
 new characters, scenes, and situations, calculated to 
 give our later novels the air and appearance of no- 
 velty. A great proportion of these productions soon 
 drop into the stream of oblivion, and are heard of no 
 more ; while new ones are still eagerly sought for, 
 read with avidity, and are then thrown aside on the 
 shelf, unless buoyed up by some extraordinary merit, 
 as useless and forgotten lumber. Many even of
 
 59 
 
 those which have flowed from the pen of a master 
 hand, will, when their brief hovu* of popidarity has 
 passed away, quietly repose in the tomb of all the 
 Capulets. 
 
 Novels will ever be acceptable to the fair sex, 
 while they present to their imagination such views 
 of life and manners as are consonant to their taste, 
 sentiments, and pursuits. There are few females 
 who do not consider a novel as an indispensable com- 
 panion, and necessary appendage of the library or 
 the boudoir. This literary mania, if we may so term 
 it, is not confined to any particular sphere of life, 
 but pervades every rank and condition of- persons 
 whose avocations permit them to devote a portion of 
 their time to reading. Not one female in twenty 
 who has devoured a few of our modern novels, but 
 imbibes a certain fondness for them ; and there are 
 few, with any pretensions to literary taste and acu- 
 men, who are pretty extensively conversant with 
 this department of literature, that do not consider 
 themselves fully qualified to criticise their various 
 merits. This verbal criticism is no doubt highly 
 flattering to some, as, however correct or discrimi- 
 nating, it is at least calculated to display the extent 
 of their literary acquirements, and may impress their 
 friends with a favourable opinion of their taste, ge- 
 nious, and sagacity. From critics, the transition to 
 authors is quite natural ; and, accordingly, we find 
 that at least two-thirds of our novels are theproduction 
 of females, who, we may naturally suppose, had been
 
 60 
 
 in the previous habit of thus studying and criticising 
 their admired models. That these productions pos- 
 sess much various and unequal merit will naturally 
 be supposed. The interest and elegance of a novel 
 must depend of course on the genius, information, 
 and intellectual taste of the fair authoress. Novel- 
 writing is, indeed, a species of composition peculiarly 
 adapted to the taste and talents of the imaginative 
 class of well-informed females — a class, by the bye, 
 more numerous in that sex, than among the lords of' 
 the creation — and we may venture to assert, that the 
 most perfect models of it are the production of their 
 pens. Ladies are now living, whose works do honour 
 to the sex, and abvmdantly prove, that, with care and 
 culture, the female mind is capable of the highest 
 efforts. 
 
 The first English novels of any note that appear- 
 ed were those of Fielding and Smollett, which still 
 hold a place in the libraries, and are sought after 
 and read, though not with that intense interest which 
 they once excited, being in some measure supersed- 
 ed by the numerous performances of the same kind 
 which have appeared since the days of those writers. 
 It is difficult to say to which of those authors Ave 
 should assign the palm of superiority. Their novels 
 are equally distinguished for diversity of humorous 
 and entertaining characters and incidents. We meet 
 with no revolting improbabilities in them — no mon- 
 sters of pei-fection — no supernatural agency — no un- 
 heard-of adventures — every thing appears to be
 
 61 
 
 within the pale of nature, and requires no extraor- 
 dinary stretch of credibility on the part of the reader. 
 Some, however, maintain that these writers do not 
 always faithfully adhere to nature in their delinea- 
 tions of men and manners, but that, in their fond- 
 ness for Avhim, outre description, and originality of 
 character, they are too prone to launch into the gri- 
 mace and extravagance of caricature ; some of tlieir 
 most prominent characters and incidents they ad- 
 duce as examples in support of this remark. It may 
 also be observed, that they are too often tempted by 
 this oddity-hunting hvnnour to overstep the line of 
 decorum, and offend their readers with a grossness 
 and vulgarity which might well have been spared. 
 On the whole, however, it is universally admitted, 
 and with great justice, that the novels of these writ- 
 ers are masterly performances, containing much in- 
 teresting matter, and exhibiting a variety of instruc- 
 tive portraits of human life, in all its diversity of ele- 
 vated and humble, serious and comic. It is but jus- 
 tice to add, that they uniformly tend to inculcate 
 principles of truth, honour, and integrity. 
 
 Richardson is the author of a species of novels dif- 
 fering very materially from those we have just de- 
 scribed, and which have given birth to inundations of 
 insipid, sentimental trash, in the way of imitation. 
 Indeed, the original itself is by no means calculated 
 to create and support a very lively interest in the 
 reader ; for there are few, we believe, who have wad- 
 ed through the voluminous prolixity of Sir Charles
 
 G2 
 
 Grandison that would desire to repeat the labour. 
 The author certainly wrote with a good intention ; 
 but some of his characters could hardly be said to be 
 beings of this world. He embodies ideas of perfec- 
 tion, and shadows of virtue — contrasted with some 
 atrocities and grossnesses — which have no existence 
 but in his imagination. But though he has thus de- 
 viated from the track of nature, it may justly be said, 
 that his writings are not merely inoffensive, but really 
 calculated to do good, by holding up to us models of 
 a moral perfection, which, however visionary, are 
 pleasing in contemplation, and which, though few or 
 none can attain, all may yet aspire to approach. 
 Richardson's style is allowed to be smooth, elegant, 
 and correct — seldom above or below mediocrity. 
 
 Since the time of these writers a host of novelists, 
 (the greater number females) have sprung up, whose 
 countless productions have unceasingly poured in on 
 the world, until the very epithet novel has become 
 a misnomer when applied to the great bulk of them. 
 Thev, of course, vary in their pretensions to merit 
 in the proportion as their authors differed in the na- 
 tural and acquired advantages of the mind. Some 
 may be said to have been still-born, others stifled 
 soon after birth, a large proportion prematurely ar- 
 rested in their progress to celebrity, while a small 
 and select number have attained the summit of re- 
 pute, and are consecrated in the temple of fame. Of 
 these last there are some eminent examples of living- 
 authors.
 
 63 
 
 Those who have a taste for novels, and have read 
 the elegant productions of Madame D' Arblay, former- 
 ly Miss Burney, will recall with pleasure the agree- 
 able entertainment these volumes must have afforded 
 them. This lady certainly possesses, in a very emi- 
 nent degree, the happy art of creating a lively in- 
 terest in the minds of her readers, leading them 
 eagerly on, through an artful involution of plot, and 
 a skilful management of incident, to the denouement 
 of her piece. Of this her Cecilia and Evelina are strik- 
 ing examples. These will perhaps ever be esteemed 
 as models in this line of writing : they possess all 
 the essentials that constitute its excellence : as works 
 of imagination, they abound in brilliant touches and 
 beautiful imagery, and, with respect to moral ten- 
 dency, no performances can be more unexception- 
 able. 
 
 Mrs Charlotte Smith, though somewhat inferior to 
 IVIadame D'Arblay in the finish of her pieces, may 
 yet be ranked in the first class of female novel- 
 writers. 
 
 A contemporary of these ladies, Mrs Radcliff, en- 
 deavoured to excite terror and astonishment in the 
 minds of her readers by means of wonders and my- 
 steries, — in other words, awaken a livelier interest 
 and more intense curiosity than could be done by a 
 train of common events ; and for a time she had 
 many admirers, as well as imitators, but no equals. 
 Her style is glowing, and her imagery and incidents 
 })owerful and startling.
 
 Monk Lewes, and others of the same school, wrote 
 such frightful and appaUing stories, mixed up with 
 profligacy and crime, as to excite unmeasured horror 
 and disgust. There is a certain class of readers 
 whose impure taste requires something liigfi-seasoned, 
 and to that taste the writers of this school think it 
 not beneath them to minister. The rage for this de- 
 scription of novels seems now exploded ; though the 
 Reverend Mr Matvu'in lately attempted to revive it 
 in his " Melmoth, or the Wanderer" — in which he 
 has so far out-heroded most of his predecessors as to 
 excite an unmingled feeling of disgust in every class 
 of readers. Even allowing his high-wrought pictures 
 to be those of nature, still they are not the less re- 
 volting to feeling. It must be a distempered taste 
 which would lead a man into church-yards and char- 
 nel-houses, to watch the opening of graves, and gloat 
 over skulls and thigh-bones, in preference to walking 
 amidst the Avide range of nature'^s cheerful domain, 
 where all around him was pregnant with life, beauty, 
 and freshness. With respect to Mrs Shelly''s Frank- 
 enstein, it is, in monstrosity and extravagance, a 
 worthy rival of the German school of romance. For 
 our part, when we read one of those wild produc- 
 tions, we are apt to ask — is this the work of a ra- 
 tional, a sane mind — or of one that has sometimes 
 wild flights ? 
 
 With what pleasure must the reader of taste turn 
 from novels of this cast to that beautiful, rational, 
 touching little work, the Vicar of Wakefield ! — a tale
 
 65 
 
 excelled by none, and equalled by few, in sweetness 
 and genuine feeling. If we were to name the three 
 tales with which we were in early life most delight- 
 ed, it would be the Vicar of Wakefield, Paul and 
 Virginia, by St Fierre, and the Exiles of Siberia, by 
 Madame Cottin. 
 
 During the French revolution a class of novels 
 sprung up, both in England and on the continent, 
 of a very pernicious tendency. With great power of 
 language, and impassioned and seductive appeals to 
 the heart, their writers inculcated the doctrines of 
 the new philosophy — a leading theory of which was 
 the perfectahilittj of our nature, independent of esta- 
 blished usages and the restraints of religion, which 
 they pronounced to be unnatural and antiquated pre- 
 judices! The productions of this school, of M-hich 
 Godwin was a distinguished disciple, would no doubt 
 have produced incalculable mischief to the morals of 
 the rising generation, had not a better description of 
 \vriters, in the same walk of literature, counteracted, 
 in a great degree, their effect. This class of novels 
 is now happily in little repute, being superseded by a 
 superior order of works of fancy, which have suc- 
 ceeded in restoring a purer taste and more correct 
 principles. 
 
 In the present day we have some very eminent 
 novelists, both male and female. The latter are the 
 most numerous, and, with a single exception, perhaps 
 the most successful. In powerful delineation of cha- 
 racter, and able management of plot and incident,
 
 66* 
 
 Miss Edgeworth stands foremost among our latest 
 female novelists. Both our leading Reviews speak in 
 high terras of her very eminent talents ; though the 
 Quarterly censures her for excluding all religious feel- 
 ing and influence from her moral agencies. Though 
 this charge is true, it must at the same time be allowed 
 that she nowhere glances even an irreverent thought 
 at religion, and her morality is without stain. Next to 
 Miss Edgeworth, we must say we admire Mrs Opie, 
 for her tenderness, simplicity, and pathos. There 
 are, however, many other female novehsts of the pre- 
 sent day, who, in the opinion of their readers, divide 
 the palm with those ladies. 
 
 It is remarkable, that, up to the year 1810, no 
 novels of any celebrity, excepting those of Smollett, 
 Moore, and Mackenzie, were written by natives of 
 Scotland ; though, since that period, a considerable 
 number — some of which of the very first character 
 — have been produced by writers of that country, 
 both male and female. Among those who have pre- 
 eminently shone in this walk of literature, a writer 
 has appeared, of extraordinary powers, whose nu- 
 merous and much-admired productions have left all 
 others far behind in the race of popularity. This 
 great Unknozon, as he is styled, though he seems 
 now pretty well known — this phenomenon in litera- 
 ture — this mighty wizard, the power of whose spell 
 is so widely felt and universally acknowledged, has 
 excited an interest and curiosity almost unprece- 
 dented in the annals of letters. The mysticism in
 
 67 
 
 which he has contrived to wrap himself, and the 
 rapidity with which he ushers in his productions, 
 have greatly contributed to sharpen and keep alive 
 this intense interest. It became fashionable in 
 conversation to discuss, not only the merits of the 
 new novels, but the question — who is the author 
 of them ? — one party espousing one opinion, and 
 another a different one, according to their parti- 
 cular ways of thinking. This latter question seems 
 now, as has been said, to be set at rest : almost every 
 voice assigns those wonderful productions to a well- 
 known Scotch Baronet, who held a distinguished 
 place in the republic of letters prior to the appear- 
 ance of Waverley. The opinion we have formed on 
 the subject is, that Sir Walter Scott is the primum 
 mohile — the great lever which puts in motion the 
 machine, and the master spirit which directs its 
 movements ; but that he has subordinate agents 
 who assist him in the minor operations. On the 
 merits of those celebrated productions there seems to 
 be, among the bulk of readers, a variety of opinions ; 
 among men of letters but one opinion. All agree 
 that, in point of plot, they are very deficient; in 
 this respect the author is indeed excelled by writers 
 of far inferior talent and powers. But in the de- 
 scriptive — whether it be the delineation of character, 
 the defining of costume and manners, or the pictur- 
 ing of whatever is sublime and touching in nature — = 
 he unquestionably leaves all competitors at a great 
 distance behind him. In some of his pieces he avails
 
 68 
 
 liimself a little too mvich of the power of supernatural 
 agency : the less of this in a novel the better ; it 
 may have its interest with a certain class of readers ; 
 but, beyond these, it can have no charm or interest. 
 This great author has been accused, and in part, 
 indeed, convicted of misrepresenting individuals 
 and bodies of men, and even perverting historical 
 facts. It is not, perhaps, necessary in novels that 
 historical facts should be rigidly adhered to on all 
 .occasions ; but when the deviation from them leads 
 to the injustice of vilifying the memory of men who 
 have deserved well of their country, it is a most un- 
 pardonable offence. We particularly allude to the 
 odious light in which the author has chosen to re- 
 present the Covenanters to us. There were no 
 doubt many fierce and fanatical characters among 
 them ; but were there not also men who might be 
 regarded as the faithful and intrepid martyrs of a 
 just cause — men, to whose patriotism, fortitude, and 
 perseverance, under a persecution disgraceful to a 
 civilized nation, we are in part indebted for the 
 liberty, laws, and religion we now enjoy.'* If they 
 committed excesses, were they not driven to them 
 by the war of persecution, and the horrible cruelties 
 exercised on them .? What body of men, even in the 
 present day, so iniqviitously dealt by as they w^ere, 
 would suffer their wrongs with a meek, enduring 
 spirit ? And what were their persecutors ? Blood- 
 stained oppressors, who remorselessly butchered a 
 defenceless people, because they chose to worship 
 
 I
 
 69 
 
 their Creator according to the dictates of their con- 
 science — a ci'ime, forsootli, in tliose barbarous days, 
 but in reahty a sacred and most indispensable duty. 
 In short, the endeavour to make this persecuted 
 people appear odious and contemptible, while their 
 arch-persecutor, the sanguinary Clavei'house, is ex- 
 alted to the dignity of a hero, was altogether un- 
 worthy of a great genius, who ought to be above 
 the petty influence of party spirit. 
 
 "With this solitary exception, this great novelist 
 has done ample justice to all his characters and to 
 human nature. He has amply redeemed this single 
 defect by the happy manner in which he has put 
 forth his good-humoured and benevolent views of 
 life and manners. There is none of that bitterness 
 and keen and biting satire, in his exhibition of cha- 
 racter, which mark some novels ; but such mixture 
 of good and evil — such faults, peculiarities, and 
 oddities, softened down by redeeming traits of ho- 
 nesty, nobleness, or feeling, as leave no painful or 
 mortifying impressions behind, but, on the contrarv, 
 put us in good humour with our species, the autlior, 
 and ourselves. 
 
 The only danger is, that the author may overwrite 
 himself — that, encouraged by the astonishing popu- 
 larity of his productions, he may tax his fancy and 
 invention too severely, and thus derogate from the 
 well-earned fame he has acquired. 
 
 Next to this gigantic novelist may be ranked ^Rlr 
 Gait, Mr Wilson, and Mr Lockhart. The produc-
 
 70 
 
 tions of these gentlemen have justly obtained con- 
 siderable celebrity. One or two of Mr Gait's, but 
 especially his last novel, may indeed bear a compar- 
 ison with some of those of the great Unknotvn. In 
 most of his stories there is very little plot, but in his 
 delineation of character, there is a simplicity, an 
 identity, which convinces us at once that Mr Gait is 
 a faithful copier of the living scenes around him. 
 Many of his characters, and the scenes and situ- 
 ations in which he has placed them, are indeed 
 such as we have met in our daily intercourse with 
 the world. 
 
 Novels may be divided into three classes — namely, 
 such as are written by a masterly pen, and calcu- 
 lated to inspire noble and virtuous sentiments — such 
 as are ably Avritten, but of an immoral tendency,— 
 and such as have little in them that can excite 
 either our admiration or apprehension. Those of 
 the first class are a real acquisition both to literature 
 and to society. They hold out the most persuasive 
 incentives to noble and generous actions, and are 
 perhaps better calculated to confirm in us a love of 
 virtue than all the solemn lectures and elaborate dis- 
 courses in the world. The young mind is insensibly 
 led, by the alluring and amiable examples a good no- 
 vel exhibits, from admiration to imitation, and be- 
 comes thus early imbued with correct ideas and a just 
 sense of our proper and becoming duties. Add to 
 this, that they are a source of the most captivating 
 amusement, tend to form the taste, store the mind
 
 71 
 
 with beautiful imagery, and habituate to a pure, 
 correct, and elegant style. 
 
 It is still, however, a question, whether the bene- 
 fits resulting from the better kind of novels be not 
 more than counterbalanced by the evil likely to 
 flow from the indiscriminate perusal of those of a 
 different description. Of that species of novels 
 which are calculated to corrupt and seduce the 
 minds of the young and inexperienced, it need only 
 be said, that they ought to be discountenanced, 
 exploded, and execrated, by every well-wisher to the 
 peace and happiness of society, and to the prin- 
 ciples and morals of the rising generation. A poAver- 
 ful and seductive style, instead of redeeming the 
 faults of such productions, only render them more 
 dangerous. There is hardly a circulating library 
 that does not contain a proportion of this pernicious 
 class of novels. From the time of Rousseau to the 
 present day shoals of them have been obtruded on 
 the world. 
 
 Every man who wished to appear as an author — 
 whether with or Avithout genius — and had not the ne- 
 cessary talent and information for any other literary 
 undertaking, has chosen a novel as the vehicle for 
 promulgating his particular opinions, principles, and 
 practice in the world, — reckless how far these might 
 be at variance with every established principle of mo- 
 ral propriety and decorum. It unfortunately hap- 
 pens, that publications of this nature never want ad- 
 mirers, however destitute of talent ; they are more
 
 
 eagerly sought after by a numerous class of readers, 
 than the most ably penned works of fancy, without 
 such high-seasoned matter. 
 
 With respect to that class of novels — by far the 
 most numerous — which mislead the judgment, with- 
 out corrupting the heart, they consume, very unpro- 
 fitably — we may say injuriously — much of the time 
 of their fair readers, for whose entertainment they 
 are more especially intended. What, indeed, either 
 eloquent or edifying can be expected from such pro- 
 ductions, when it is apparent that those by whom 
 they are written are as little qualified to impart in- 
 stioiction as the generality of their readers. A sketch 
 of the materials of one of those*novels may almost 
 suffice for the whole. The first object seems to be, to 
 conjure up lovely, charming, angelic nymphs, and to 
 provide them with courageous, kind, generous, and 
 disinterested adorers. Then, in order to create a lit- 
 tle stir, there must be flirtations, jealousies, jiltings — 
 quarrels among the ladies, and duels among the 
 gentlemen. These last commonly end innocently 
 enough, for the compassionate authoress would not 
 for the world take aAvay the lives of her heroes, how- 
 ever disposed to immolate them at the shrine of 
 beauty. Among the females there must be one or two 
 titular ladies at least — quite enchanting, and perfect- 
 ly adorable — and among the gentlemen, one or more 
 military characters are indispensable, with my lord 
 so and so, and a Sir George or Sir Harry such an 
 one. As foils to the dashing characters, a merce- 
 
 6
 
 73 
 
 nary cit, a prosing parson, or a rough country 
 squire, may be introduced into the back-ground : 
 these make excellent butts, a very proper requisite 
 for the display of that fashionable amusement styled 
 quizzing-. With the same laudable intent, an unfor- 
 tunate old maid is not unfrequently ushered in, who 
 seldom fails of being liberally endowed with certain 
 appropriate dispositions — as pride, peevishness, ill- 
 nature, and an invincible propensity to slander and 
 detraction, as if these were the necessary qualities of 
 ladies who had outlived their hopes of a husband. 
 If old musty notions, and antiquated practices, are to 
 be ridiculed, a crabbed old father, or venerable 
 grandame, is introduced, with all those primitive od- 
 dities about them. It seems to be a favourable and 
 leadino- maxim to make one or more of the female 
 dramatis personce a coquet, and very jiltishly inclined ; 
 — to give a latitude for the exercise of which propen- 
 sity, a despairing lover is introduced, approaching 
 his terrestrial goddess with meek diffidence and 
 trembling hope, bearing with submissive patience her 
 every humour and caprice, and, instead of revolting 
 at this treatment, becoming more fondly enamoured 
 under the exercise of her unfeeling sway. 
 
 This may give some idea of the characters. Then 
 as to places, there must be two or three country 
 seats or residences, with sentimental names, and ro- 
 mantic situations ; besides an old family castle, 
 whose ruined battlements look venerable in decay, 
 and whose solemn apartments exhibit a melancholy 
 
 D
 
 74 
 
 gloom, and are perhaps haunted by the awful 
 shades of its quondam possessors. This, with the 
 total absence of routs, balls, operas, and concerts, of 
 course gives the ladies the vapours, and inspires them 
 with an outrageous longing for the return of the dear 
 delightful amusements, and charming hurry and bus- 
 tle, of the town. For the music of the feathered 
 race, the murmuring of rivulets and distant cascades, 
 the lowing of the flocks and herds, the simple notes 
 of the shepherd"'s pipe, and the fragrance of new- 
 mown hay and humble field-daisies, they have no 
 taste ; and as to the parson's wife and daughters, 
 their neighbours, they are a hore. 
 
 In short, in novels of this description, all the pe- 
 culiar notions, prejudices, and fancies of the authoress, 
 whose stock of information has been chiefly derived 
 from Avorks of a similar nature, are compressed and 
 embodied Her heroine is made to speak and act 
 precisely in the same style as she herself thinks she 
 would do in a similar situation. The young and in- 
 experienced female, like herself, takes up the book, 
 under an implicit persuasion that it contains a faith- 
 ful picture of life and manners, delineated by a su- 
 perior hand. She becomes fascinated by a view of 
 things so delightful to her imagination, so flattering 
 to her dearest hopes and most ardent wishes. Her 
 fond fancy is soon filled Avith high-flown ideas of rank 
 and magnificence, wealthy and noble lovers — beauti- 
 ful as Adonis, and faithful as Leander — romantic at- 
 tachments, inviolable fidelity, and eternal love !—
 
 75 
 
 all very pretty in a novel ; but, alas ! scantily spread 
 over the ruffo-ed surface of actual life. She retires, 
 with the beloved book in her hand, to some seques- 
 tered spot, and sighs in concert with the soft whis- 
 perings of the balmy breeze, and the murmuring of 
 the passing brook ; yet it is not the sigh of sorrow, 
 but of a heart softened by the sweet illusions of 
 fancy, and the fond dreams of hope. Accustomed, 
 at length, to view only the bright side of things, she 
 is but ill prepared to brook whatever may tend to 
 undeceive her, and thwart her favourite and long- 
 cherished ideas. It is indeed but natural that she 
 should almost lose sight of the situation and circum- 
 stances in which destiny had placed her — to become 
 dissatisfied with the, perhaps, mediocre sphere she has 
 been doomed to move in ; and fondly persuade herself, 
 that she was born to fill and adorn one more splendid 
 and exalted. It is easy to conceive to what a future 
 harvest of regrets and disappointments this visionary 
 self-elevation must lead. As years pass away, and 
 unwelcome experience makes its advances, the fairy 
 charm dissolves, and the palaces and gardens of en- 
 chantment vanish into " thin air," leaving the fond 
 dreamer to muse in silent meditation over the wreck 
 of her unrealized hopes. 
 
 To sum up in few words : novels like these last- 
 mentioned, mislead and pervert the judgment, by 
 false sentiment, and a factitious view of human life ; 
 while those inculcating loose principles, and free- 
 thinking opinions, corrupt the heart and destroy
 
 76 
 
 happiness, and are consequently far more pernicious. 
 A work of imagination, to be equally entertaining 
 and useful, ought to inspire a love for whatever is 
 noble and praiseworthy in human conduct, by ex- 
 amples and incidents that will delight and interest 
 the reader, without leading him from the track of 
 actual and ordinary life into the regions of fiction 
 and fancy. This class of novels, as before remarked, 
 are a real acquisition to hterature and to society. It 
 would have been well for both if all those of a dif- 
 ferent description, but more especially such as are of a 
 licentious and irreligious tendency, had never existed.
 
 77 
 
 LIBEL AND SATIPE. 
 
 There is not in the world a greater error than that which fools are so 
 apt to fall into, and knaves with good reason encourage, the mis- 
 taking a satirist for a libeller ; whereas to a true satirist nothing is 
 so odious as a libeller, for the same reason as to a man truly virtu- 
 ous nothing is so hateful as a hypocrite. Pope. 
 
 It is much to be regretted that the boundary 
 Une between Hbel and satire is not better marked 
 and defined. To this it is owing that there arises, 
 not unfrequently, a difference in juries, and even 
 judges, on this subject. The mind of the mere law- 
 yer is so prone to be shackled and narrowed by a ha- 
 bitual attention to the strict letter of the law, its 
 technicalities, and its precedents, that it is not sur- 
 prising we do not always find him entering into those 
 moral considerations which are so essential to the de- 
 termining the question of libel. Yet, separated from 
 those considerations, the doctrine of libel, and the 
 decisions of our courts founded upon it, would lead 
 to consequences not only injurious to individuals, 
 but destructive of the best interests of society. 
 
 Intention is the essence of crime, and the first 
 point for the consideration of a jury, in a trial for 
 libel, is the intention with which it was written and
 
 78 
 
 published. If marked by malignity and falsehood, 
 the measure of punishment they award should not 
 be merely retributive, but exemplary. But if, on the 
 other hand, it be made out that truth and justice were 
 the objects of the writer, and that he adheres scrupu- 
 lously to the Jbrmer, in whatever light it may be 
 viewed, legally, it certainly cannot, morally, be deem- 
 ed a libel. 
 
 The distinction which the English law makes be- 
 tween the two modes of trial for personal libel, by in- 
 dictment, and by action, cannot surely be considered 
 as founded in reason. Why should the defendant 
 be denied the right of proving the truth of an alleged 
 libel, in his defence, by one mode, and not by the other ? 
 This anomaly in the law the subtlety of law may indeed 
 explain ; but, according to the more liberal code of 
 moral and natural right, truth and justice ought ever 
 to be the basis of justification, in all cases of trial for 
 personal libel. Why should there not be one uni- 
 form mode of trial, and of punishment, for one and 
 the same crime ? It were absurd to suppose, that it 
 were meant that a Mne of distinction should be drawn 
 between libel in private life, and libel affecting the con- 
 duct and characters of men in power and place. With 
 respect to that class of unprincipled libels which are 
 avowedly hostile to religion, morals, and good govern- 
 ment, we are of opinion that the system of law imder 
 which they are prosecuted and punished can hardly be 
 said to be too severe. Wantonly to vilify the institu- 
 tions of our country would be a proof of folly as well
 
 79 
 
 as of a revolutionary spirit; though we may be permit- 
 ted, with all due reverence, to point out certain flaws 
 in them, which, however, some may regard rather as 
 beauties than defects. But there may be violators of 
 the constitution, and mal-administrators of the law, — 
 who, though covered by the sevenfold shield of 
 power, are yet happily amenable to public opinion — 
 that salutary and superior tribunal, before which the 
 mightiest bow down. The legitimate organ of the 
 public voice is the press, the liberty of which Britons 
 justly reckon as one of their most inestimable privi- 
 leges. But, like every human institution, the press 
 has its abuses. These, however, the law provides 
 against. If a man in power be guilty of malversa- 
 tion, he as justly merits public exposure as the indi- 
 vidual in private life who commits enormities beyond 
 the reach of the laws. If either be unjustly accused, 
 he has his redress. He has it in his power to punish 
 his calumniator, not only by an appeal to the laws, 
 but by that public contempt and indignation, which 
 is sure to follow the exposure of calumny. But then, 
 if bold in conscious innocence, let him not injure his 
 cause by an appearance of a wish to stifle the voice 
 of truth ; in other words, let him bring his action, 
 and thus place out of the reach of his ti'aducer the 
 only pretence by which he can seek to cover his 
 guilt — namely, an adherence to truth. 
 
 A cause of considerable interest and novelty was 
 a few years ago tried in England — namely, the King 
 versus Mary Ann Tucker, for a libel upon Mr R.
 
 80 
 
 Gurney, vice-warden of the stannary court in the 
 county of Devon. The matter of this hbel was a 
 letter written by the defendant, and pubhshed in the 
 West Briton and Cornwall Advertiser ; in which she 
 accused him of bribery and corruption in his office. 
 The defendant advocated her own cause, and with 
 an ability and presence of mind which astonished 
 her auditory. The judge and the lady were of op- 
 posite opinions as to the practice of the law in trials 
 for libel by indictment. The defendant insisted on 
 resting her defence on the truth of the alleged libel, 
 which, she said, she was ready to prove. The judge 
 informed her that the law of the land did not per- 
 mit her to do so. The defendant, however, proceed- 
 ed in her defence. The judge interrupted — the lady 
 persisted, — and, as it would have been impolite, even 
 in a judge, to use other means with a lady than per- 
 suasion, carried her point, and " unfolded such a 
 tale"" to the jury, that they, notwithstanding the ad- 
 monitory instructions of the worthy judge, found a 
 verdict of " Not Guilty." This trial has been much 
 spoken of and canvassed, and the result is, that the 
 public voice has backed the finding of the jury. The 
 judge did his duty by pointing out the precise limits 
 of the law. The jury did theirs in pronouncing a 
 verdict dictated by conscience, and that moral feel- 
 ing to which even law should sometimes give way. 
 
 When a slander is invented, and published, for 
 the purpose of blackening the character of an indi- 
 vidual, it is a libel of the basest and most malignant
 
 81 
 
 kind, and ought, as we have said, to be visited by 
 heavy and exemplary damages. Libels of this un- 
 qualified description do not often come into courts 
 of law. The reason is obvious. Bad men, — and none 
 but bad men are capable of such dark malign'- 
 ty,— are cautious how they endanger their purse, 
 and commit themselves in the eyes of the world. It 
 is generally, therefore, in the dark that they aim 
 their deadly shafts ; the venom in which they are 
 dipped takes effect while the victim knows not its 
 source. The assassin of character, like the destroyer 
 of life, generally lurks in by-ways and obscure 
 paths, when he seeks to immolate the object of his 
 vengeance or his malice. The moralists of all times, 
 and all nations, have joined in execrating this crime, 
 as one of the foulest which one man can commit 
 against another. Were it otherwise regarded, and 
 grew in consequence more common, men would be- 
 come more savage, and reckless, and remorseless, to- 
 wards each other ; good men would have no security, 
 and bad men be under no restraint. 
 
 There are several shades or degrees of libel, or of 
 verbal defamation, that follow this atrocious kind, 
 which may be classed as follows : 
 
 First, The wanton dissemination of a calumny, or 
 slander, which we may have heard only obscurely in 
 a whisper, and of the truth of which we ought, there- 
 fore, to have been at least suspicious. There is no ex- 
 cuse for injuries of this sort, and those who are guilty 
 of them are generally actuated by the same degree 
 
 1) 2
 
 82 
 
 of malignity as the inventors of tlie slander ; thovigh 
 they may think otherwise themselves, under the sal- 
 vo that they are merely the repeaters of another's 
 story. 
 
 Second, The repetition of a calumny already pretty 
 widely diffused and publicly spoken of, without due 
 reflection, or inquiry, as to the truth or falsehood of 
 such evil report. There is doubtless a less degree 
 of moral turpitude attending this degree of defama- 
 tion than the foregoing one, inasmuch as the defamer 
 may be misled by a careless, though culpable, credu- 
 lity — not influenced by a malicious design. 
 
 Third, The repetition of a calumny, which we are 
 induced, conscientiously, to believe to be true, from 
 various circumstances — among others, from its being 
 repeated confidently by persons of whose discretion 
 and veracity we had a favourable opinion. 
 
 Fourth, The repetition of an evil report, under 
 the same circumstances as in the foregoing case, part 
 only of which is true ; that is to say, in the progress 
 of such report, it has gathered new and extraneous 
 matter, like the snow-ball, increasing in size as it is 
 rolled along. 
 
 This may be considered as the last and least culp- 
 able degree of defamation. Indeed, as far as inten- 
 tion goes, the three last-named degrees cannot be 
 viewed in any very criminal light. Still, however, 
 thovigh morally exempt from the charge of maligni- 
 ty, the repeater of a slander is held guilty of defa- 
 mation by the law — and justly so, in as far as he has
 
 83 
 
 contributed to the circulation of such slander, and 
 thereby aggravated the injury of which it might be 
 productive to the character of the calumniated per- 
 son. In fact, in the absence of proof to the contrary, 
 he is held to be, de facto, the defamer. But he has 
 his remedy, both against this injurious inference, 
 and the legal penalty consequent upon it ; namely, 
 by giving up the name of the person or persons from 
 whom he heard the slander, — a not very pleasing, 
 but imperative duty, which, in fact, he owes to him- 
 self, as well as to the cause of truth and justice. Nay, 
 should he subsequently be convinced of the false- 
 hood of the report, even a public acknowledgment of 
 error, far from disgracing, would in fact do him 
 honour. It cannot be other than a false pride, which 
 would withhold us from rendering just atonement 
 to a fellow-creature for an injury we had — under 
 "whatever misapprehension — done to his character. 
 
 As between some of those shades of libel, or defa- 
 mation, there is a very considerable difference as to 
 motive, or intention, there should of course be a 
 proportionable difference in the penalty. To ex- 
 tend the same measure of punishment to all would 
 not be fulfilling the ends of justice. To place the 
 base inventor of a calumny on a footing with the 
 mere idle repeater of it, Avho is unconscious of its 
 falsehood, would be, as it were, to assimilate the 
 guilt of the murderer with that of the man who de- 
 prives another of life by a random blow. This is a 
 most important point for the consideration of juries.
 
 84 
 
 in trials for libel ; subject, however, to a due atten- 
 tion to the extent of injury the plaintiff has sustain- 
 ed, or may sustain, in his character. 
 
 From all that has been said, it will be seen that 
 we cannot be too cautious how we give credence, and 
 still more how we assist to give circulation, to every 
 tale involving the fair frame of a fellow-creature. If 
 careless in this respect, it is nugatory, as far as re- 
 gards the slandered person, to plead guiltless inten- 
 tions ; if we once lend our aid, and the authority of 
 our name, to a vile fabrication, it is of little import- 
 ance to him whether we were actuated by mahce, or 
 otherwise; the consequences in either case are the 
 same. 
 
 When the editor of a paper, or other publication, 
 defiles his columns by wilful caluviny, he is more 
 culpable than the colloquial slanderer, inasmuch as 
 the calumny he publishes is more rapidly spread, and 
 with an effect which is not easily or speedily coun- 
 teracted. Whether such a man be actuated by a na- 
 tural malignity of heart, or a base view to interest, 
 under the idea (unhappily too well founded) that 
 tales of slander will promote the sale of his publica- 
 tion, the crime is the same. Such a man must be 
 regarded as an enemy to society. He lets fly his en- 
 venomed shafts, reckless whether they strike the in- 
 nocent or the guilty ! Truth, principle, and huma- 
 nity, can be no part of his creed. When, at length, 
 the vengeance of justice falls heavily on him, no one 
 feels sympathy for what he suffers. But if, on the
 
 85 
 
 other hand, he gives publicity to a slander, on the 
 authority of a brother editor, or other person, it is a 
 duty he owes to himself, and to the injured person, 
 to apply the proper antidote — a public contradiction 
 of the slanderous article, through the same channel 
 by which it was promulgated. 
 
 Calumny, or slander, is not unfrequently con- 
 founded with that just censure which inevitably 
 awaits vice and crime. There cannot be a irreater 
 mistake. No two things can be more opposite in 
 their nature. The former is marked b)- falsehood, 
 and envenomed by malignity ; the latter is nothing- 
 more than the individual expression of that public 
 odium which attaches as certainly to bad actions as 
 the shadow to the substance. And who or what can 
 stifle its voice .'' This is a task too mighty for despot- 
 ism itself. Were the terrors of the law put in array 
 to crush it, they would only give it a more vigorous 
 action and a more extensive operation. Happily for 
 the interests of society, no station is so high as to be 
 beyond its reach. — We say liapp'dy^ for were it other- 
 wise, vice and crime, deriving an authority and false 
 lustre from the example of rank and wealth, would 
 soon spread their baneful and corrupting influence 
 through every subordinate station of life. In short, 
 it is in a great measure by virtue of the public voice, 
 aided by a free and uncorrupted press, that we enjoy 
 every political and moral blessing. It is a salutary 
 check on public men invested with power and privi- 
 lege ; and, in private hfe, it brands the front of
 
 86 
 
 shameless men, whose enormities are beyond the 
 reach of any other tribunal : 
 
 " Grant to the bad what happiness they wou'd, 
 One they must want, which is to pass for good." 
 
 The satirist may be considered as a sort of guardian 
 of the public morals, and organ of the public voice, 
 Avhen these are likely to suffer by the example of un- 
 principled and profligate characters. No character 
 can be of more real benefit to society than a satirist. 
 But, then, to be thus a public benefit, he must be not 
 only a man of superior talents, but equally free from 
 the rancour of party and personal animosity, as he is 
 bold and independent in spirit. He must neither be 
 the tool of a faction, in or out of power, nor the crea- 
 ture of any great man. He must neither be an advo- 
 cate nor an enemy, of any person or party, farther 
 than their real merits^ or their misdoings, may call 
 for. If he swerves from this line of duty, he is no 
 longer a satirist, but a hireling and a lampooner. 
 
 Satirists, of the description here given, have in ge- 
 neral been respected in all ages and countries, Avhile 
 their works have been immortalized. Of what value 
 were such men as Perseus and Juvenal, at the periods 
 when they wrote, when Rome had degenerated, from 
 its ancient republican virtue, into a sink of the most 
 abominable depravity ! And, in France, during the 
 gay licentious reign of Louis XIV. Boileau did more 
 good by the well-timed severity of his pen, than half 
 the clergy of his time by their discoiu'ses. — And yet,
 
 87 
 
 strange to say, though he was as httle sparing of 
 the courtiers of those days as he was of other of- 
 fenders, he was yet favoured and respected by the 
 monarch : 
 
 " Could pensioned Boileau lash in honest strain 
 Flatterers and bigots even in Louis' reign" 
 
 In our own country we have had many excellent 
 satirists and reprovers of bad morals, both in prose 
 and verse, M^hose writings have conferred an incalcul- 
 able benefit on society, by laughing folly out of 
 countenance, and exhibiting vice and crime in their 
 native deformity. The elegant and classical Addi- 
 son, with his coadjutor, Steele, not only corrected the 
 vices and follies, but refined the taste and manners, 
 of his contemporaries. He introduced a new aera of 
 moral feeling, as different from that which was the 
 fashion in the licentious days of Charles the Second, 
 as the standard of taste and morals among the Ro- 
 mans, imder Augustus, was from that which pre- 
 vailed in the time of Domitian, or of Heliogabulus. 
 
 Addison has had some worthy successors in the 
 same line of writing, among whom may be mentioned 
 the distinguished names of Hawksworth, Thornton, 
 Johnson, and Goldsmith. 
 
 Among the severer poetical satirists, Dryden, 
 Swift, Pope, Young, and, in our own time, the 
 Reverend Mr Crabbe, may be named as the most 
 distinguished. The pages of the three first-named 
 poets are sometimes, however, debased by a rancor-
 
 88 
 
 ous spirit of personal animosity, and coarseness of 
 invective, more discreditable to the satirist than the 
 satirized. The Dunciad of Pope, assisted by the 
 notes, is more deserving the name of a lampoon, or 
 rather a string of lampoons, than a genuine satire. 
 Its high claims to poetical merit are unquestionable ; 
 not so its purport, and the matter it contains. The 
 unfair exaggerations with which it abounds cannot 
 
 Oct 
 
 be justified on any pretence. It is no excuse for mis- 
 representation thai we have been provoked to it. Be 
 severe, but Just — ought to be the maxim of the sa- 
 tirist. Pope has avowedly represented some of the 
 characters in the Dunciad in a much more odious 
 light than they deserved. This was unworthy so 
 great a genius. Who that reads this celebrated 
 poem but must regret that it was inspired by a mean 
 spirit of revenge, not a magnanimous desire 
 
 -" to mend the heart ; 
 
 To make mankind in conscious virtue bold ?'' 
 
 He seems to have lost sight, on this occasion, of the 
 distinction which he himself draws between satire and 
 personal invective. 
 
 Churchill has committed the same fault, in most of 
 his satires, as Pope in his Dunciad, of making per- 
 sonal attacks, ^vith no sparing pen, on many of his 
 contemporaries. With respect to Lord Byron's ce- 
 lebrated satire, those who have read it will at once 
 perceive that, in sitting down to write it, he had fix- 
 ed his eye on the Dunciad as his prototype.
 
 89 
 
 There is one disadvantage attending satire, di- 
 rectly/ applied, that, however just, it is almost always 
 suspected. Besides, it only serves to provoke en- 
 mity and retaliation, without producing amendment, 
 the proper end of satire. 
 
 Whenever satire becomes tinctured with the nar- 
 row and rancorous spirit of party, or of personal 
 animosity, it loses its dignity, and degenerates into 
 scurrility. Leaving newspaper vituperations out of 
 the question, there are not a few of the publications 
 of the present day, professedly/ dedicated to litera- 
 ture, which are disgraced by this illiberal, persecut- 
 ing spirit, — which is of a nature to propagate itself, 
 the bitterness of one party provoking and drawing 
 forth an unmeasured retaliation from the other. 
 It is astonishing to think how far men will descend 
 when heated and incited by this violent, persecutino- 
 spirit. Truth, reason, and charity are too often 
 lost sight of amid the fierce contention of party, and 
 even the common sense of mankind set at defiance ! 
 Party writings may help out the short-lived purpose 
 of their day, and are afterwards (happily for the 
 credit of the writers) no more heard of. Even the 
 best of them are little better than the ephemera of the 
 passing day. There is indeed one striking exception 
 to this remark — the Letters of Junius ; but these are 
 valued and preserved partly on account of the bold, 
 masterly, and original style in which they are writ- 
 ten, and in no small degree by the interest created by
 
 90 
 
 the mysterious concealment in which the author has 
 contrived to wrap himself. 
 
 The lowest and most despicable species of satire, 
 if indeed it deserve the name, is that which seeks to 
 bring derision on the foibles, peculiarities, and in- 
 firmities of our fellow-creatures, however otherwise 
 deserving : 
 
 - " to draw humour out of nature's fault, 
 
 With personal defects their mirth adorn, 
 And hang misfortunes out to pubhc scorn." 
 
 This mountehank kind of wit has generally been 
 confined to the lowest specimens of farce. But a 
 late celebrated poet, Wolcott, disgraced his muse 
 by it, for which, and other literary offences, he has 
 been occasionally chastised by the pens of his con- 
 temporaries. Wolcott found he had hit the taste of 
 a numerous class of readers, and he felt it to be his 
 interest to minister abundantly to it. No one, how- 
 ever, can deny him the praise due to a great poet, 
 particularly when he does not pander to this de- 
 praved taste. His pathetic pieces are beautiful and 
 touching. 
 
 Satire, in short, is, or ought to be, the friend of 
 virtue — the auxiliary of religion and the laws — the 
 declared enemy of vice, and denouncer of crimes 
 beyond the reach of legal justice : 
 
 " Instructive satire, true to virtue's cause, 
 Thou shining supplement of public laws ! 
 When flattered crimes of a licentious age 
 Reproach our silence, and demand our rage."
 
 91 
 
 It is impossible the satirist can avoid giving offence, 
 unless he were to exhibit portraits purely Utopian — 
 characters that never had, and never can have exist- 
 ence. But drawing these immediately from nature 
 and actual life, with a bold but faithful pencil, he 
 must necessarily exhibit Jac-similes of many around 
 him, — even, at times, of some of his acquaintance, — 
 but by no means exclusively of them, as is sometimes 
 insidiously and foolishly represented, but of thousands 
 besides : 
 
 " Why, who cries out on pride, 
 
 That can therein tax any private party ? 
 
 Doth it not flow as hugely as the sea, 
 
 Till that the very means do ebb." 
 
 He who inculcates so ridiculous an opinion is no 
 friend to the man whose faults a just satire touches. 
 If we are conscious we deserve the rebuke, we 
 should make the best use of it by an endeavour at 
 amendment, and rather regard an admonisher as 
 a severe, but faithful friend — a rather rare cha- 
 racter in these days of rejinement and courtesy, — 
 and surely a thousand times more valuable than 
 he who would cozen us into a belief that we are — 
 wliat tee really are not — very immaculate beings: 
 
 " Praise undeserved is scandal in disguise ; 
 Well may he blush who gives it or receives." 
 
 So absurd is this personal application of general 
 satire, that every classical reader knows that most of 
 the satires of Juvenal, and the epigrams of Martial,
 
 92 
 
 are quite applicable to living characters, though 
 these writers lived seventeen centuries ago. Nay, 
 we may go all the way back to old ^Esop, whose 
 fables are as applicable to men of the present day 
 as they were to his contemporaries. 
 
 It is, however, obvious that a passage, or quota- 
 tion from an author, may be so pointedly and une- 
 quivocally applied to an individual, by the intro- 
 duction of other matter, as to become a libel — that 
 is to say, if such person''s character be thereby vili- 
 fied and misrepresented. This is a material point. 
 The matter complained of may be of so trivial and 
 harmless a nature as not at all to affect his character, 
 or he may merit the reprehension it conveys. It is 
 seldom, however, that persons actually guilty of 
 misdeeds, that merit public reprehension and ex- 
 posure, have the effrontery to come into a court 
 to seek for redress. Redress for what .'* The loss 
 of that which they themselves, by their own act, 
 have thrown away ! 
 
 " Let me see wherein 
 I\Iy tongue hath wrong'd him. If it do him right, 
 Then he hath wrong'd himself." 
 
 If we accuse a man of a crime, of which we know 
 he is innocent, we are guilty of a libel of the foulest 
 and most malignant kind. — If we accuse him of a 
 vice or crime of which he is notoriously guilty- 
 whatever the law may say on the subject — we stand 
 acquitted in the eye of truth, reason, and moral
 
 93 
 
 justice. If, depending merely on hearsay, we thus 
 accuse him, we must abide by the consequences. 
 If misinformed, however we may stand acquitted 
 of falsehood, yet we are justly amenable to the law 
 for the injury we may do this man's character, by 
 assisting to spread a calumny against it. 
 
 To conclude : what wise and good man that 
 would not join in execrating slander ? what wise 
 and good man that would wish to put down satire, 
 or stifle the just expression of public opinion by an 
 extension of the law of libel ? xVware that tliese 
 last may, by superficial minds, be confounded with 
 and construed into libel, an enlightened judge- 
 one whose views extend beyond the mere letter of 
 the law, and his volumes of reports — will, when 
 occasions demand, feel it to be his duty to point out 
 to a jury the very opposite features by which they 
 are distinguished.
 
 94 
 
 MODERN CRITICISM. 
 
 " But where's the man who counsel can bestow, 
 
 Still pleased to teach, and yet not proud to know ; 
 
 Unbiass'd or by favour, or by spite, 
 
 Not dully prepossess'd, nor blindly right ; 
 
 Though learn'd, well-bred, — and though well-bred, sincere ; 
 
 Modestly bold, and humanely severe ; 
 
 Who to a friend his faults can freely shew. 
 
 And gladly praise the merit of a foe ?" — Pope. 
 
 Such is the character which Pope gives of a true 
 critic. Where, it may be asked, shall we find one at 
 the present day exactly tallying with this description t 
 And, if there were such an one, who is the author, 
 so vain of his own merit, and so wrapt up in the 
 fancied value of his productions, that would not bow 
 down in submission, and even thankfulness, to the 
 wholesome admonitions of such a teacher, even if they 
 cut bone-deep ? He might wince, but he would have no 
 right to complain. If he got angry on the occasion, 
 he would only be exposing himself to the imputation 
 of egotism and self-sufficiency : 
 
 " Those best can bear reproof who merit praise.'' 
 
 Criticism may not inappropriately be styled liter- 
 ary satire; if, indeed, there existed such a thing
 
 95 
 
 as perfection in a literary work, the term would not 
 universally apply ; but a perfect book, like a perfect 
 
 man, is 
 
 " A faultless monster which the world ne'er saw." 
 
 This species of satire has been considered by the li- 
 terati, and indeed by every well-informed man, as so 
 necessary for the repressing of worthless and bad 
 books, — such, for instance, as are calculated to dete- 
 riorate the literary taste, mislead the judgment, or 
 subvert the moral principles of the people, — that the 
 critics are, by common consent, suffered to exercise 
 a sort of inquisitorial authority over all new publica- 
 tions. Even if the literary reputation of an author 
 be utterly destroyed by the censures and sarcasms of 
 these literary despots, the law refuses relief to him, 
 imless on the ground of his private character being, 
 also, unjustifiably assailed by them ; and the only re- 
 dress he can have is in an appeal to the public, 
 which, by the bye, unless he has just reason to com- 
 plain, will do him more harm than good. There 
 have been many such appeals, and some of them 
 have been most justly successful. Indeed, the very 
 idea of infallibility in literature, as in religion, is re- 
 volting to the general sense of mankind. Critics are 
 men of limited powers of intellect as well as other 
 men. To arrogate to themselves a decided superio- 
 rity in this respect would be an absurd and unpar- 
 donable vanity :
 
 ^6 
 
 " Less dang'rous is the offence 
 To tire our patience than mislead our sense ; 
 Some few in that, but numbers err in this, 
 Ten censure wrong for one that writes amiss." 
 
 We will not go the length with the poet of saying, 
 that ten professional critics err in judgment for one 
 author who writes amiss ; but we are of opinion that 
 the one is just as liable to err as the other, taking 
 authors and critics in the gross. Some of the most 
 eminent critics of the present day have been repeat- 
 edly detected in error, and even convicted of misre- 
 presentation. On some of those occasions they have 
 made amends by altering their tone towards the au- 
 thors they had thus injured ; in others they main- 
 tained a sullen uncompromising silence, — a very 
 convenient, though rather questionable, mode of get- 
 ting off. So much for the fallibility of critics in . 
 common with the rest of human kind. 
 
 A critical journal, to be truly respectable, should 
 be unprejvidiced and impartial. Its writers should 
 have neither favourites to please nor enemies to put 
 down. The great man who patronises and entertains 
 them, and the poor man who has neither patronage 
 nor entertainment to bestow, should have their pro- 
 ductions weis^hed and iudo-ed of in the same critical 
 balance. To suffer either party or personal feelings 
 to influence their dicta would be a flagrant offence, 
 equally against fairness and the dignity of literature. 
 
 Some critics there are who sit down with a prede- 
 termination, as it were, to censure and condemn, as 
 
 6
 
 97 
 
 if to admire and praise, where admiration and praise 
 were due, was no part of their duty, or such a part 
 as was not pleasing to them. Their view is to ren- 
 der the work as contemptible as possible. They 
 want no redeeming merit, no saving grace — their 
 purpose is to damn. They laugh at the milk-and- 
 water critic who would respect the milder maxims of 
 other countries and other times, and spurn at such 
 advice as the following lines convey : 
 
 " In every work regard the writer's end, 
 Since none can compass more than they intend, 
 And if the means be just, the conduct true. 
 Applause, in spite of trivial faults, is due." 
 
 Dr Johnson has been accused — certainly not al- 
 together without reason, — of this cynical asperity 
 in some of his criticisms ; witness his remarks on the 
 writings of Gray. " Declining," says Mr Mason, 
 " all consideration of the general plan and conduct 
 of the pieces, he has confined himself solely to stric- 
 tures on words and forms of expression.'"' Now, 
 " verbal criticism," adds Mr Mason, " is an ordeal 
 which the most perfect composition cannot pass with- 
 out injury." " He appears," says Mr Wakefield, 
 " to have turned an unwilling eye upon the beauties 
 of Gray, because his jealousy would not suffer him 
 to see such superlative merit in a contemporary." 
 The truth is, Dr Johnson, in undertaking to criticise 
 the poets, ventured on a task for which he was not 
 altogether fitted. It requires a poet to judge of the
 
 98 
 
 merits and appreciate the beauties of a poet. John- 
 son was a man of profound erudition and extensive 
 knowledge, but not a poet. The soul of Gray was 
 imbued with the true spirit of poetry. Those who 
 have read the poetical productions of the two men 
 will acknowledge the correctness of this remark. 
 Johnson, by the solidity of his judgment and the ex- 
 tensiveness of his learning, was well qualified to judge 
 of works of erudition and research. But in criticis- 
 ing the poets, learning and judgment alone are not 
 sufficient ; a poetical taste, a fine fancy, a warmth and 
 loftiness of imagination — even to enthusiasm — are 
 also required. Here then Johnson was unquestion- 
 ably out of his element. As if, however, conscious 
 of the harshness of his strictvires on the poetical 
 works of Gray, and desirous of making some atone- 
 ment for it, Johnson thus speaks of his " Elegy in a 
 Church-yard." " In the character of his Elegy, I 
 rejoice I concur with the common reader ; for, by 
 the common sense of readers, uncorrupted with liter- 
 ary prejudices, after all the refinements of subtlety, 
 and the dogmatism of learning, must be finally de- 
 cided all claim to poetical honours." This short 
 sentence speaks vokniies. Dr Johnson has given his 
 general opinion of Gray as a poet ; notwithstanding 
 which the common sense of mankind has awarded to 
 the latter the honours due to a genuine poet. 
 
 Perhaps nothing can be more provoking to an au- 
 thor than to have a work which had been honoured 
 by public approbation hacked and mangled by a cri-
 
 99 
 
 tic, who, whatever his pretensions to learning and 
 research, never gave to the world one sohtary 
 proof of genius— one, in short, the very reverse of 
 Horace, who 
 
 " Judged with coolness though he sung with fire." 
 
 Patience and self-possession may be preached up to 
 him, on such an occasion, as the truest wisdom ; but 
 there are few of the tribe who are possessed of this 
 practical wisdom : even the sneers and cavils of the 
 ignorant and presumptuous are not always treated by 
 him with the silent contempt which they deserve. 
 One thing is clear, with the assurance of which he 
 ought to rest satisfied, and that is, that, ^ould a cri- 
 tic do him wrong, the public will, notwithstanding, 
 do him right; and the public opinion will always 
 prevail ; witness the many celebrated productions 
 which the critics would have stifled in their birth, 
 had it not been for the fostering protection of public 
 favour. Nay, the critics have not unfrequently 
 veered round to the public opinion when they have 
 found it fixed, — a prett}^ plain proof of their distrust- 
 fulness of their own judgment. 
 
 But when a critic censures — as he has an undoubt- 
 ed right to do, and his duty to the public imperious- 
 ly requires that he should— actual faults and blem- 
 ishes, an author owes it to himself submissively to 
 to kiss the rod, and make the proper use of the sharp 
 but wholesome lesson, for by anger and remonstrance 
 he only makes matters worse, and affords an ad-
 
 100 
 
 ditional triumph to his castigator. The pviblic will 
 be sure to back the latter, if he has reason on his 
 side, and thus render the defeat of the author and 
 his work doubly mortifying. An eminent writer, af- 
 ter reprobating the abuses of criticism, says, " And 
 now, to obviate an unmerited censure (as if I were 
 an enemy to the thing, from being an enemy to its 
 abuse), I would have it remembered, it is not either 
 with criticism or critics that I presume to find fault. 
 The art and its professors, while they practise it 
 with temper, I truly honour ; and think that, were 
 it not for their acute and learned labours, we should 
 be in danger of degenerating into an age of dunces." 
 The t^^^most eminent reviews of the present 
 day have been remarkable, perhaps beyond any 
 others that have preceded them, by an unsparing 
 severity, particularly when passing sentence on the 
 works of writers obnoxious to their conductors by 
 their political or religious principles. Some of their 
 critiques are indeed, not only acrimonious and un- 
 feeling, but illiberal and unjust. But, when not ac- 
 tuated by party hatred and violence, and calmly and 
 candidly examining the merits of a work, their writ- 
 ers display a vigour, a talent, a strength of reason- 
 ing, and a depth of research, which have raised 
 them far above every other preceding or contempo- 
 rary critical work. These rival journals avow, and 
 occasionally advocate, opposite political and religious 
 principles. One is the champion of government, 
 and the zealous supporter of the established church,
 
 101 
 
 even to a measure of intolerance ; the other adopts, 
 as its pohtical creed, the principles and opinions of 
 the Whigs ; and, as to religion, it is alleged that in 
 touching on that subject, some of its writers betray 
 not a little of the spirit of Hume and of Gibbon — 
 in fact, that they are disciples of the school of the 
 former— which, by the bye, they cannot help, — and 
 imitators of the sneering savcastic manner of the lat- 
 ter — which they could very xoell avoid if they zoere so 
 disposed. This review has been accused, — not with- 
 out reason, we are compelled to say, — of the most 
 glaring partiality, too often arising out of a narrow 
 party spirit, in the measuring out of its praise and 
 censure. Certain authors, whose names we need not 
 here repeat, have no doubt been treated by it with a 
 bitterness and acrimony Avhich would seem to imply 
 the existence of a deep-rooted prejudice, if not per- 
 sonal animosity, — motives totally unworthy of the 
 dignity of men of letters ; while others are favour- 
 ably dealt by, their beauties extolled to the skies, 
 and their faults glossed over, or touched with a leni- 
 ent hand. Some have gone so far as even to charge 
 its writers with wilful perversion and misrepresenta- 
 tion, for the unworthy purpose of gratifying their 
 spleen and malice against particular individuals. 
 This charge, if true, would fix an indelible stain on 
 this journal. But, when we come to consider that 
 such charges generally proceed from authors smart- 
 ing under the severity of their strictures, great de- 
 ductions must be made from them. Their criticisms
 
 102 
 
 naturally provoke angry retorts, and what is written 
 or said in anger is seldom just. Dr Gregory, senior, 
 used to say, that " the jealousy of authors Avas next 
 in rancour to that of phj'^sicians ;" — a very just re- 
 mark, we dare say ; for how otherwise shall we ac- 
 count for two men, equally distinguished by their 
 talents and learning, attacking each other with the 
 most rancorous hostihty, not sparing epithets and 
 imputations, which, if true, would fix dishonour on 
 any man ? The Edinburgh Review doubtless has its 
 defects ; it has its bias, its particular views and pre- 
 judices, vmder which it is prone, like other literary 
 undertakings shackled by party, to be drawn aside 
 from its true and legitimate province — to indulge in 
 vituperations which have no imaginable connexion 
 with literature. Still, after all that can fairly be al- 
 leged against it on this score, it is unquestionably a 
 work of pre-eminent talent and usefulness. The 
 lights and helps it affords to science and literature 
 must ever entitle it to a high degree of respect and 
 consideration among the learned. Some of the ar- 
 ticles which it puts forth may indeed be regarded, 
 not merely as criticisms, but as able and learned trea- 
 tises on the subjects to which they relate, executed 
 with a force of language and splendour of eloquence 
 rarely equalled. 
 
 Were we not aware that the Edinburgh and the 
 Quarterly Reviews advocated different opinions and 
 principles, in politics and other subjects, it would ex- 
 cite surprise and disappointment to find their learned
 
 103 
 
 conductors so much at variance in their opinions of 
 authors, and so often attacking the writers in each 
 other in no very measured strain. One good indeed 
 arises from this spirit of hostiUty between those cele- 
 brated journals, namely, that the truth is more Uke- 
 ly to be elicited by the collision of their opinions and 
 principles, than drawn from the speculations and 
 dicta of either, separately ; and thus are the public 
 opinions and taste less liable to be biassed and misdi- 
 rected : as, in a court of law, by hearing the argu- 
 ments on both sides of a case, we are enabled to 
 form a more correct judgment of it than if we heard 
 those only of one side. Authors, too, have a fairer 
 chance of escaping utter damnation when there ex- 
 ists this opposition and rivalry between two such 
 eminent journals ; for, should a writer be unmerci- 
 fully mangled by one, merely on account of his 
 principles or his party, he will be more justly and 
 leniently treated by the other, — nay, perhaps, praised 
 and caressed. One sole critical tribunal, from which 
 there were no appeal but to the public, whose opi- 
 nions, generally speaking, might be strongly influ- 
 enced by its dicta^ would indeed be an insufferable 
 tyranny in the republic of letters ; for we well know- 
 that learned men are as liable to be wedded to par- 
 ticular opinions, prejudices, and fallacies, as men of 
 ordinary understanding, each in their own sphere ; 
 and that they are as little exempt from the dominion 
 of the harsher passions of our nature. 
 
 As nothing can be more desirable than a fair, can-
 
 104 
 
 did, impartial, unbiassed review, which, while it em- 
 ploys all the severity of reprehension and keenness of 
 ridicule to put down worthless and immoral writings, 
 fosters and encourages the efforts of real genius and 
 talent, — to whatever party or school their possessors 
 may belong — at least mingles with its censure that 
 measure of commendation which may be justly due ; 
 so nothing can be conceived more iniquitous and op- 
 pressive than a critical work which disregards this 
 spirit of candour and fairness, — whose conductors 
 gratify a malignant and vindictive feeling against all 
 who are obnoxious to them, while they shower hy- 
 perbolical eulogia on those to whom they wish to 
 shew favour, — reckless of the injustice they commit, 
 and of the perversions they spread abroad. They 
 have ends in view too important to be relinquished 
 on account of any " compunctious visitings of con- 
 science." Friends and favourites are to be lifted up 
 in the public esteem ; enemies and rivals are to be 
 vilified and trampled on ; and that numerous class of 
 readers gratified, who take a strange delight in see- 
 ing the reputation, whether literary or moral, of a 
 fellow-mortal mangled and torn to pieces. A critic 
 of this description, of which we hope there are few, 
 is touched by no feelings of remorse ; so used is he 
 to his trade, that he sets about mangling a living- 
 subject with as much sang Jroid as an anatomist 
 would a dead one. If, in examining a work he is 
 resolved to damn, he should stumble on a beauty, 
 he passes it by in silence, his purpose being, with a
 
 105 
 
 microscopic eye, to discover and magnify only de- 
 fects. He exults in the pain he is hkely to inflict — 
 he laughs at the supposed writhings of his victim — 
 he plods and plots in a pestiferous atmosphere, en- 
 gendered by his venomous breath, whose baleful 
 touch would wither and shrivel the fairest blossoms 
 of literary fame, were there no critic in the world but 
 himself. 
 
 Our leading reviews, more especially the Edin- 
 burgh, profess to give an account of such works only 
 as merit the honour of their critical notice. Yet we 
 sometimes find them wasting their precious time in 
 dissecting political pamphlets, trials, and speeches, — 
 chiefly, it would appear, for the purpose of display- 
 ing their own powers of vituperation, the articles 
 under discussion being not unfrequently lost sight of 
 in the redundancy of the reviewei-'s discursive elo- 
 quence. We also find them filling the pages of 
 their journal with a minute and lengthy examination 
 of certain poems and other productions, which, they 
 are at infinite pains to convince the reader, are ex- 
 ceedingly silly and contemptible ; so that a reader, 
 unacquainted with their slyle of cutting- up, or rather 
 knocking down, an author and his works, would na- 
 turally conclude, that the work which called forth so 
 damning a sentence was not only unworthy of the 
 public regard, but beneath even criticism ! There 
 seems to be some inconsistency in all this, which can 
 only be solved by the supposition that, on some occa- 
 sions, it is not so much the writings as the writers 
 
 V o 
 
 lit r^
 
 106 
 
 that are obnoxious to these implacable critics. Mere 
 literary offences doubtless deserve reproof, but not 
 insult and indignity. Personal acrimony, to which 
 the writers in both our great reviews sometimes re- 
 sort, is unworthy the dignity of criticism ; and 
 should it appear to be tinctured by prejudice, and 
 debased by injustice, flowing from an unjustifiable 
 hostility to the political principles, or the persons of 
 the writers, such critics are infinitely more deserving 
 of pubhc contempt than the authors they thus seek 
 to expose to it. Reviewers can never l)e at a loss for 
 matter on which they may, most justly and benefici- 
 ally, pour out the utmost severity of their wrath. 
 Worthless and pernicious books are perpetually issu- 
 ing from the press, — to a greater degree, perhaps, 
 within the last thirty years, than at any former pe- 
 riod, — of which no notice whatever is taken ; — they 
 are permitted to go forth into the world without 
 comment or condemnation, — a pretty clear proof that 
 our reviews are no efficient security against this pes- 
 tilent evil of a free press. Let these literary censors 
 correct, expose, laugh at the literary faults and fol- 
 lies of the works they give an account of, but reserve 
 the terrors of their vengeance for 
 
 " More provoking crimes," — 
 
 for writers whose productions are offensive to reli- 
 gion, decency, and morals, of whatever party, sect, 
 or school they may be of. Influenced by such pure 
 and praiseworthy motives, how beneficially would
 
 107 
 
 tlie great talents of our reviewers be employed, and 
 with what well-earned applause would their labours 
 be crowned ; while, on the other hand, to introduce 
 into a work, professedly devoted to literature, a nar- 
 row spirit of party, or of personal rancoin-, would be 
 a perversion of it from its proper objects for the 
 worst of purposes. That literary journals of ac- 
 knowledged high eminence should fall into this beset- 
 ting sin is a subject of no little regret. It may an- 
 swer the purposes of the day, — it may gratify the 
 spleen of tnis or that party, — but, in the eyes of pos- 
 terity, it will be an offence which no accompanying 
 talent will redeem. 
 
 Besides the Edinburgh and Quarterly Reviews, 
 we have, at the present day, some very respectable, 
 able, and impartial critical journals, which, on the 
 whole, are highly useful to the public, and credit- 
 able to literature. If inferior in spirit and vigour 
 to their great rivals, they are, at least, in their whole 
 scope and tendency, of a character which entitles 
 them to an equal share of public patronage.
 
 108 
 
 HONOUR DEFINED. 
 
 " O, that estates, degrees, and offices 
 
 Were not derived corruptly ! and that clear honour 
 
 Were purchased by the merit of the wearer, 
 
 How many then should cover that stand bare — 
 
 How many be commanded that command." — Shakspeare. 
 
 There is no word in the English language that is 
 more abused than that of Honour, and none on 
 whose true import there are greater varieties of 
 opinion among mankind; each shaping his notions 
 of it, not by any fixed and unalterable standard, 
 but by his own particular ideas, principles, and 
 system of life. Every one, of every rank, invokes 
 the name of honour, as if it were a quality as uni- 
 versally inherent in our nature, as any one of the 
 passions common to it. The Spanish cobbler ad- 
 monished his son " to remember the honour of his 
 family ;" and there is a common saying, that " there 
 is honour even among thieves." Thus it is prosti- 
 tuted by the vulgar, and treated by others, who 
 ought to know better, as an equivocal something, 
 which is to receive a colour, and interpretation from 
 the various characters who set themselves up as its 
 possessors. Honour, however, is neither a breath.
 
 109 
 
 as some affect to treat it, nor a word of doubtful 
 interpretation. It conveys a substantial meaning, 
 and that meaning is fixed, precise, immutable— 
 not varying with times and fashions — not convertible, 
 to suit the notions of this one and the other — not, 
 like the opal, exhibiting the many tints of the rain- 
 bow, as it is viewed in different points of light, 
 but, hke tlie diamond, of a pure and changeless 
 brilliancy. 
 
 As we do not remember having met with any 
 particular and exclusive discussion on this ennobling 
 principle — this gem which all value, or pretend to 
 value, dearer than life, we shall, though with doubt 
 and diffidence of our talents for the task, attempt 
 one here. 
 
 The various meanings applied to the word ho- 
 nour, by philologists, are — that dignity and respect 
 which flows from rank, station, place — Fame or 
 reputation — A regard to the censure and esteem of 
 the world — Virtue. These definitions are only so 
 far precise as three or four words can make them ; 
 they convey a general idea, and nothing more. Let 
 us examine them in detail. 
 
 To say that a man derives honour from his being 
 born to a title, or to a certain rank, is altogether 
 fallacious. The word honour, so applied, is but a 
 term of courtevsy and usage. The ancestor of this 
 man, if he acquired his title by signal and merito- 
 rious services to his country, was a man not merely 
 of title, but of honourable title, and his descendants
 
 no 
 
 can only deserve to be so considered in so far as they 
 act in a way worthy of their rank and station. In 
 hke manner, the man styled honourable, in virtue 
 of some certain place, or office, which he may fill, 
 is so, in fact, only on certain conditions — namely, 
 that, in the first place, this office is bestowed as the 
 meed of services, merit, and talents, not as a bribe, 
 or as a fioon of' favouritism; and, secondly, in pro- 
 portion as he discharges its duties with fidelity and 
 uprightness. Setting aside these conditions, the 
 title honourable is but a mockery. Such persons, 
 it may here be observed, must take their measvire 
 of merit, not from the overweening opinion they may 
 have of it themselves, nor from the persuasions of 
 sycophants and dependants about them, but from 
 the public and general voice. This, though some- 
 what uncourtly, when occasions require, is at least 
 sincere and salutary ; while those whose interest 
 it is to tell, not what they do think, but what 
 they do not tJmik, Avould persuade their patron — if 
 he were weak and vain enough to believe them — 
 xi)hich may sometimes happe^i— that he was a being of 
 a superior order — wilhovt spot or blemish ! The 
 public, like a severe, but faithful friend, admonishes 
 him of his derelictions when he swerves from the 
 sti'aight-formed road of duty — his flatterers delude 
 him on in the path of error, quite indifferent, if 
 their own ends be but served, whither it may lead 
 liim. The man of rank and station, in fact, renders 
 liimself more conspicuously infamous by his mis-
 
 in 
 
 deeds, than if he filled a lower place in the scale of 
 society ; and let him not deceive himself with the 
 persuasion, that the dignity of his rank will shield 
 him from public contempt, if he deserve it, or that 
 the homage of its respect can be won by aught else 
 than the intrinsic merits of his character and con- 
 duct. Lord Chesterfield, in the character which he 
 ffives of that most excellent man, the Earl of Scar- 
 borough, says, " He had not the least pride of birth 
 and rank, that wretched mistaken succedaneum of 
 merit ; but he was jealous to anxiety of his charac- 
 ter, as all men are who deserve a good one." What 
 a lesson this to the petty pride we so often meet in 
 the world — not alone in the man of mere hereditary 
 rank, and the heir of transmitted wealth, but in the 
 veriest upstarts and pretenders, who, by chance, 
 a train of fortunate circumstances, or a successful 
 audacity, have been pushed forward into a degree of 
 factitious consequence in life ! 
 
 With respect to the second definition of honour — 
 fame, or reputation : this is honourable, or it is not, 
 accordino" to its beinff founded on a sound or holloAV 
 basis. The well-merited reputation will render a 
 man honourable and honoiu-ed through life, and shed 
 an imperishable lustre on his name when he is remov- 
 ed from its toils. The false and fictitious fame may 
 have its hlare — wliich, however, is but like the halo 
 round a sickly taper, feeble and short-lived. It is 
 a sort of vaporous honour, swelled out by the breatli 
 of adulation, and vanishing at the touch of truth.
 
 112 
 
 The third definition is perhaps a popular but not 
 a just one. A man may so far regard the esteem or 
 censure of the world as to endeavour to maintain fair 
 appearances with it, while, in reality, he may be a very 
 unprincipled character. While he can manage to 
 keep the dark shades of his conduct from the public 
 eye, and thrust himself forward in the most impos- 
 ing points of view, he may acquire a temporary repu- 
 tation ; but the delusion cannot last long ; the mo- 
 ment he discovers the cloven-foot the air-blown bubble 
 erf his good name bursts, and he falls, like Wolsey, 
 never to rise again. His hypocrisy and impudent 
 pretensions can no longer impose on the world. Not 
 that we would be understood to decry, while there is 
 a hope of amendment, that exterior homage to virtue, 
 on the part of the unprincipled, which is one of the 
 best proofs of its excellence ; on the contrary, we con- 
 ceive that while this homage is not utterly renounced, 
 there is still a lingering sense of shame, and with it, 
 perhaps, some dormant spark of honour, which occa- 
 sions m.ay call into action. Of the man who has 
 equally cast off both principle and shame there can be 
 little hope of amendment, and nothing extenuating said. 
 To set at defiance the opinions of the world, and at- 
 tempt to vindicate a base and unprincipled conduct, is 
 the very head and front of ruffianism. But though a 
 dread of the censure of the world, and a wish to be 
 on fairer terms with it than we deserve, may lead to 
 a contemptible duplicity, far different is an upright 
 and nrdent desire to establish a fair fame by legiti- 
 
 6
 
 113 
 
 mate means. This latter is the fruitful source of the 
 noblest actions. It is the' parent of every heroic as 
 well as beneficent virtue. The man who bravely 
 fights the battles of his country — seeking for honour 
 " in the imminent and deadly breach" — he who de- 
 votes himself to the furtherance of useful science, — 
 and he who generously strives, at whatever sacrifice, 
 to alleviate the miseries, and add to the comforts, of 
 his fellow-men, is equally animated by it. Whether 
 this love of fame, glory, reputation, or by whatever 
 name we choose to call it, be alUed to an innate love 
 of virtue, for its own sake, or not, still a noble ac- 
 tion, from whatever source it flows, is entitled to its 
 full measure of praise. The number of those who, 
 like the amiable and excellent Howard, 
 
 " Do good by stealth, and blush to find it fame," 
 
 is, we fear, small in the world ; but let us not expect 
 too much, as to motive, from frail human nature, 
 nor hesitate to approve a worthy deed, because it 
 may have emanated from a view to some portion of 
 reward on this side of the grave. 
 
 The last definition, making honour synonimous 
 with virtue, is perhaps too broad an one. Virtue, in 
 its most comprehensive sense, implies the possession 
 of every quahty that is praiseworthy or estimable in 
 human nature. It, in fact, implies more than any 
 one human being ever could boast of — namely, utter 
 faultlessness. In speaking generally, however, when 
 we say such an one is a virtuous character, Ave mean
 
 114 
 
 that he possesses certain eminent virtues, mixed with 
 some faults and imperfections, a portion of which, 
 more or less, no man is without. In this limited 
 sense, it must be acknowledged, that honour and 
 virtue, if not exactly synonimous, are most inti- 
 mately alHed. Thus, no man, who is not virtuous, 
 can, strictly speaking, be honourable; yet, as 
 imperfection is the lot of our nature, both may be 
 constitutionally deficient in certain quahties which 
 come under the name of virtues ; — as, for example, 
 prudence, equanimity, fortitude under calamity, the 
 exercise of which qualities depends not so much on 
 our wills, as on the particular frame of mind nature 
 has given us. A man of honourable feeling may in- 
 deed be so far imperfect as to give himself up to a 
 dissolute and intemperate life, — in which case he can- 
 not be called a virtuous character ; but let it be re- 
 membered, that as such a life may lead not only to 
 vice, but to crime, honour must then perish with virtue. 
 We would, in short, define honour to be a certain 
 principle and feeling in the human breast, which 
 powerfully operates to deter us from the commission 
 of whatever is mean, base, or unmanly ; and which, 
 while it impels us to the performance of all that is 
 noble and praiseworthy, as a duty, endues us with 
 firmness and courage to maintain ourselves in that 
 track of duty, — hut no further. It is, in few words, 
 to borrow the poet's brief and expressive idea of it, 
 
 " The noble mind's distinguishing perfection."
 
 115 
 
 Happy would it be for mankind if this intei'preta- 
 tion of the much-abused word honour were more ge- 
 nerally adopted by them, and that their actions were 
 regulated in accordance to it. This has been the 
 wish and recommendation of every moralist who has 
 touched on the subject ; but, we believe, as yet, to 
 little good purpose. Unhappily there prevails too 
 generally in the world a soi dlsant honour, as dif- 
 ferent from the real as the twinkling of a rushlight 
 from the sun's noontide radiance — or, to make use 
 of a more familiar simile, as a counterfeit halfpenny 
 from one of the beautiful lately-coined sovereigns. 
 Your man of pseudo honour has very curious notions 
 on the subject of right and wrong. The first and 
 principal article in his creed is, that whatever he 
 does, wli ether right or wrong, he is ready to vindi- 
 cate, — not indeed by any recognised rule of reason- 
 ing, or mode of education, but by a more impressive 
 argument — powder and ball ! Like Drawcansir, his 
 motto is, " I do because I dare." Now, though this 
 mode of deciding whether a man be right or wrong 
 may have had its weight in the tenth century, when 
 skill and nerve were sometimes made the criterion of 
 these, it will hardly pass current in the somewhat 
 more civilized nineteenth century. All that your 
 man of this species of honour has to mind, is to keep 
 himself out of the reach of the laws as much as pos- 
 sible. He may come into your house, under the 
 semblance of friendsliip, and, in return for your ge- 
 nerous hospitality, seduce your wife, your sister, or
 
 116 
 
 your daughter — he may deceive, to her ruin, an in- 
 nocent and unsuspecting girl, by studied arts of 
 falsehood, and afterwards cruelly abandon her to her 
 fate — he may defraud the tradesmen, and others, 
 who confide in his honour — What then ? — gratitude 
 and friendship are out of the question when a pretty 
 woman comes in the way — Zot'^-vows are but a breath 
 — a vapour — mere words of course ; and, as to debts, 
 it is quite unfashionable to pay any but those of 
 honour, alias gambling debts. In a word, this «mr* 
 of hoiumr may be guilty of treachery, ingratitude, 
 cruelty, and fraud — still who will doubt his being a 
 man of honour ? Or, should any one dare to do so, 
 he will soon convince him of his mistake — namely, by 
 tlie usual appeal. 
 
 Duelling is the sole palladium of that nominal 
 visionary honour of which we hear so much,— by 
 whose talismanic sound so much blood has been use- 
 lessly and iniquitously shed. The following brief 
 dialogue will throw some light on the point of ho- 
 nour in duelling. It is between a young spark initi- 
 ated in that science, and some other fashionable mat- 
 ters, and his uncle — a gentleman in whom were united 
 a good heart with certain eccentricities, and a singular 
 and original way of thinking on some subjects. 
 
 Uncle. " So, sir — what brings you hither from 
 your studies in the Temple .''" 
 
 Nephew. " An affair of honour, sir." 
 
 Uncle. " An affair of honour ! — I wish you were 
 more frequently engaged in such affairs."
 
 117 
 
 Nephexv. " Too many would not be quite conve- 
 nient, sir." 
 
 Uncle. " Why, sir ?" 
 
 NepJiexo. " There would be a great chance of my 
 getting a quietus:'' 
 
 Uncle. " A quietus ?— O, I understand you— you 
 have been engaged in a duel." 
 
 Nephew. " I have, sir." 
 
 Uncle. " And are you not afraid of being shot 
 through the head in these affairs ?" 
 
 Nephew. " Would you have me acknowledge my- 
 self capable of fear, sir .?" 
 
 Uncle. " Certainly — we are all susceptible of fear, 
 I believe, and if you were exempt from it, you 
 would be a singular exception." 
 
 Nephew. " I have a fair chance, sir — I can snufF 
 a candle at ten paces." 
 
 Uncle. " O, you can— then you are not afraid of 
 depriving a fellow-creature of life ?" 
 
 Nephew. « That, sir, is quite out of the question in 
 affairs of this sort. If we fear any thing, it is a missr 
 
 Uncle. " Most magnanimous .'—Well, sir, and 
 what have you gained by this affair of yours ? 
 
 Nephew. « Honour, sir, I hope." 
 
 Uncle. "Honour!— what, your honour was assailed 
 — called in question .?" 
 
 Nephew. " Nobody dare call my honour in ques- 
 tion, sir." 
 
 Uncle. " What did you fight about then .?" 
 NcpJiew. " A lady, sir."
 
 118 
 
 Uncle. " A lady ! — of character and virtue, of 
 course ?" 
 
 Nephew. " Somewhat easy on that score, I believe, 
 sir." 
 
 Uncle. " What ! a strumpet ?" 
 
 Nephew. " Not so bad, sir — she possessed beauty, 
 fashion, ." 
 
 Uncle. " Fiddlestick ! — I'm not going to dispute 
 with you about the meaning of words — mince the 
 matter as you may, I can readily guess what sort of a 
 lady she was. Well, sir, and how did this honourable 
 affair end T'' 
 
 Nephew. " My adversary has fallen.'" 
 
 Uncle: " Fallen !" 
 
 Nephew. *' Yes, sir — The two first shots we fired 
 without effect — the seconds interposed, but my ho- 
 nour would not permit me to listen to any terms short 
 of a public apology."" 
 
 Uncle. " Well, sir"— 
 
 Nephew. " We fired again, and my shot took effect."" 
 
 Uncle. " And your opponent is dead .?"" 
 
 Nephew. " It has so happened, sir."" 
 
 Uncle. *' And all this you take very coolly — nay, 
 with considerable self-satisfaction. Now, sir, hear 
 my opinion of this atrocious business. A duel is un- 
 questionably the most serious and awful affair in 
 which a man can be engaged, and its justification 
 rests on the cause and motives which have led him into 
 it. There may be occasions when a gentleman cannot 
 avoid engaging in a duel — for example, in vindica-
 
 119 
 
 tion of his character, or in defence of some dear friend, 
 when there are no other means of effectually redress- 
 ing the wrong. There should exist a sort of neces- 
 sity — something to extenuate so desperate a course. 
 But when some trifling quarrel, unworthy object, or 
 ignoble motive, leads men to shed each other's blood, 
 the character of the act is completely changed — it is 
 no longer, properly speaking, an affair of honour, 
 but a savage and vindictive contest. 
 
 " You engaged to fight a duel about a w . 
 
 This you call honour. I call it degradation. 
 
 " You put your own life in peril, and endeavour 
 to take that of your opponent, without having any 
 noble or justifiable end in view. This, too, you call 
 honour. I call it madness. 
 
 " You obdurately refuse, after twice discharging 
 your pistol at your opponent, to come to any terms 
 with him short of a submission which his pride will 
 not allow him to make. This you think the very 
 climax of honourable darina;. I call it revenue — 
 ferocity — any thing but honour. 
 
 " Again you level your pistol at your opponent's 
 breast, but with more deadly aim. Your ball pierces 
 his heart, and you behold him expire, a victim to 
 your unappeaseable pride and false notions ! This 
 also you call honour. I call it murder ! If, after 
 this, you can lay down your head in peace on your 
 pillow, what sort of a heart must yours be ? If such 
 are your notions of honour, I wish to have nothing- 
 more to do with you."
 
 120 
 
 RELIGION. 
 
 " I venerate the man whose heart is warm, 
 
 Whose hands are pure, whose doctrine and whose life 
 
 Coincident, exhibit lucid proof 
 
 That he is honest in the sacred cause."— Cowpeb. 
 
 It seems to have become a sort of fashion, in these 
 enlightened times, to make rehgion the butt of every 
 sort of attack, written or verbal, — the topic on which 
 all sorts of persons may try their wit, their oratory, 
 their powers of reasoning, or their talent for ridicule. 
 Not only philosophers, poets, &c. but half-educated 
 mechanics, must now shew the reach of their fearless 
 and enlightened minds by their utter contempt for 
 what they call religious prejudices,— a very sweep- 
 ing term, by the bye, with some of those illuminati, 
 as it includes a belief in, and reverence for, all which 
 is connected with the Christian system. The most 
 ignorant pretender now gets by rote all the argu- 
 ments, the sneers, and sarcasms with which his more 
 learned prototypes have assailed revelation, and is as 
 sedulous in repeating them, for the edification of all 
 those who will listen to him. The age of prejudice, 
 lie will tell you, with as grave a face as the most pro- 
 found metaphysician, is now gone by, and that of
 
 121 
 
 reason and philosophy has succeeded, — when men 
 will no longer be deluded by nursery tales^ told 
 them by their wily priests, — when, by the aid of the 
 new light poured on their minds, they may throw off 
 the trammels of an antiquated superstition, and even 
 be enabled to start doubts of the existence of their 
 own souls ! In order to promote the spread of this 
 happy light of reason and philosophy, clubs and so- 
 cieties are formed, both by the learned and the un- 
 learned, and sacred and mysterious things, — which a 
 Locke, a Boyle, and a Newton never spoke of but 
 with reverence and awe, — are discussed as familiarly 
 and flippantly by them as if they were talking over 
 the affairs of the nation, or some ot\\erJu7niliar topic. 
 Where all this folly will end, we profess not to di- 
 vine, though we are rather inclined to think that it 
 will end where it began, — that is, after running 
 round the circle of wild conjecture and metaphysical 
 absurdity, where all is darkness, and there is no rest- 
 ing-place, — our self-styled philosophers will quietly 
 return, from their chaotic wanderings, to plain sober 
 sense and the faith of their forefathers. We are as 
 much at enmity with superstition, bigotry, fanati- 
 cism, and intolerance, as any set of men, but we so- 
 lemnly assure these enlightened inquirers, that it is 
 our steadfast, deliberately-formed opinion, that they 
 cannot do a better thing, if they have any value for 
 their peace of mind, the welfare of their families, and 
 the good of the community. We would not have 
 them believe that it is our interest, any more than 
 
 r
 
 122 
 
 their own, which prompts us to offer this advice— 
 our counsel is perfectly unbiassed. We neither have, 
 nor expect to possess, any ecclesiastical employment ; 
 neither have we the prospect of any temporal reward 
 of any sort, except the consciousness of having done 
 that which is pleasing to us. Nor do we wish it to 
 be thought that we shrink from a fair and candid ex- 
 amination of the Christian religion — its doctrines, 
 its spirit, its benefits, its perversions and abuses. 
 We shall at least humbly endeavour to touch on 
 these themes, or rather to compress, within as few 
 words as possible, what has been said by others on 
 them, — though with fear and trembling, conscious 
 how unequal we are to the task, yet trusting that 
 good intention will, in some measure, atone for inade- 
 quacy of talent. 
 
 If we were asked who we thought had been the 
 most formidable enemies of Christianity, almost from 
 its foundation, we should say the great majority of 
 Christians themselves, — at least such as called them- 
 selves so, — and, more especially, not a few of those 
 who ought to have been its best friends and support- 
 ers — its ministers ! That Cliristianity is the gift of 
 God to man none will deny but those who wilfully 
 and perversely shut their eyes to the numerous un- 
 answerable evidences of that great truth. The many 
 historical testimonies in its favour, — the exact fulfil- 
 ment of all the prophecies of its holy Founder, and 
 those which preceded him, relating to his coming, — 
 its establishment and spread over the earth (still pro-
 
 123 
 
 gressively going on), by such humble means and 
 lowly instruments, — and, above all, its purity and 
 excellence, and fitness to make men happy, and wise, 
 and good, and to support them in the hour of trial 
 and against the fear of death, by the hopes it holds 
 out, are such evidences of its divine origin as cannot 
 be set aside by cavillers, however much disposed to 
 doubt those supernatural acts by which it was origi- 
 nally attested. Christianity, in short, was given to 
 man as a blessing, and, like other blessings bestowed 
 by Heaven, it has been perverted and abused. The 
 sceptic will say, " God, by the interposition of his 
 power, could have prevented this abuse." True: 
 but if God were to fix the actions and destinies of 
 his creatures, they would cease to be accountable be- 
 ings. For what purpose has He endowed us with 
 reason, — for what purpose vouchsafed to us the re- 
 velation of his word, but as guides to direct us to 
 the proper use of his blessings .'' This appears to us 
 to be a rational and satisfactory answer to those who 
 argue that, because Christianity soon ceased to be 
 what it ought to be, it did not therefore emanate 
 from Heaven. In fact, it was no longer then Chris- 
 tianity, but a system of fraud, cruelty, and oppres- 
 sion, which impiously assumed the name. Men per- 
 secuted, plundered, and destroyed each other, and 
 said that it was for the glory and advancement of 
 that faith which was planted in meekness, nurtured 
 in persuasion, and whose very essence is mercy. 
 How absurd to bring forward this perversion of
 
 124 
 
 Christianity, — in other words, its counterfeit, — as an 
 argument against it ! Yet nothing is more common 
 than to hear its enemies exclaim, — " Look at what 
 Christianity has produced in the world ; is it possible 
 we can venerate such a religion, or believe it to be 
 from God ?" A very little thought would shew the 
 insidious sophistry of those objectors, though many, 
 who will not give themselves the trouble of thinking, 
 are deluded and carried away by it. Those impious 
 men, calling themselves the ministers of God, who 
 profaned the sacred name of religion by using it as a 
 cloak to their iniquities, — who made it instrumental 
 to the worst of passions, — who hated, persecuted, 
 and murdered their fellow-creatures, in the name of 
 the Most High ! — these men, we say, were far great- 
 er enemies to Christianity than either the Saracens or 
 Jews, against whom it was the fashion, for the glory 
 of God and his holy church, to wage interminable 
 war and breathe unappeasable hatred ! Nor were 
 they a whit kinder to such of their unfortunate fel- 
 low-Christians as dared to think for themselves on 
 spiritual subjects, only with this difference, that pure 
 love for the souls of the latter urged them to torture 
 and burn their bodies ! This, we say, was not the 
 Christian religion, neither were the men, who profaned 
 it by such atrocities, real and genuine Christians. 
 Yet are those atrocities frequently held up to us as 
 proofs that Christianity is not that pure religion its 
 professors believe it to be. 
 
 The Reformation broke the spell by which the
 
 125 
 
 clergy held men in darkness and bondage. In those 
 countries where the light had dawned, men were asto- 
 nished at the horrors they had escaped from, and the 
 night of superstition in which they had been buried. 
 The sacred volumes were opened to them ; they 
 could read and judge for themselves, emancipated 
 from the dread of inquisitorial dungeons, tortures, 
 and auta daje. Never had men been blessed by a 
 happier revolution, and it was only to be deplored 
 that a better use had not been made of it ; for, 
 though the pernicious and immoral practices, and 
 much of the superstition of the " Holy Catholic 
 Church^'' had been destroyed by this desired change, 
 the leven of intolerance for a long time remained. 
 The reformed English church, with a true orthodox 
 spirit, set itself up as the only true church, and se- 
 vere penal statutes were enacted against non-confor- 
 mity. Notwithstanding .the light which had been 
 diffused, it was not deemed safe to leave men entire- 
 ly to the guidance of their own consciences ! Had 
 those laws been enacted solely as necessary political 
 safeguards to the protestants of the establishment 
 against the encroachments and re-establishment of 
 their adversaries, the catholics (whose ascendency the 
 nation dreaded of all things), there would have been 
 some excuse for them ; but they were also directed 
 against their protestant brethren, who could not, or 
 would not, think exactly as they did in spiritual 
 matters. Nor were those laws at all tempered, in 
 their exercise, by the spirit of Christian love and
 
 126 
 
 gentleness. A rancorous and unsparing persecution 
 was soon put in operation, both against catholics and 
 protestant dissenters. The presbyterians of Scot- 
 land were hunted like wild beasts, and butchered 
 without pity or remorse ! A holy war of conversion, 
 or rather of extermination, was waged against them, 
 which would have disgraced even the tenth century. 
 Thus was a bitter spirit of hatred and animosity be- 
 tween Christian sects generated and fostered, to the 
 Injury and discredit of Christianity. " The folly 
 and phrenzy of the professed disciples of the gospel," 
 says the pious Cowper, " have been more dangerous 
 to its interests than all the avowed hostilities of its 
 adversaries."" 
 
 This vmchristian spirit, though humanized and 
 softened down by the toleration act, and by the ad- 
 vances of knowledge and civilization, is not extin- 
 guished even at the present day. Absolute persecu- 
 tion has vanished before reason and humanity ; but a 
 remnant of its spirit, though shorn of its power of 
 doing much mischief, still reigns among various sects 
 of Christians. The high churchman abhors and re- 
 probates the sectarian for his heterodoxy ; and the 
 sectarian, in return, exclaims against the uncharit- 
 ableness and worldly-mindedness of the churchman. 
 There is much of profession, but little of the practice 
 of Christian forbearance, on either side. Even the 
 veriest infidel is not more hated and reviled than many 
 pious Christians, of different persuasions, hate and 
 revile each other. " He who hates another man,"
 
 127 
 
 says Lord Lyttleton, " for not being a Christian, is 
 himself not a Christian. Christianity breathes love, 
 and peace, and good-will to man." How then can 
 he deserve that title who hates his brother Christian, 
 because he thinks differently from him ? This is nei- 
 ther in the spirit nor wisdom of our holy rehgion. 
 It has been well said, that " the time was come 
 when Christians of all denominations ought to lay 
 aside their hatreds and jealousies, and unite cordially 
 in repelling the common enemy of their faith, and of 
 all religions."" Is it then a tender pious regard for 
 men's salvation, or is it a selfish worldly ambition to 
 exalt their own particular faith above that of their 
 brethren, and bring all men within its pale, which 
 so often animates Christian teachers to a rancor- 
 ous hostility ? Let the angry and intemperate pole- 
 mic answer the question. For our own part, we are 
 so fully persuaded that the God of all mercies will 
 receive with equal favour the Christians of every 
 persuasion who worship him in true sincerity of 
 heart, and who do justly, and deal mercifully by 
 their fellow-men, that we are not greatl}^ concerned on 
 the subject of those m3^sterious points of faith which 
 have produced so much discord in the world, with- 
 out making men happier, wiser, or better. No man 
 can force his mind to a conviction of that which he 
 is not permitted to comprehend — though it would 
 be presumptuous in him to impugn it, — but he can 
 regulate his life as becomes a Christian. The preach- 
 er who attempts to penetrate into - those mysteries
 
 128 
 
 only wastes his time unprofitably, and bewilders 
 his auditors in a labyrinth of doubt and perplex- 
 ity. The pastors of the church of Geneva passed 
 a rule, May 3d 1817, by which all candidates for 
 holy orders are required solemnly to promise, that 
 they will abstain from preaching in the churches 
 of that canton, on the following subjects: — " On the 
 manner in which the Divine nature is united to Jesus 
 Christ; on original sin; on the manner in which 
 grace operates, or on efficacious grace ; or on pre- 
 destination."" We must confess that we approve the 
 wisdom which suggested this rule. There are some 
 who may be inclined to infer from it, that the church 
 of Geneva had renounced its Calvinistic creed, and 
 was tacitly, if not avowedly, inclined to unitarianism. 
 It will be nearer the truth, and more charitable, to 
 suppose that the pastors of that chui'ch act from a 
 conviction of the inutility of discussing, from the pul- 
 pit, doctrines which, though the Christian is bound 
 to receive them as articles of his faith, are for ever 
 — at least on this side of the grave — veiled from his 
 understanding by an impenetrable darkness. The pas- 
 tors are no doubt impressed with a conviction, that it is 
 far more beneficial to their flocks to inculcate the plain 
 practical duties of Christianity, than to bewilder* 
 them b}^ a vain attempt to elucidate those mysteries. 
 
 • Among the bewildering class of preachers may be reckonetl 
 what are called ranters — men of sound and fury, who study effect, 
 and endpavour to astonish and electrify, rather than convince or per.
 
 129 
 
 The very strict religionists of some sects, but 
 especially the methodists, will no doubt condemn 
 this proceeding as anti-evangelical. This we would 
 call mere cant. Let such censurers call to mind the 
 clear, intelligible tenour, the beautiful simplicity of 
 our Saviour's discourses. We respect the class of 
 Christians we speak of — the Arminians, or Wesley- 
 ans, in particular, — on account of the simplicity and 
 inoffensiveness of their lives. The zeal, diligence, 
 and disinterestedness of their preachers and mission- 
 aries, and the general purity of their lives, merit a 
 better reward than they find in this world. But 
 some of their doctrines are neither calculated to pro- 
 mote the happiness of mankind, nor encourage ration- 
 al views of moral and religious duty. " Neither," 
 says Mr John Wesley, " does religion consist in ne- 
 gatives, in bare harmlessness of any kind, nor mere- 
 ly in externals, as doing good, or using the means of 
 grace, in works of piety, so called, or of charity." 
 Again he says, " He that worketh not, but believeth 
 
 suade. They boldly launch into the regions of wild conjecture, 
 leaving plain truth and sound reasoning at a fearful distance behind. 
 Like Icarus, they soon discover the weakness of their wing and the 
 danger of the enterprise ! but still, undismayed, they venture on new 
 and more excursive flights. From ^Viiitfield, down to a reverend ge- 
 tleman who has lately excited considerable attention in the English 
 metropolis, this class of pulpit orators have, for a time, had more nu- 
 merous followers and admirers than the most eminent divines, whose 
 preaching had no otlier recommendation than a plain, intelligible expo- 
 sition of Christian duties, and a pure unaffected style of eloquence. 
 
 F 2
 
 130 
 
 in him that justifieth the ungodly, is justified freely 
 by his grace." According to this doctrine, good 
 works are utterly nugatory. The apostle Saint James 
 was of a different opinion. " Pure religion, and 
 undefiled before God and the Father, is this, to visit 
 the fatherless and widow in their affliction, and keep 
 liimself unspotted from the world." " What doth 
 it profit, my brethren, though a man say he hath 
 faith, and have not works ?" " Know, vain man, that 
 faith without works is dead." What rational Chris- 
 tian but must be of the apostle'^s opinion ? A man 
 may deceive himself in thinking he has faith. His 
 good works speak for themselves. How finely and 
 explicitly our Saviour points out, in a few words, 
 the whole scope of Christian duty ! 
 
 " Jesus said unto him, Thou shalt love the Lord 
 thy God with all thy heart, and with all thy soul, and 
 with all thy mind. 
 
 " This is the first and great commandment. 
 
 " And the second is like vmto it. Thou shalt love 
 thy neighbour as thyself. 
 
 " On these two commandments hang all the law 
 and the prophets."" 
 
 It is no breach of Christian charity merely to dis- 
 sent ; if men are sincere in thinking in a way which 
 they conceive acceptable to God, they are respecta- 
 ble even in their very errors ; only let them not hand 
 over a brother Christian to eternal perdition because 
 he has adopted a different creed from theirs ! This 
 damning system is indeed too liberally dealt in by
 
 131 
 
 some over-zealous preachers of the word— even it 
 may be said, to the very brink of impiety ; for what 
 shall we say of the endeavour to represent the Al- 
 mighty as stern, wrathful, and vindictive towards his 
 erring creatures, instead of a wise and beneficent 
 Being, — which the order, fitness, beauty, and har- 
 mony of the whole visible creation shew him to be,— - 
 who will temper justice Avitli mercy ! — or what shall we 
 say of the doctrine of one eternal punishment await- 
 ing sinners of every degree ! for such is the in- 
 terpretation of some expounders of the word. For 
 our part, we conceive it to be more consonant with 
 the view we have of the divine justice and mercy, to 
 believe that the punishment will not exceed the of- 
 fence — that the degree of our happiness or suffering 
 in a future life will be in proportion to our good or 
 evil actions in this, — but as to the manner or dura- 
 tion, the knowledge of it is with God alone. Such 
 pulpit-denunciations may terrify men, and produce a 
 constrained obedience, but certainly they are not cal- 
 culated to insnire that love for our Maker which the 
 Gospel enjoins. 
 
 Perhaps there is no sect of Christians that have a 
 more rational conception of God and his providence, 
 and of the homage that is acceptable to Him — that of 
 the heart, the altar from which the purest incense 
 ascends — than the Quakers. Notwithstanding their 
 peculiar, and, in the present state of society, imprac- 
 ticable notions, they are an unoffending, respectable
 
 132 
 
 class of people, who shew by their lives that they are 
 not Christians in name only. 
 
 Next to the intolerant spirit with which many 
 Christian sects regard each other, perhaps there is 
 nothing which tends more to make religion lightly 
 thought of than the overstrained distinctions of rank, 
 power, privilege, and wealth among its ministers — 
 not generally conferred as the reward of pre-eminent- 
 worth, talent, sanctity, or diligence, but procured in 
 virtue of political influence and court favour. These 
 are too apt to call forth the cupidity of avarice and 
 ambition on the one hand, and excite envy and dis- 
 content on the other, among the disciples of a Master 
 who expressly enjoins them not to " lay up for 
 themselves treasures upon earth" — " For where your 
 treasure is, there will your heart be also/'' Mix up 
 mere worldly views and state politics with religion, 
 and you contaminate its purity — it ceases to be any 
 thing but an affair of this world. Viewed through the 
 mist of ignorance and superstition, those distinctions 
 may have an imposing influence on men''s minds ; but 
 when a people come to think rationally and justly, 
 this delusion vanishes. What class of Englishmen is 
 there, at this moment, who cannot reason and com- 
 pare — who cannot, on reading their New Testament, 
 perceive the immense difference between the purity, 
 simplicity, and excellence of Christianity, as esta- 
 blished by its Holy Founder, and the existing sys- 
 tem ? They will there find that a heavenly kingdom 
 — not earthly honours, privileges, and emoluments —
 
 133 
 
 was the reward held out by our Lord to his disciples 
 —that he did not exalt one above another — and that 
 holiness of life, zeal, diligence, and self-denial were 
 the only recommendations which lie sought for in ap- 
 pointing them to the ministry. No one, we believe, 
 will deny that, if there is one thing more than another 
 which will have the effect of injuring or promoting 
 the vital interests of religion, it is the character and 
 condvict of its ministers. The more they act confor- 
 mably to the precepts and injunctions of their divine 
 Master, the more effectually they will serve his 
 church; while an opposite conduct would justly 
 rank them among its enemies. 
 
 Among the Christian laity there are different 
 classes and descriptions of persons, v/ho, either by 
 their writings, discourses, or private conversations 
 and actions, labour to bring the religion of which 
 they are )iominal members into contempt. No man 
 can help entertaining particular opinions, but he 
 has it in his power to keep them to himself if they are 
 likely to be inj virions to his fellow-creatures. And 
 what man, among the enemies and disbelievers of re- 
 ligion, will lay his hand on his heart an^ say, that he 
 believes that the general spread of infidelity among 
 mankind would not be utterly destructive of their 
 happiness and morals.? 
 
 Anti-religious writings are dangerous in propor- 
 tion to the character and talents of the writers. The 
 speculations and sarcasms of Voltaire, Volney, Hume, 
 Gibbon, and other sceptical writers of equal learning
 
 134 
 
 and talent, have done far greater mischief to rehgion, 
 than the coarse attacks of such men as Paine or Car- 
 hie. Yet Hume and Gibbon (if report is to be credit- 
 ed) received pensions from government, and their writ- 
 ings were honoured by being placed on the shelves of 
 our public libraries ; while Paine was denounced as 
 a reviler of religion, and his works interdicted as 
 blasphemous ! There seems some inconsistency in all 
 this, which is by no means cleared up by the remark, 
 that the historians wrote for the learned, and Paine 
 for men of all understandings. Certainly Paine was 
 one of those enemies of religion who not only enter- 
 tain opinions hostile to it, but take all possible pains 
 to spread the poison of their infidelity as widely as 
 possible. Perhaps such men are more to be pitied 
 than condemned for entertaining such opinions, if 
 they sincerely entertain them ; but for publishing and 
 circulating them no excuse can be offered, as in this 
 they shew themselves to be enemies of mankind as 
 well as despisers of the laws. 
 
 But in whatever light we may view Paine, Carlile, 
 and others of the same class, it cannot be denied that 
 they are kept in countenance by many very great and 
 very learned men. Half a century is not elapsed 
 since it was the fashion not only among the philoso- 
 phers of the age, but even among some crowned 
 heads, to regard religion as an antiquated fable fit 
 only to amuse old women and children, and keep the 
 vulgar in awe. Frederick the Third of Prussia, and 
 Catherine, Empress of Russia, in particular, were the
 
 135 
 
 avowed pupils and patrons of the new school of phi- 
 losophy. Maria Theresa, much to her honour, did 
 not make a surrender of her religious principles ; and 
 if we would see the opposite effects of the Christian 
 system, and of the new philosophy, on the human 
 heart, we find them exemplified in the respective 
 characters and conduct of those contemporary Em- 
 presses. Happily for England, she was governed by a 
 prince who set an example to his subjects of the 
 purest Christian piety — piety wliich produced its na- 
 tural fruits, a heart full of benignity, and a life un- 
 stained by vice or crime. If we were asked whom 
 we thought most culpable — the philosophers (so 
 styled) who attacked religion, or the sovereigns who 
 countenanced them in their attack — we would say, the 
 latter. 
 
 We have often conceived that it was not so much 
 a love of truth, and a desire to instruct mankind, 
 that impelled those philosophers to call in question 
 the truths of religion, as an overweening pride, an 
 ambition to be considered as llglits and guides to 
 the world, clearing away the mists of prejudice and 
 delusions of error — that is, what they were pleased 
 to consider as prejudice and error. And who are 
 those men who thus presume to tell the world that 
 it has hitherto been buried in darkness and error — 
 that the whole system of our religious faith is but a 
 delusion — a remnant of the superstition of our fore- 
 fathers ? Granted that some among them were men 
 of considerable erudition and talent, still were they
 
 136 
 
 but short-sighted, erring beings, when presuming to 
 scan those awful mysteries which mock the feeble 
 light of human intellect — as liable, when launched on 
 the shoreless ocean of metaphysics, to be bewildered 
 and misled by some favourite theory, as others who 
 have gone before them. If we would be convinced 
 of the utter inanity and unprofitableness of meta- 
 physical speculation, beyond that range which the 
 mind can fairly grasj), we have only to examine the 
 different theories which have been broached, from 
 the time of Hobbes and Descartes down to the pre- 
 sent day, — all of which are more or less at variance, 
 while some are diametrically opposite ! What are 
 we to think of this? — that the theorists, — fondly 
 deeming themselves under the guidance of reason, — 
 were only groping in the regions of conjecture, where 
 there was no solid footing, no stable foundation, 
 on which to build an enduring fabric. 
 
 It is a pleasing consideration, that, if there have 
 been some men of talent and learning who have 
 inlisted themselves in the ranks of infidelity, there 
 have been a far greater number, still more distin- 
 guished for these, who have espoused the cause of 
 religion. If we look at the English Augustan age, 
 the reigns of William III. and Anne, we will find a 
 host of such distinguished defenders of religion. 
 
 The French philosophy, and the revolution which 
 followed, gave a new impulse to scepticism, and 
 spread it more widely over Europe. A country 
 so contiguous as England could not escape much of
 
 137 
 
 the contagion. Numerous writers and public lec- 
 turers sprung up, all eager to shew that they had 
 thrown off the trammels of religious prejudices, 
 and were become eleves of the new school. Essays, 
 poems, novels, reviews, were poured forth in abun- 
 dance, all teeming witb revilings or sneers against 
 religion — all burning with the brightness of the 
 nezo light. So much is it become the fashion of the 
 day to cast discredit on revealed religion, that even 
 lecturers on sciences that have no connexion with 
 metaphysics or theology, wander out of the way in 
 order to have an opportunity of striking a blow at 
 it. A lecturer on comparative anatomy lately so far 
 lost sight of his subject as to inculcate the often 
 promulgated, and as often confuted, doctrine, that 
 men have no souls, and consequently that the doc- 
 trine of a future state of rewards and punishments 
 is nothing more than a dream ! Nay, he travels 
 still farther out of his way by making a direct at- 
 tack on scripture. This gratuitous infringer of Re- 
 velation has been met and ably refuted on his own 
 ground, by men far his superiors in experience, 
 science, and learning, — among others, by a highly- 
 respectable professor of anatomy, of whom he was 
 once a pupil. Still it is to be feared that he has 
 too well succeeded in unsettling the minds of many 
 of the young students who attended his lectures— 
 at least he did all he could, in his particular sphere, 
 to effect this bad purpose. If it were tacitly un- 
 derstood that the lecture-room of the professoi-
 
 138 
 
 might be converted into a school for the propaga- 
 tion of infidelity, what would be the consequence ? 
 If such conduct were not put down by the marked 
 detestation of all good and thinking men, and op- 
 posed by the general sense of mankind, irreligion 
 and atheism would be publicly taught in our cities, 
 our towns and villages. The rising generation 
 would be corrupted, and turned from the faith of 
 their forefathers, and would in time exhibit the 
 dreadful picture of a people without religion — with- 
 out a hope beyond this fleeting life — without moral 
 principle — without charity to, or dependence on each 
 other. 
 
 There is an excellent article in a late number of 
 the Quarterly Review on the subject of those anato- 
 mical, or, as they have been stjded, physiological lec- 
 tures, of which the follo^vang are striking passages :— 
 " Where, in the course of the present world, do we find 
 the stamp and impress of God's perfect and eternal jus- 
 tice ? The pious soul frequently mourns under con- 
 tinued pain and affliction — the wicked is blessed with 
 sound health and alacrity of spirits. The innocent 
 falls into the snares of the guilty, virtue sinks into 
 obscurity, and vice is raised to eminence ; the plans 
 of him who is striving to benefit his fellow-creatures 
 end in disappointment, while they who seek only to 
 injure and destroy, go on successfully and attain 
 their purposes. What is the inference from all 
 this P— that God exercises no providence over the 
 world ? Is it not rather that there must be some
 
 139 
 
 state of existence beyond the present, when all that 
 appears now perplexed will be made clear, and all 
 that is imperfect adjusted according to the rule of 
 unchanging wisdom and goodness ! He (the lec- 
 turer) contends that the doctrines which he promul- 
 gates are true, and that the truth ought always to 
 be spoken. We beg leave to remind him that, when 
 he affirms the doctrines to be true, the most he 
 can possibly mean is, that he believes them to be so ; 
 and it is not to be justified, we must inform him, on 
 any sound principle, that a man should, at all times 
 and under all circumstances, give currency to opi- 
 nions of every description, on the mere ground that, 
 in his private judgment, he believes them to be true. 
 A considerate person will always feel a certain dis- 
 trust of his own opinions, when he finds them oppos- 
 ed to those maintained by the generality of man- 
 kind, including the Avisest and best; and, above all, 
 he will most seriously weigh the tendency and pro- 
 bable consequences of their general reception.'"" 
 
 We believe there are few among our modern scep- 
 tics who have the boldness to avow themselves ab- 
 solute atheists. Hume was indignant at being treat- 
 ed by Beattie as an atheistical writer ; and Voltaire 
 seems exceedingly anxious not to be regarded as an 
 atheist. " Atheism (says he) is a most pernicious 
 monster in sovereign princes, and likewise in states- 
 men, however harmless their life be ; if it be not so 
 mischievous as fanaticism, it is almost ever destruc- 
 tive of virtue. I congratulate the present age on
 
 140 
 
 there being fewer atheists than ever, philosophers 
 having discovered that there is no vegetable without 
 a germ, no germ without design," &c. And yet what 
 notions can those sceptics, who would not be thought 
 atheists, give us in lieu of our established concep- 
 tions of the Deity, his attributes, and dispensations, 
 in regard to man, that are not vague, illusory, and 
 liable to perpetual change ? Thus lost on an ocean 
 of uncertainty and doubt, without chart or compass 
 to direct them, mankind would naturally fall into 
 a tacit, if not an avowed, disbelief of the existence of 
 a God ; or, if revolting at the thought of being the 
 mere creatures of chance — beings without end or 
 aim — bubbles floating on the surface of existence, 
 — they ask their metaphysical instructors for light, 
 these instructors tell them that thej'^ are in darkness 
 themselves. They can pull down, but Uiey cannot 
 build up. The experiment has already been tried how 
 far a nation would prosper without religion, and has 
 wofully failed. The fruit of that experiment was a 
 frightful demoralization, pregnant with violence and 
 crime, which threatened to shake society to its foun- 
 dations. 
 
 A theorist of the present day — Mr Owen — has 
 taken up an opinion — though he has not, as he says 
 himself, put it in practice in his establishment — that 
 mankind may be so moulded and fashioned by 
 education as to flourish and be peaceful and happy 
 without religion — nay, that the instruction therein 
 usually given — we speak of the Christian religion —
 
 141 
 
 is not only not necessary, but even injurious to 
 the human mind in its progress to that moral per- 
 JectahUity which his system promises.* Now really 
 there is so much of empiricism in all this — it is so com- 
 pletely opposed to the experience and common sense 
 of civilized mankind, — that we do not know that it 
 calls for a seriovis refutation. The people of Scot- 
 land, among whom Mr Owen has commenced his 
 moral experiments, are generally regarded as the 
 most moral, decent, and orderly in Europe. To Avhat 
 do they mainly owe this pre-eminence .? Any one, 
 at all qualified to answer the question, will at once 
 answer — to the system of religious instruction estab- 
 lished among them, which is interwoven with their 
 education, and blended with their habits, — by which 
 their minds are trained up to a proper reverence for 
 God and his revealed word, and on which is ground- 
 ed that moral rectitude that generally marks their 
 conduct through life. Abolish religion in Scotland, 
 
 * The allegation, that ]\Ir Owen prohibited the use of the Scrip, 
 tures altogether in his schools appears not to be founded in fact. 
 
 We have often, by the bye, thought that the placing of the Scrip- 
 tures in the hands of youth, unaccompanied by suitable notes and 
 expositions of the more difficult passages, might lead them into much 
 misconception. Indeed, in our humble opinion, it would be most 
 desirable to have a cheap edition of the Scriptures, especially the Old 
 Testament, with such notes and expositions, for the use of the poorer 
 class, whose means will not enable them to purchase the more expen- 
 sive editions so illustrated.
 
 U'2 
 
 and we would ask, whether her people would con- 
 tinue to maintain that character they have hitherto 
 borne — whether, in short, they would be as happy, 
 respectable, and virtuous without it, as they have 
 heretofore been with it ? Would Mr Owen's specu- 
 lative system supply the loss of its important prac- 
 tical benefits and blessings ? This system has been 
 fully and candidly examined by men of all parties, 
 and by almost all it is pronounced to be fanciful and 
 fallacious. Does Mr Owen seriously believe that he 
 can, by his training system, extinguish the passions, 
 or so far hold a control over them as to render 
 them perfectly obedient at all times, like the move- 
 ments of a clock, or one of his spinning machines ? 
 — or if it were possible to bring this about, what 
 sort of a being would his newly-fashioned man be ? 
 —a machine — ^an automaton — one who knew how to 
 eat, and drink, and work, and lie down to sleep, 
 and perform other useful and necessary things,— 
 but without feeling, without motive, without pur- 
 pose, alike unsusceptible of hope or fear. Every 
 noble purpose, every generous feeling, would be ex- 
 tinguished — there would be neither friendship, gra- 
 titude, charity, nor magnanimit}^ — indeed, as there 
 would be neither want nor vice, so would there be 
 no occasion for these virtues ! There would be a 
 sort of animal cj[uiescence, or contentment, but no 
 happiness — none of that glowing pleasure of the 
 heart, that exalted delight, which springs from hope, 
 sentiment, and affection. In short, there would be
 
 143 
 
 an utter stagnation of the mind, improvement would 
 be at a stand, there being no stimulus to it, and 
 mankind would be little removed from the beasts 
 of the field, which are brought forth but to pro- 
 pagate their kind and perish. Thus far on the 
 assumption that Mr Owen brought about that which 
 he has in view, the training and moulding of men 
 and women as he would rear cabbages ! But, if we 
 are rightly informed, there are at New Lanark nu- 
 merous living proofs of the difficulty of disciphning 
 the passions at will. Seriously speaking, we believe 
 Mr Owen to be a well-meaning, but misjudging 
 man — an enthusiast in pursuit of shadows. In short, 
 there is not one intelligent man in a hundred but 
 laughs at his science of' circumstances, his system of 
 man-training. Is such a man then, we would ask, 
 one whose estimate of religion is worth a moment's 
 thought .? A visionary in political economy is not 
 likely to prove a very sound reasoner on the more 
 momentous subject of the truths and benefits of 
 Christianity. 
 
 There is a class of men in the world, who, though 
 they do not write and publish books, or deliver 
 public discourses against religion, are perhaps as 
 dangerous as those Avho do; we mean men, who, 
 without taking the pains to examine the subject for 
 themselves, think they shew their wit, spirit, and U- 
 he7-ality of opinion by joining in the cavils against it, 
 ridiculing it on all occasions, and shewing by their 
 actions, that it is a thing they utterly despise ! This
 
 144 
 
 conduct, we fear, is more common than it should be 
 among the higher ranks in this country : yet the high- 
 er the station of such persons, the more pernicious and 
 extensive the influence of their example. What are 
 the servants and dependants of a great man to think 
 when they hear him speak contemptuously of reli- 
 gion, and fearlessly violate its duties ? Even among 
 the middle ranks, who have generally been looked to, 
 more than any other, for a decent respect for religion, 
 it is become a too common practice, in conversation, 
 to sneer at and call in question its truths : — we mean 
 among the male sex ; for, much to the credit of the 
 good sense and feeling of the other sex, there are 
 few, we believe, who would patiently tolerate such 
 conversations in their presence. Women in general 
 are more devout and earnest in their faith than men. 
 A female sceptic is regarded as a sort oi monster, whom 
 the most confirmed male unbeliever would not choose 
 as a wife. What kind of feelings or ideas that man 
 must have who would attempt to unsettle the faith of 
 a female, for whom he professed either love or re- 
 spect, we are at a loss to conceive. But how still 
 more unpardonable the father of a family, who would 
 endanger the principles, and the future happiness 
 and respectability, of his children, by a conduct or 
 conversation hostile to religion ? Voltaire would warn 
 his company against repeating blasphemous impieties 
 before his servants, " lest (says he) they should cut 
 all our throats." He well knew the demoralizing 
 effects that an open contempt for religion would pro 
 
 6 
 
 ^
 
 145 
 
 duce. In fact, a man of his observation must have 
 known that no nation can prosper without rehgion, 
 and that no rehgion can exist if brought into general 
 contempt. Strange that such a man should have 
 acted so oppositely to conscience and conviction ! Of 
 course, we do not allude to his attacks on the bigotry 
 and inconsistencies of the Roman Catholic doctrines, 
 but to his avowed hostihty to the whole Christian 
 system. 
 
 Happily for the interests of society, religious de- 
 votion is too deeply seated in the heart of man to be 
 destroyed by all the efforts of scepticism. Notwith- 
 standing all that has been written against religion—^ 
 and every argument and sarcasm that could be em- 
 ployed against it has been resorted to — we may safe- 
 ly say, that, at the present time, for one person 
 who has cast off all belief in Revelation there are 
 thousands who cling to it. Perhaps if men, who 
 merely argue against revealed religion, were left to 
 themselves, it is probable that both they and their 
 writings would be little known or inquired after by 
 the bulk of mankind ; while a public prosecution 
 gives celebrity to the one and circulation to the 
 other. In the United States of America, where 
 there is no estabhshed religion, and where men may 
 write what they please concerning Christianity, the 
 people in general — especially in the Northern States, 
 —are as devout as those of any other country ; and 
 religion is seldom spoken contemptuously of in com- 
 pany — ^indeed is rarely introduced as a topic of con- 
 
 G
 
 146 
 
 versation. Sceptical writings are disregarded, for 
 the plain reason, that the reading of them is confined 
 to a very few. With respect to downright deter- 
 mined blasphemers, no one, we presume, will pretend 
 to say that they should not be amenable to the laws. 
 A gross and wanton outrage on decency and the in- 
 stitutions of the country can admit of no palliation. 
 
 After all, we cannot help thinking, that those who 
 set themselves up as sincere, devout Christians, yet 
 act repugnantly to the pure, beneficent spirit of 
 Christianity — who, in short, cast a discredit on it by 
 their hypocrisy, rapacity, and uncharitableness — do 
 more harm to it than its most determined enemies by 
 their open attacks. It may, indeed, truly be said, 
 that such persons are only nominally Christians; 
 but the multitude, misled by outward appearances, 
 are too apt to judge otherwise.
 
 u: 
 
 ADVICE OP A QUAKERESS. 
 
 " In simple manners all the secret lies, 
 
 Be kind and virtuous, you'll be blest and v.-ise ; 
 
 Vain shew and noise intoxicate the brain. 
 
 Begin with giddiness and end with pain." — Young. 
 
 The following letter, with a few trifling alterations, 
 was written by a quaker lady to a young female 
 friend. The occasion was this : — In a conversation 
 on the enjoyment of the various pleasures and amuse- 
 ments which a gay and fashionable life offers, the 
 former contended that most, if not all, of these were 
 not only not necessary, but repugnant to true hap- 
 piness, and in a certain degree sinful. The young 
 lady endeavoured to combat these opinions, which 
 she did with, what appeared to her quaker friend, a 
 flippancy ill according with that singleness and sim- 
 phcity of heart which marked the character of the 
 latter. The difference of years, of education, and 
 habits of tliinking, will sufficiently account for the 
 diversity of their opinions. Be this as it may, the 
 young lady, on the day following this conversation, 
 received the letter in question, which certainly con- 
 tains some sensible observations, and breathes a quiet, 
 unassuming spirit of Christian piety.
 
 148 
 
 Dearly beloved Friend Frances, 
 Thou knowest the love I bear towards thee, and 
 with what heart-yearning I wish for thy worldly hap- 
 piness, as well as thy spiritual welfare. Thou art 
 young, dear friend Frances, and knowest but little of 
 this world, still less, I fear, thinkest thou of that 
 Avhich Cometh. Thy dispositions, I have marked, 
 are goodly, and thou hast within thee a treasure of 
 native good sense. But still thou wantest the light 
 of truth and the voice of experience to direct thee : 
 without these, thy unsuspecting nature would be 
 prone to be led into many unhappy follies and errors. 
 Sagacity, purely innate, must be moulded by wis- 
 dom and directed by divine grace, otherwise it avail- 
 eth nought. Friend Frances ! thou wilt not be of- 
 fended with one who laboureth for thy good. Avoid, 
 I pray thee, all vain amusements, gayeties, and plea- 
 sures, which assuredly Avill lead thee far astray from 
 the voice of comfort ; they will invite thee, with en- 
 snaring smiles, from the path thou shouldst tread, 
 into sorrow and vexation. They bewilder and ob- 
 scui'e our sight, so that Ave know not what we do ; 
 amidst the enchantments they throw around us, we 
 lose sight of Him who placed us here, as well as of 
 those duties of kindness and charity which we owe to 
 each other in this vale of tears. 
 
 Pride, too, is a rock on which thou mu£t not suffer 
 thy peace to be wrecked ; I mean that overweening 
 pride which causeth us to look down with scorn on a 
 fellow-mortal, because he is poorer, or, peradventure.
 
 149 
 
 filleth a station inferior to our own. Be assured, 
 that he who thus exalteth himself above his brother 
 is both selfish and unwise — selfish, inasmuch as he 
 wrappeth himself up in a deceitful covering of ima- 
 ginary self-importance, and unwise, as this self-exalt- 
 ation exposeth us to manifold mortifications of spi- 
 rit ; for he that is poorly gratified by despising his 
 supposed inferior, must, in his turn, be deeply 
 wounded by the contumely of those who regard 
 themselves as his superiors. That spirit which rais- 
 eth him so high in his own estimation is keenly sus- 
 ceptible of the affront of neglect and disregard from 
 others. In the sight of the Almighty all his crea- 
 tures are alike; He no more regardeth the highest than 
 he doth the poorest and meanest among them. His 
 favour is not procured by the things of this world, 
 but by the performance of those duties which we owe 
 to Him and to each other. — Be meek, therefore, and 
 lowly in spirit, for this will dispose thee to lead a 
 blameless and godly life, as well as prove a shield 
 against the hatred and envy of the selfish and world- 
 ly-minded. 
 
 Friend Frances, be humbly contented with thy 
 lot, and if thou endurest aught that is painfvil or irk- 
 some to thee, remember that our sufferings on earth 
 are ordered for the wise and beneficent purpose of 
 raising our thoughts to another and a better world — 
 to that Being whose providence will, in his good 
 time, deliver us from every evil. Be not covetous of 
 worldly pomp and riches, for envy is a canker that
 
 150 
 
 preyeth on the heart ; thou wilt in time knoAv that it 
 is the sure bane of all human happiness. Look 
 around thee, dear friend Frances, and see how many 
 of thy fellow-creatures are doomed to endure far 
 greater afflictions, and more real miseries, than any 
 thou canst as yet form any idea of. Alas ! how 
 many of these are of our own creating — how many 
 spring from our own perverse passions and distorted 
 views of things ! Thou little knowest the vexations 
 to which those who are called the great are exposed. 
 Contentment dwelJeth not in the palace, but is often 
 found, clothed in humble garments, seated in the 
 cottage. Thou art yet ignorant of that which con- 
 stituteth our most faithful comforts. Dost thou 
 think it consisteth in princely mansions, gay equi- 
 pages, numerous retinues, svuiiptuous feasts, costly 
 apparel, and all the gaudy displays of human osten- 
 tation ? Ask the great, who have long been accus- 
 tomed to this imagined happiness, and they will tell 
 thee, that those pleasures and gayeties, which thou 
 beholdest at a distance with envy, and would wel- 
 come with rapture, will cease, when they become fa- 
 miliar, to dazzle, delight, and allure, leaving only 
 satiety behind, and a vain regret that pleasure is not 
 eternal, and perfect happiness unattainable on this 
 side of the grave. Farewell, friend Frances, and let 
 these precepts sink deep in thy heart. 
 
 Sarah Watson.
 
 151 
 
 THE LOSS OF A BELOVED FRIEND. 
 
 " Oh ! ever loving, lovely, and beloved ! 
 
 How selfish sorrow ponders on the past, 
 
 And clings to thoughts now better far removed ! 
 
 But Time shall tear thy shadow from me last. 
 
 All thou could'st have of mine, stern Death ! thou hast." — Byhok. 
 
 Perhaps no event, not of a public nature, ever pro- 
 duced so deep and general an impression on all ranks 
 of persons in England, as that of the death of the late 
 lamented Sir Samuel Romilly, — combined with the af- 
 flicting circumstances attending it. This excellent 
 and eminent man appears to have been a universal 
 favourite. In his political relations, while he was 
 idolized by that party to which he had attached him- 
 self, he was, at the same time, venerated and respect- 
 ed by its opponents. The latter, while they arrayed 
 themselves in opposition to his public opinions and 
 principles, spontaneously accorded to him the praise 
 of that spirit of uprightness with which these were 
 cherished and upheld. In his professional pursviits, 
 Sir Samuel was a model for diligence, zeal, talent, 
 and integrity. If we accompany him into the circle 
 of private friendship and domestic endearment, we 
 find this worthy man exhibiting that correct moral 
 conduct, unliappily so rare among the votaries of
 
 152 
 
 fashion and high hfe, and exercising all those endear- 
 ing kindnesses of the heart, whose best reward is the 
 bliss it seeks to impart. In few words, Sir Samuel 
 Romilly was, in the truest sense of the word, a great 
 and a good man. It is not, therefore, to be wonder- 
 ed at, if the dreadful and unexpected catastrophe 
 which deprived society of so valuable a member, the 
 public of so able and steadfast a servant, and his fa- 
 mily of so dear and excellent a protector, should have 
 sunk deep into the minds and hearts of men of all 
 parties and of every rank. 
 
 We are little moved by the generality of those 
 numerous accounts of suicide which we daily meet 
 with in the English prints, as, being a matter of such 
 common and frequent occurrence, they become in a 
 degree familiar to our contemplation. When we 
 read of men having committed this dreadful act in a 
 moment of frenzy, produced by defeated ambition, or 
 frustrated avarice, by the disappointments of love, 
 or the ravings of jealousy, or by that morbid de- 
 spondency, which, without any apparent exciting 
 cause, seizes on some devoted minds, a mixed emo- 
 tion of pity, terror, and melancholy, takes possession 
 of the heart, but it soon passes away, and gives 
 place to other feelings and other objects ; nor is that 
 emotion unmixed with a certain degree of condem- 
 nation of an act, which, in whatever light it may 
 have been viewed by the Ronians, and some other 
 nations of antiquity, is certainly repugnant to the 
 spirit and the precepts of Christianity.
 
 153 
 
 But far different is the case when we come to me- 
 ditate on an act of self-destruction by a noble and 
 exalted character, — such as Sir Samuel Romilly, — 
 under circumstances and sufferings so painful 
 to contemplate as were those which raised the arm 
 of that great man against his own Hfe. Here is an 
 affair which comes home to " every man''s business 
 and bosom ;" for who, in this vale of tears, that 
 shall say — such shall not he my lot ? 
 
 " Oh ! what a noble mind was here o'erthrown !" 
 
 That such a man, while reason was not yet over- 
 whelmed by suffering, would have shrunk back from 
 a deed which that reason woukl have shuddered at, 
 we may well imagine. A man of so elevated a soul 
 would not have sunk under common misfortunes. — 
 He would have braved, with a manly spirit, any and 
 every other ill, which man is doomed to endure, in 
 his passage from the cradle to the tomb, save that 
 one by Avhose visitation that lofty spirit M^as broken 
 and bowed down to the earth — an awful lesson, that 
 there exists no mind, however exalted and fortified 
 by reason, knowledge, and a magnanimous courage, 
 that can be said to be completely proof against every 
 affliction with which Heaven mav visit us. Alas ! 
 for poor human nature. 
 
 When death lays its cold hand on that beloved 
 friend, on whose affection and kindness, for a long 
 series of years, the heart has reposed — from whom- 
 in all its trials, it has found solace and sympathy — 
 the faithful friend of our bosom^ — the companion of 
 
 g2
 
 154 
 
 our solitary hours — the partaker of our cares and 
 our pleasures— our counsellor in troubles and diffi- 
 culties — our guardian angel in the hour of misfor- 
 tune, and on the bed of sickness, — what can be more 
 terrible and afflicting ? — The heart sickens under it, 
 and in vain looks around for comfort in that world 
 where it is not to be found ! 
 
 How fruitless the consolations and the advice of 
 friends on such an occasion ! — how vain to say — " re- 
 strain your grief— be comforted /" He who directs 
 the storm, and sets bounds to the tides, can alone pour 
 balm into the broken heart ' 
 
 In one of the last codicils to his will, Sir Samuel 
 says — " I am at the present moment of perfectly 
 sound mind, and in full possession of all my facul- 
 ties ; but I am labouring under a most severe afflic- 
 tion, and I cannot but recollect that insanity is amongst 
 the evils which mental afflictions sometimes produce." 
 Poor fellow-mortal ! well can we conceive the nature 
 of that affliction — well can we conceive that inde- 
 scribable agony — that desolation of the heart, which 
 made a blot of creation — a desert of the fair face of 
 nature, to your view — which, wrapt in a wild chaos 
 of despair, that " noble prerogative of man," without 
 which, he is, as far as regards this world, worse 
 than nothing ! Well can we conceive how, ere this 
 dreadful crisis of his sufferings and struggles ar- 
 rived — 
 
 " Full many a melancholy night 
 He watch'd the slow return of light,
 
 155 
 
 And sought the powers of sleep, 
 To spread a momentary calm 
 O'er his sad couch, and in the balm 
 Of bland oblivion's dews his burning eyes to steep." 
 
 What, then, are the topics of consolation, the 
 cherished assurances, on which the heart can repose 
 amid this utter wreck of its earthly joys and hopes, 
 when the spirit, which lately inspired it, is broken and 
 shivered, and the eye wanders in vacancy, without a 
 resting-place, — doomed no more to behold that object 
 on whom it had been so long; accustomed to gaze 
 with delight ! 
 
 As there is no human being, imbued with a virtu- 
 ous feeling, who can assure himself that, under cer- 
 tain circumstances, such a lot may not befall him, 
 such an inquiry is of infinite interest to us all. What, 
 then, does reason say on the subject .? — That our la- 
 mentations for the dead are all in vain — that, on 
 such an occasion, our sighs and tears are wasted on 
 the desert air — that they cannot recall the friend we 
 mourn — that an eternal and impassable gulf lies be- 
 tween the living and the dead, — and that, in the 
 world of spirits only can we hope to rejoin those we 
 have loved in life, and that are gone before us. All 
 this we too well know. But, alas ! this very con- 
 sideration of the utter fruitlessness of our sorrow has 
 a tendency to increase rather than diminish it. 
 
 Let us, therefore, endeavour to draw some conso- 
 lation from the thought, that our beloved friend is 
 for ever removed from the cares, griefs, and suffer-
 
 156 
 
 ings of life, — which, even in man's happiest estate in 
 this world, so far outweigh its few and transitory 
 pleasures. Our friend rests in peace — it is we who 
 are doomed to continue in suffering. Life has well 
 been compared to a journey, in which all mankind 
 are travellers : all are hastening towards its goal, and 
 it is, in truth, of little moment, whether a friend arrive 
 thereat a few years before or after us. A few passing 
 seasons, and it is but as a dream — a shadow — a tale 
 that is told — we follow our beloved friend — we go 
 down into the " valley of the shadow of death," and 
 are blotted out of the book of life. 
 
 " Reflect that life and death, affecting sounds I 
 Are only varied modes of endless being ; 
 Reflect that life, like every other blessings 
 Derives its value from its use alone, 
 Not for itself, but for a nobler end." 
 
 He whose life is greatly prolonged is not to be en- 
 vied. If he sinks not into a state of inanity, and 
 indifference about every object around him, he lives 
 but to weep, while memory endures, over the images 
 of departed friends and departed joys ! It was not 
 then without reason, that the philosopher of old 
 deemed the wish, that his enemy might survive 
 Ms friends^ as the worst of imprecations. Could 
 two persons, united in a virtuous affection, and ar- 
 dently and long devoted to each other, command the 
 fulfilment of a wish, it would doubtless be, that nei- 
 ther should survive the other ; but, as we cannot con-
 
 157 
 
 trol our destiny, and it happens, perhaps, ninety- 
 nine times out of an hundred, that one must survive 
 the other, let that unhappy one at least reflect, as a 
 consolation, that his or her departed friend has 
 escaped an agonizing trial — perhaps a broken 
 heart ! 
 
 But in whatever way reason and philosophy may 
 convince us, their influence falls far short of convey- 
 ing to the heart, deeply wounded by affliction, those 
 consolations which are necessary to sooth and heal it. 
 Religion is our only effectual refuge on this trying- 
 occasion. Viewing, then, the Almighty as a Being 
 whose providence is ever beneficent and wise, how- 
 ever our short-sighted views may incline us to judge 
 otherwise, we must look to Him only for support in 
 this hour of suffering and trial. Let us, while our 
 spirit lies prostrate under a calamity too powerful for 
 the weakness of our nature, endeavour to resign our- 
 selves to his will. Let us consider this as a duty 
 which we owe not only to Him, but to ourselves. 
 A powerful motive to this necessary resignation, is 
 the assurance, that the Almighty will, in his good 
 time, remove from us, in some way, that burden of 
 affliction which he has laid upon us. One soothing 
 prospect, above all, this pious dependence on the 
 goodness of God holds out to us — without which 
 nothing, perhaps, could comfort us under the depri- 
 vation of a beloved partner, whose society had be- 
 come necessary to our happiness, and even in a de- 
 gree to our very existence — and that is, that we shall
 
 158 
 
 again meet that dear friend in a happier world, to 
 })art no more ! There is no hope, no consolation on 
 which the heart, thus afflicted, more fondly seeks to 
 repose than on this.
 
 159 
 
 HOSPITALITY. 
 
 " Between excess and famine lies a mean ; 
 
 Plain but not sordid ; though not splendid, clean." 
 
 Hospitality originally imported kindness and at- 
 tention towards the stranger and sojourner. At pre- 
 sent it has, however, a more extensive signification. 
 In its primitive and genuine sense, it is rarely found 
 amidst the seats of luxiuy and wealth ; like other 
 rude virtues, it seems banished in a great measure 
 from populous and polished societies to remote and 
 lonely retreats. It is still found dwelling among the 
 savage tribes, and is cherished by the uncouth and 
 imtutored rustic. As civilization and commerce, 
 with their attendant luxuries and refinements, make 
 advances, simple and primitive hospitality disappears, 
 and, in its place, ostentatious profusion and excess 
 preside at the boards of the wealthy, the vain, and the 
 voluptuous. 
 
 The word hospitality is one of vei*y common use, 
 and most people, with various ideas on the subject, 
 think that, when they invite their friends and neigh- 
 bours to partake of their cheer, they exercise this 
 virtue in its true and genuine spirit. Perhaps our
 
 160 
 
 conceptions of it may be thought rather old-fashion- 
 ed ; but, such as they are, we shall here offer them. 
 The first duty of hospitality, in our mind, is to 
 put your guest perfectly at his ease in your house 
 and at your table. To distress him by an overstrain- 
 ed ceremony, a lavish expense, or a fastidious nicety, 
 is no part of plain unsophisticated hospitality. The 
 stranger, who is invited by you to partake of your 
 hospitality, if he possesses discrimination, and is sim- 
 ple in his manners and his taste, will be infinitely 
 more delighted with the smile of a cheerful undis- 
 guised welcome, than with all the profusion of dain- 
 ties and luxuries which you can call for his enter- 
 tainment. If he be a gourmand, an epicure, or a vo- 
 luptuary, your best endeavours will perhaps be lost 
 upon him — he values not the sincerity of your wel- 
 come, if it be not seconded by luxury, profusion, and 
 good cookery. Such an one, in our opinion, is not 
 Avorthy the pains, the precision, and expense, which 
 are necessary to please him. A vitiated appetite, a 
 factitious taste, are the offspring of luxury and re- 
 finement. How far more delicious and pure the 
 pleasures of a plain and simple meal to the man of 
 undebaviched appetite, when sweetened by the assi- 
 duous attentions of true hospitality, than the most 
 sumptuous banquet which the heart of the voluptuary 
 can desire to revel at ! The unostentatious Henry the 
 Fifth of France, fatigued, on one occasion, by the 
 toils of the chase, and separated from his companions, 
 entered a humble cottage which stood on the verge of
 
 161 
 
 the forest where he had been hunting. Utterly un- 
 known by its rustic tenants, he requested some re- 
 freshment, which was cheerfully and readily place<l 
 before him. The repast was simple, but wholesome 
 and nutritious, and the monarch, who had fasted for 
 a considerable time, partook the more heartily of it, 
 as it was given with a welcome the most sincere and 
 unaffected ; and he afterwards declared, that he had 
 never sat down to the most sumptuous entertainment 
 with half the pleasure and rehsh as had accompanied 
 this homely rural repast. 
 
 But we cannot perhaps do better than illustrate 
 our ideas on the subject of hospitality by a few ex- 
 amples : 
 
 Our old acquaintance Hilario gives a most hearty 
 and cheerful welcome to all his cronies^ — beyond the 
 circle of whom, however, his hospitality seldom ex- 
 tends. These cronies are men quite after the mind 
 of Hilario— choice spirits — seasoned casks — four-bot- 
 tle men, — who, when the juice of the grape begins to 
 ascend to their attic stories, exchange sober conver- 
 sation and sedate reasoning for boisterous mirth, 
 noisy declamation, and the roaring — not singing — of 
 catches and glees. If one who is in the habit of lead- 
 ing a quiet, regular, and temperate life, goes to dine 
 with Hilario and his companions, it is generally at 
 the expense of a tremendous headache, and the nau- 
 sea, if not sickness, attendant on debauch, for two or 
 three days after ; he must give up his will, his incli- 
 nation, his reason, his conviction, for six or seven
 
 162 
 
 hours, to Hilario and to wine, — swill overcharged 
 bumpers, be enveloped at times in clouds of tobacco- 
 smoke, and stunned with the deafening noise of ine- 
 briate mirth, ribaldrous wit, and arguments and de- 
 clamations that have more of sound than of sense. 
 This is the Bacchanalian sacrifice which Hilario ex- 
 pects from all those for whom he has a particular 
 regard, and any backwardness or appearance of mo- 
 deration in these his chosen guests, he construes into 
 a want of warmth and cordiality. As for such casual 
 guests as accident throws in his way, and for whom he 
 feels not that excess cyf friendship, he generally allows 
 them to drink as they please. Hilario is therefore 
 cried up by all the hon-vivants of his particular ac- 
 quaintance, as a very paragon of hospitality ; while 
 those who are neither so fond of deep drinking, nor 
 so able to bear it, are apt to think that he rather over- 
 strains the rule of putting his guests quite at their ease, 
 unless indeed when he gives them what he calls a qui- 
 etus, under the table. A large party once dined 
 with Hilario on a particular occasion : they Tcept it 
 up till Aurora had almost begun to blush for them. 
 One of the party broke his leg by a fall from his 
 horse, another had nearly broken his neck, two were 
 attacked by serious fits of sickness, and one took to 
 his bed, from which he never arose ! Such is the 
 unbcninded hospitality of Hilario. 
 
 Apicius is a true disciple of Epicurus: his viands 
 must be all of the choicest sort, and dressed with the 
 most exquisite culinary skill. He would almost as
 
 163 
 
 soon go without his dinner, as be doomed to eat part 
 of a roast whicli was either too much or too httle 
 done, partake of a ragout which wanted the true fla- 
 vour, or satisfy his hunger with a dish of fish or a 
 leg of mutton, without their appropriate savices. If 
 you go to the house of Apicius, you have all the Jine 
 things which money can purchase, or sensualism can 
 invent, and he takes care to edify you with praises 
 and descriptions of the dainties before you, and with 
 long dissertations on cookery in general. But if, 
 through some untoward accident, dinner is protract- 
 ed, or some favourite dish is spoiled in the cooking, 
 Apicius frets, loses his temper, scolds his servants, 
 and finds fault with his wife ! Can all this be agree- 
 able to his guests ? — In short, the fastidious desire of 
 displaying a table covered with dishes dressed in the 
 highest and best style, which is all Apicius aims at, 
 frequently destroys the pleasure of his guests, and 
 disturbs the peace of his family. The devotees of 
 good cheer, who can join with him in its praise, are 
 the most welcome of his guests, not only because 
 they are congenial souls, but because Apicius is sure 
 of finding something to his mind when he repays their 
 visits. As Apicius has no idea of the pleasure of a 
 sincere welcome, separate from this god of his idola- 
 try^ he values not your hospitality, if your dinners 
 are not done up as they should be, and the surest 
 way of pleasing him, when you invite him to dine 
 with you, is to send for his cook to preside in your 
 kitchen.
 
 164- 
 
 Gormandus is the intimate Jriend of Apicius (ac- 
 cording to the vulgar acceptation of this abused 
 word), on account of the similarity of their opinions 
 and habits. Gormandus is more voracious, but less 
 fastidious, than his friend. He eats to excess, and 
 devours his meals with the rapidity and greed of a 
 half-starved beast of prey. He who most frequently 
 invites him to his house, and puts before him the best 
 cheer, is his most dear and valued friend, whatever 
 other pretensions he may have to his regard ; and 
 one could not fall on a more ready way of forfeiting 
 his esteem than by inviting him to a Spartan enter- 
 tainment. We once met Apicius and Gormandus at 
 the house of an acquaintance, when these gentlemen 
 entertained the company for two hours at least with 
 disquisitions on g-ood livings the preference they gave 
 to this dish over that, and the superiority of one 
 mode of cooking over another, &c. 
 
 Ostentus, a man of vast property, has spread his 
 reputation far and near for giving grand entertain- 
 ments. If he invites a party to dine with him, no 
 pains nor expense are spared to render the entertain- 
 ment magnificent, and every way worthy the admira- 
 ration of his guests. Sometimes he gives what may 
 be called a surprise — that is, he invites, with a stu- 
 died sans ceremonie^ a party of his acquaintance, se- 
 parate and unknown to each other, and he declares 
 to each that it is merely to eat a bit oi family dinner. 
 The guests attend, and are mutually surprised to see 
 so many gathered together ^'w5^ to partake of the pot-
 
 165 
 
 luck of the house. But their astonishment does not 
 cease here ; the table is loaded with all that money 
 can procure, or luxury desire ! Down sit the party 
 to this pot-lucle entertainment, absolutely puzzled 
 what to choose first, so great is the variety laid be- 
 fore them ; while the wife of Ostentus, who is exact- 
 ly calculated for seconding her husband in these at- 
 tempts to surprise, is continually making apologies 
 for the poorness of the entertainment, and expressing 
 her fears, that her guests may not be able to make a 
 hearty dinner in consequence ! To add to their 
 chagrin and disappointment^ she informs them that 
 they must not expect either puddings, or tarts, or 
 any of those fine things which follow a regular enter- 
 tainment. Yet, lo and behold ! a splendid dessert 
 dazzles the eyes of the poor half-starved guests, — 
 with a profusion of sweetmeats, liqueurs, and all the 
 fruits of the season ! At the table of Ostentus the 
 voluptuary and the glutton, who know no pleasure 
 equal to that of gratifying the palate, and gorging 
 the stomach, are quite at home ; but the plain man, 
 who prefers a cheerful welcome, an unceremonious 
 reception, and social and friendly converse, to the 
 mere animal pleasure of eating and drinking, will be 
 apt to exclaim, 
 
 " Is this a dinner ? this a genial room ? 
 No, 'tis a temple, and a hecatomb ; 
 I curse such lavish cost and little skill, 
 And swear no day was ever spent so ill."
 
 166 
 
 Ostentus thinks he confers an infinite honour by in- 
 viting you to his house, if you are his inferior in for- 
 tune and rank, and is only proud when his superiors 
 enter beneath his roof. In short, the pure and simple 
 spirit of hospitality — the unfeigned cordiality of 
 kindness — the welcome of the heart, — is in vain looked 
 for at the festive board of Ostentus, which is nothing 
 more than an altar on which the selfish and the 
 sensual sacrifice to the vanity and pride of their en- 
 tertainer. 
 
 Our friend Atticus is possessed of that easy and 
 independent income, without superfluity, which en- 
 ables him to enjoy, pretty frequently, the company 
 of his fi'iends and acquaintance at his house. Good 
 humour, hilarity, and social converse preside at the 
 table of Atticus, and his unostentatious entertain- 
 ments are sweetened by the genuine welcome and 
 unreserved cordiality with which he and his family 
 receive you. On those occasions he enjoys with his 
 friends, what may be called a cheerful glass, but sel- 
 dom goes beyond it, and his guests are generally at 
 liberty to do as they please in this respect ; he may 
 at times kindly urge, but he never rudely presses, an 
 unusual sacrifice to conviviality. Atticus regards the 
 acceptance of an invitation to dine with him, by a 
 worthy and respectable man, as an honour and an 
 obligation conferred on him, — unlike either Apicius 
 or Ostentus, who, regarding themselves in such a 
 case, as the obligers, not the obliged, (unless when 
 the party entertained is their superior), invert the
 
 167 
 
 true maxim of hospitality, and render their invita- 
 tions not worth the accepting. A coldness once arose 
 between Atticus and one who had been on intimate 
 terms with him, and who had often partaken of his 
 hospitality. An officious acquaintance hinted to him 
 one day, that he thought the unkind behaviour of 
 his quondam associate savoured of ingratitude. At- 
 ticus indignantly repelled the idea as vulgar and self- 
 ish, and declared it as his opinion, " that if social 
 intercourse was to be thus narrowed into an affair of 
 interest and favour, no man of generous feelings 
 would accept the hospitality of another, lest it might 
 afterwards be turned into a subject of reproach." 
 He added, " that he considered the company of Mr 
 ■ as a favour when they were on friendly terms, 
 and that the circumstance of their misunderstanding 
 did not alter that opinion, as he was not the less re- 
 spectable on that account.''' Thus does this worthy 
 and open-hearted man argue on subjects of this kind. 
 Atticus, with all his goodness of heart, being yet of 
 an independent spirit, it is not the wealthy and the 
 great, but the most truly respectable as to character, 
 which he feels the greatest pride in seeing at his hos- 
 pitable board. Personal Avorth, not worldly conse- 
 quence, is the criterion of his choice, the object of 
 his preference. The stranger and sojourner want no 
 other recommendation to his hospitable attentions, 
 than that, being such, they stand the more in need of 
 this spontaneous kindness.
 
 168 
 
 Such is the genuine spirit of liberahty with .which 
 our friend Atticus exercises the duties of kindness 
 and hospitality towards his fellow-creatures.
 
 169 
 
 OLD MAIDS AND OLD BACHELORS. 
 
 *' They had warm passions, tender hopes, desires, 
 
 That youth indulges, and that love inspires ; 
 
 But fortune frown'd on their designs, displaced 
 
 The views of hope, and love's gay dreams disgraced : 
 
 Took from the soul her sunny views, and spread 
 
 A cloud of dark but varying gloom instead : 
 
 And shall we these with ridicule pursue. 
 
 Because they did not what they could not do ? 
 
 If they their lot preferr'd, still why the jest 
 
 On those who took the way they judged the best ? 
 
 But if they sought a change, and sought in vain, 
 
 'Tis worse than brutal to deride their pain." — Crabbe. 
 
 Why are there so many of both sexes who prefer, or 
 seem to prefer, a state of " single-blessedness" to the 
 more honourable and happy state of wedlock ? This is 
 a question of some importance, to which one general 
 answer may in the outset be given — namely, that this 
 unsocial, unnatural choice, or destiny, which ever it 
 may be, is owing either to the pride, selfishness, or 
 perverseness of the parties, or to a concurrence of 
 untoward circumstances over which they had no con- 
 trol. Those individuals of both sexes, who have 
 lived out of the pale of matrimony till age has 
 overtaken them, seem as it were to stand alone 
 on the vast theatre of the world, like a blighted tree 
 on a common — than which there is not, perhaps, a 
 
 H
 
 170 
 
 more lonely, cheerless state — they merit our sympa- 
 thy, or they do not, according to the circumstances 
 and motives by which this their destiny has been 
 cast. We cannot feel either sympathy or respect for 
 the old bachelor, who, though possessing the means 
 of providing suitably for a wife and family, continues 
 single from a sordid parsimony, or a devotedness to 
 illicit pleasures, — or for the old maid who boasts of 
 the handsome offers she has had in her time, which a 
 calculating selfishness, or overweening pride, whisper- 
 ing the vain hope of still better ones casting up, would 
 not allow her to accept. But very differeent is the case 
 of the many, who, from a variety of unfortunate 
 causes, remain single involuntarily — whose early 
 hopes of love and conjugal felicity have been scat- 
 tered in the winds by the rude breath of untoward 
 fortune. For such we must feel sympathy and respect. 
 Many circumstances may and do exist of such a 
 nature as to preclude persons from entering into the 
 conjugal state who would otherwise be most happy to 
 do so. Of two evils choose the least is a well-known 
 axiom, and that suffering which, from some certain 
 causes, would probably follow a union of two persons, 
 otherwise formed to make each other happy, might 
 be far greater than that which would attend their de- 
 voting themselves to a single hfe. We allude, in par- 
 ticular, to the situation and worldly prospects of such 
 persons. The great strides which luxury and refine- 
 ment have made render it no easy matter — indeed 
 impossible — to maintain, in middle life, a certain ap-
 
 171 
 
 pearance, and educate a growing family, with a li- 
 mited or precarious income. A spirit of emula- 
 tion to live in what is called a genteel style, per- 
 vades, at the present day, almost every class above 
 the labouring one, and requires suitable means for 
 its support. This spirit in a great measure owes 
 its origin to, and has kept pace with, the style 
 in which females are now generally educated. Five 
 and twenty or thirty years ago, those accomplish- 
 ments, which are at present deemed indispensable to 
 a young lady in middle life, were rarely bestowed on 
 any but the daughters of men of rank or fortune. 
 At present, even the daughters of mechanics, who 
 have made a little money, receive what is called an ac- 
 complished education. This is all very well ; but the 
 consequence is, that their ideas of gentility naturally 
 expand with these their attainments ; and this we 
 take to be the mainspring of that expensive taste, 
 and fondness for display, which it has become the 
 fashion to indulge at the present day. According to 
 this standard of gentility, the houses, furniture, 
 dress of persons in moderate circumstances, must 
 all be what they oug'ht to be — elegant and fashion- 
 able ; the sons must receive a liberal education, 
 and the daughters be placed under suitable masters 
 in music, drawing, French, &c. It would doubtless 
 be cynical to find fault with all this, where the means 
 are suitable ; but we may be permitted to question 
 the propriety of such things when they are likely to 
 lead to ruinous or injurious consequences — to occa- 
 
 1
 
 172 
 
 sion embarrassment to parents of limited income, or 
 throw impediments in the way of young ladies get- 
 ting husbands. We have read, in novels and in 
 poetry, of love being happy even in a cottage — of 
 two fond hearts resolving to endure all the evils 
 of })overty and privation rather than be separated ; 
 ])ut, in actual life, these fine ideas do not suit so 
 well. The age of romance is gone by, and we find 
 that accomplished young ladies, of the modern 
 school, have an eye to the comforts and conveniences 
 of a good house and a snug fortune as well as to the 
 rewards of love. 
 
 Such is the perspective which presents itself to 
 the fortuneless young aspirants to the happiness and 
 respectability of married life — that imposes upon them 
 the dire necessity of foregoing the fulfilment of their 
 wishes, and nips in the bud many a fair flower of 
 early love. No man of feeling would willingly be 
 the means of placing the object of his heart in a si- 
 tuation beneath that to which she had been accus- 
 tomed, much less would he subject her to the hard- 
 ships and privations of poverty. Where there is ac- 
 tual want and suffering, mutual affection will not 
 oe productive of happiness — it will rather give a 
 keener edge to the misery these brought with them. 
 Now, perhaps there are not less than eight or nine 
 out of every ten young men, in middle life, who have 
 either their fortunes to seek, or some situation yield- 
 ing a sure and permanent income, sufficient for the 
 wants of a family. Many of those go abroad to push
 
 173 
 
 their fortunes, of whom only a small riumber ever re- 
 turn, while not a few of those that remain have to 
 toil for a series of years before they are in a situation 
 to marry. Of course, a proportionate number of 
 females, in the same rank of life, inust remain with- 
 out lovers or husbands ; or, should some of them have 
 offers, they may be such as neither their delicacy nor 
 their reason will allow them to accept ; for surely it 
 is better for a female to continue for ever single than 
 make a sacrifice of her affections by marrying a man 
 whom she can neither love nor esteem, and with 
 whom she cannot therefore expect to be happy. A 
 female thus disappointed in the first and dearest wish 
 of her heart, a union with the man formed to win her 
 heart — whom she loved, and by whom she was be- 
 loved, — is surely not a fit object of that ridicule with 
 which it is the fashion to speak of unmarried ladies 
 of a certain age, whose misfortune, not fault, it is, 
 that they have not enjoyed 
 
 " That bliss beyond v/hat lonely life can know. 
 The soul-felt sympathy of joy and wo ; 
 The magic charm which makes e'en sorrow dear, 
 And turns to pleasure the partaken tear." 
 
 Nothing, in truth, can be more childish and unfeel- 
 ins: than the too common sneers and witticisms on 
 old maids — in which, by the bye, the young and 
 more fortunate of their own sex are too prone to 
 join. There is a certain selfish malignity in the na- 
 ture of some persons which inclines them to triumph
 
 174 
 
 in the comparison of their condition with that of 
 others, to which alone we can attribute this ungener- 
 ous derision. The female they thus deride has 
 been once ' '^f that is a matter to boast of — 
 
 perhaps rilcA*e beautiful and beloved than the heart- 
 less sneerers of her own sex who affect to exercise 
 their wit at her exppuse. It is no merit, it is true, 
 that she has (<een so ; but as it is the most essential 
 in the eyes of these female wits, the mention of it 
 may have more weight with them than even the con- 
 sideration of superior excellence. There was a time 
 Avhen, like them, she cherished the fondest hopes, 
 the fairest expectations ; if these have been blighted 
 by unmerited neglect, or the frowns of fortune, is the 
 hapless suff'erer therefore a fit object for unfeeling- 
 mirth ? It has long been a sort of fashion to associate 
 with the name of old maid certain particular and an- 
 tiquated notions, — an envy of the young and beauti- 
 ful of her sex, and an unconquerable propensity to 
 scandal. That there are such characters we will not 
 pretend to deny ; but how absurd to suppose that 
 such qualities must necessarily attach to every female 
 who has outlived the hopes of a husband ! As wealth 
 and beauty are the principal points of attraction to 
 our sex, and good sense and gentleness of disposi- 
 tion are but secondary considerations, in their choice 
 of a partner for life, the fair inference is, that there 
 are at least as many amiable and well-informed old 
 maids as old wives. We have often met elderly lui- 
 married ladies possessed of excellent hearts, and high-
 
 175 
 
 ly-cultivated minds — friendly, cheerful, communica- 
 tive, — whose society it was an honour and a pleasure 
 to enjoy. At the same time, we are free to confess, 
 that we have known some of a verv -l'^— ent charac- 
 ter—some, in short, who were perptLui... f venting 
 their spleen against the youthfid of their sex, the 
 giddy, senseless girls of the present day, as ii they 
 themselves had not once been young, and a little 
 thoughtless too, perhaps, if the truth were known — 
 who seldom failed to discover that their married ac- 
 quaintance led a strange cat-and-dog sort of a Ufe, — 
 and who took frequent occasions to speak of the con- 
 ijuests they had made in the heyday of their charms, 
 the hearts they had broke, and the numberless op- 
 portunities thrown in their way of becoming wedded 
 dames, had they preferred that state to the happier 
 independence of a single life, exempt from the vexa- 
 tions of noisy children, and the tyrannical control of 
 a surly husband ! 
 
 With respect to old bachelors — of whom we had 
 almost lost sight, in our solicitude for the ladies, — 
 we need not say more respecting them, in addition to 
 what we have already said, than just to remark, that 
 there is about as great a diversity of character among 
 them as among old maids, though there is not the 
 same latitude of excuse for their remaining; in that 
 anti-social condition. To all such of the fraternity 
 as may still fair%^ hope to become fathers of families, 
 and are in a condition to provide for them, we can- 
 not offer a better advice, than that they should, with-
 
 176 
 
 out the least possible delay, take unto themselves 
 suitable help-mates. We can with truth assure 
 them— for we have had some experience of the mat- 
 ter — that, if they make but a judicious, or rather, we 
 should say, fortunate choice — for on this incalculably 
 much depends, — they will be a thousand times hap- 
 pier than in the lonely, joyless, companionless condi- 
 tion to which they have hitherto devoted themselves. 
 We shall offer no apology for adding, by way of 
 postscript to these remarks, the following poetical 
 sketch of the life of one of those superannuated beau- 
 ties, who, in the noontide hour of their fascination, 
 have made sad havock among the hearts of their male 
 contemporaries, and who live and revel in the proud 
 remembrance, — apparently not much disconcerted by 
 the reflection, that they carried the joke a little too 
 far. It is the production of a young friend of ours, 
 and, as it breathes more of a spirit of kindness and 
 sympathy, than of ill-natured satire, we are the more 
 disposed to communicate it. 
 
 Thrice twenty times the radiant sun 
 His measured course had nearly run 
 Since Anna first beheld the light — 
 A doting mother's dear delight. — 
 Each sweetest charm and infant grace 
 Play'd in the darling's cherub face,
 
 177 
 
 While, inoffensive as she smiled, 
 
 The parents hugg'd the beauteous child. 
 
 Still, as revolve successive years. 
 
 New loveliness in her appears, 
 
 More fascinating still she grows ; 
 
 The blushing rosebud''s colour glows 
 
 In freshness o'er her damask cheek, 
 
 ""Mid youthful smiles and " dimples sleek ;' 
 
 Her e3'^es, like radiant stars above, 
 
 Sparkle with beams of new-born love, 
 
 As if the soft and genial flame 
 
 Had stolen already through her frame. 
 
 In short, a beautj^ at sixteen, 
 
 Anna is loved as soon as seen ; 
 
 Decked b}^ the hands of all the loves 
 
 And graces, she a goddess moves ! 
 
 And now the elf, yclept conceit, 
 In fancy prostrates at her feet 
 A crowd of swains, with bleeding hearts. 
 Pierced by relentless Cupid's darts. 
 Insidious whispers in her ear, 
 " Anna, go on, you've nought to fear ; 
 The magic of those charms commands 
 A thousand lovers' hearts and hands." — 
 Hope, too, whose dear delusive smile 
 Charms while it may the heart beguile. 
 Her bright and beauteous visions spread 
 Before th' adored, the happy maid— 
 
 H 2
 
 178 
 
 Joys in perspective, years of bliss, 
 Which fate decrees she shall possess : 
 Pleasures incessant court her choice, 
 And flattery woos with soothing voice, 
 A magic spell flings o'er her mind, 
 Leaving no cares, no fears behind. 
 
 Thus, wing'd with bliss, years rapid fly. 
 
 Till time no more she can defy — 
 
 Till all the blooming roses fade. 
 
 And half the charms of youth are fled ; 
 
 For — ah—what flower that blossoms fair 
 
 The withering breath of time shall spare ! 
 
 What sweets yon child of spring are given ! — J^ 
 
 Bathed in the limpid dews of heaven ; 
 
 To day it blooms — around it sheds 
 
 Its perfumed breath — to-morrow fades ! 
 
 Among her lovers, none she thought 
 Just like the charming one she sought — 
 One who in novels she could find — 
 In person faultless, and in mind 
 The image of the beau ideal — 
 That is, unlike whatever is real. 
 Repulsed by the fastidious fair. 
 At length they vanislfd in despair, — 
 Save one, the least beloved of all, 
 Whom she could never husband call. 
 And now the retrospective view 
 Of days so vainly spent — adieu
 
 179 
 
 Blest hours of blooming youth and charms, 
 Of promised conquest, soft alarms. 
 Fond schemes of true and tenderest love, 
 And faith which tedious years did prove ; 
 Anna, now sunk into neglect. 
 Is barely used with cold respect. 
 
 Like her, how many a hapless maid, 
 Formed to have blest the nuptial bed — 
 To be the sweetest, kindest wives, — 
 Are doomed to lead unsocial lives. 
 If some by fortune are condemn''d 
 To lack of wealth, can such be blamed ? 
 Since, without that, nor beauty can. 
 Nor merit, oft, please selfish man ; 
 Or she who, amiable and good. 
 O'er years of cold neglect must brood, 
 Because denied a form or face 
 Where dwells the charm of loveliness. 
 
 Many, like Anna, trust its power 
 Till all its fascination's o'er ; 
 By hope deceived, from day to day. 
 Till hope herself is flown away. 
 Ambition, nursed by flattery, drew 
 The maid beyond her proper view : 
 This was her only fault, ye fair. 
 Then, ah ! your cruel taunts forbear ; 
 Wound not a spirit half way broke 
 By disappointment's rudest shock ;
 
 180 
 
 To sympathy her griefs be dear, 
 Her pensive sigh with pity hear. 
 Think, dearest girls ! there was a time 
 When she, like you, was in her prime,- 
 When, lovely as the new-blown rose, 
 Her form a thousand charms disclose,- 
 AVhen, gay and graceful in the dance, 
 Her motions did each charm enhance. 
 Or, while amid the vocal throng, 
 Of love she sung the sweetest song,— ~ 
 While lovers and admirers watch 
 Each condescending smile to catch, — 
 Happy, if she but dropt her fan, 
 The blest occasion to each man I
 
 181 
 
 SEMBLANCES AND REALITIES. 
 
 " Wherever genius, truth, and vh-tue dwell, 
 Polished in courts, or simple in a cell, 
 All views of country, sects, and creeds apart. 
 These, these 1 love, and hold them to my heart.'' 
 
 It is a little curious to observe how egregiously con- 
 founded and misconceived are the different kinds of 
 regard which subsist among mankind. Friendship 
 and love, respect and esteem, are in the mouths of 
 every one, yet how few take the pains to examine to 
 what qualities, or nature and degree of merit, these 
 are due. Some are incapable of appreciating that 
 worth which justly entitles the possessor to those re- 
 gards ; while others are indisposed to place a value 
 on any human being, their own dearly-beloved selves 
 excepted. 
 
 Respect is a spontaneous, unbought homage, which 
 men, who are in the habit of thinking, and discrimi- 
 nating between right and wrong, good and evil, pay, 
 either outwardly or inwardly, to superior worth, and 
 talents worthily employed. We say mdwardly or iiu 
 wardly, because there are some whose candour and 
 magnanimity Avill not permit them to conceal any 
 noble feeling of their souls ; while there are others. 
 
 .
 
 182 
 
 even among the higher gifted of mankind, in whom 
 a lurking envy, or some petty jealousy and rivalship, 
 will not suffer an open avowal of aught in another 
 which diminishes, by comparison, their own imagined 
 superiority. On the other hand, the mere exterior 
 of respect, without the inward feeling, is very com- 
 mon in the world. This mere outside respect origi- 
 nates in, and vanishes with, self-interest. A man, 
 by no means actually respectable either by his virtues 
 or his talents, is able, and evinces a willingness to 
 serve another ; in return he receives this sort of re- 
 spect — a very ready and cheap coin, — unless we sup- 
 pose the obliged to be one of those noble and rare 
 characters who disdain dissimulation and hypocrisy 
 in all their shapes. Such an one will shew a just 
 measure of respect for any person deserving of it, un- 
 influenced by motives of interest. As the view of fa- 
 vour and patronage cannot heighten this show of re- 
 spect, neither will it be lessened by the subsequent 
 inability of the patron to confer new favours. This 
 genuine respect, marked out and apportioned by the 
 intrinsic merits of the respected, is worth a million of 
 the obsequious praises of the mere time-server, whose 
 hollow tribute of pretended respect rises and falls 
 with the ebbs and flows of fortune and favour. To 
 insure the former, we would advise every man not to 
 depend on the obtaining it by the acquisition of 
 wealth and power, and the exercise of what is called 
 patronage, but in the possession and practice of those 
 virtues which are loved and reverenced by the
 
 183 
 
 good, and — however unwillingly — respected by the 
 worthless. We have known one of those despicable 
 persons, called time-servers, vehemently traduce the 
 memory of a deceased patron, from whom he had re- 
 ceived the most important favours, and to whom, in 
 the hour of need, he was all obsequiousness ; while 
 another, who had experienced no kindness whatever 
 at the hands of the deceased, and who had frequent- 
 ly been at variance with him when in life, generously 
 became his advocate, and endeavoured to repel this 
 base and ungrateful attack. Innumerable and daily 
 lessons of this sort present themselves to our view. 
 Adulation and obsequious subserviency are so pleas- 
 ing to the vanity and self-importance of some men, 
 that they readily purchase them with such favours as 
 they can bestow, without much regard to the charac- 
 ters, motives, and views of those who seek to obtain 
 them by such arts. 
 
 Esteem, though nearly allied to, is a more affection- 
 ate feeling than respect, as it arises from an intimate 
 acquaintance with, and more endearing sense of, the 
 good qualities of the object who excites it. We re- 
 spect the rigid virtues of a Cato, though an utter 
 stranger to their possessor. We esteem the amiable 
 and irreproachable character with whom we are in 
 habits of association. 
 
 Friendship, between two persons of the same sex, 
 is an undisguised feeling of a good heart, produced 
 by a conviction of worth in the object, seconded by 
 an interchange of kind offices and affectionate atten-
 
 184 
 
 tions. True friendship cannot exist unsupported by 
 a well-founded esteem. Yet we may esteem and 
 respect a deserving person for his virtues, without 
 feeling for him the ardent affection of a friend. 
 Friendship is an affair of the heart, sanctioned by 
 the approval of reason. It is a plant of rare growth, 
 which is nurtured by mutual kindness, and can only 
 flourish in the soil of virtue. To look for friend- 
 ship in vicious and debased minds is like wandering 
 over a steril common in quest of a carnation. We 
 meet, however, with the semblance of friendship, 
 every day, even among the least estimable of man- 
 kind. Two men shall associate together, drink, and 
 debauch, and amuse each other, and all this, for- 
 sooth, is styled Ji-iendship. Others are drawn to- 
 gether by mutual interest and convenience, and 
 while fair appearances are kept up between them, 
 this intimacy is also dignified by the name of J^?iend- 
 ship. Every day shows the hollowness of this 
 species of attachment — it vanishes before the breath 
 of adversity — nay, some trivial offence, some failure 
 of attention, cancels it perhaps for ever. Genuine 
 fri;*ndship is guileless, frank, disinterested — like the 
 evergreen of the forest, it preserves its verdure 
 and freshness amidst the chillest blasts of winter. 
 It is a trite saying, that " there is friendship even 
 among rogues'" — that is to say, a congeniality of 
 dispositions and pursuits, among every class of men, 
 creates a sort of mutual leaning, and a desire of 
 association. A company of choice spirits mix to-
 
 185 
 
 gether — the glass, and the jest, and the song, whig 
 the moments with pleasure, and warm and exhila- 
 rate every heart. To hear the ardent professions 
 which are reciprocated between these jovial fellows, 
 at this heart-opening moment, one would be inclined 
 to think them animated by the most unbounded and 
 disinterested friendship ; yet the turning of a straw 
 shall change this scene of harmony and hilarity into 
 fierceness, revihngs, and blows ! — or, allow concord 
 to prevail to the last glass, the company breaks up 
 in peace, and next day the individuals who composed 
 it no longer remember, or, if they do, lay but little 
 stress on the inspirations of the preceding evening. 
 
 From the mere man of pleasure, or man of the 
 world, it would be folly to look for genuine friend- 
 ship. Self-love has too fast a hold on them to be 
 any one's friend but their own. The one is too 
 much engrossed by the indulgence of his appetites, 
 and the other by the accumulation of his gains, to 
 engage in so stale and unprofitable a commerce 
 as friendship ; and, if at times we think we see in 
 them a disposition to be kind, generous, and oblig- 
 ing, it is only to those, we may generally observe, 
 from whom they expect an ample return. If 
 wealthy and independent, the debauchee and volup- 
 tuary, it is true, seek not, as they do not stand in 
 need of, any other return than an unqualified obse- 
 quiousness — a species of homage which all those 
 who have it in their power to oblige can most 
 readily purchase from hundreds around them.
 
 186 
 
 Friendship with woman, as the poet says, is 
 " sister to love/" The fact is, there can be no real 
 love without friendship. Deprive love of this its 
 companion, and it sinks into a mere sensual passion 
 for the beauty of a face, or the symmetry of a form 
 —too often capricious, changeful, and evanescent. 
 The man who weds a beautiful woman merely be- 
 cause she is so, and who afterwards finds her amiable 
 and deserving, will, we may suppose, love her still 
 more tenderly on that account. This, however, 
 will materially depend on his principles, his habits, 
 and his capacity to appreciate this moral and mental 
 excellence. If shallow, selfish, and a sensualist, we do 
 not know that any good qualities which the object of 
 his choice may possess will greatly contribute to fix 
 or exalt his affection. When the bloom which capti- 
 vated is blighted by sickness, or fades with age, his 
 love, if it deserve the name, vanishes with the 
 witchery which fii-st excited it — nay, while it yet 
 continues but little impaired, some worthless object 
 will have the power to estrange him to the happiness 
 of a virtuous affection. Indissoluble ties bind him 
 nominally to the wedded partner of his bed ; he 
 laughs at the sanctity of these, or regards them as 
 an irksome and inconvenient burden. He would 
 Avith pleasure break them asunder, that he might 
 with less restraint yield himself up to the Ucentious- 
 uess of his passions. Human life furnishes innu- 
 merable examples of cruelty and crime originating in 
 this selfish and unprincipled libertinism, the usual
 
 187 
 
 accompaniment of a heart dead to every tender and 
 generous feeling. To what lengths this unfeeling 
 licentiousness may carry men, if unchecked by the 
 warnings of fear and of conscience, we have a strik- 
 ing proof in the conduct of that ruthless tyrant, 
 Henry the Eighth, towards the unfortunate women 
 who successively became the objects of his lust and 
 the victims of his cruelty. The moment that he 
 became enamoured of a new object, something must 
 be done to remove the only obstacle between him 
 and the possession of that object ; his unhappy wife, 
 however blameless, however fondly attached to him 
 (though attachment to such a monster seems a pro- 
 blem) must be divorced, or put to death ! What 
 then ? This was but a trifle when put in competi- 
 tion with his Highness's royal inclinations ! 
 
 But let us turn from so odious and sicken- 
 ing a picture, and see what an amiable, and de- 
 serving woman may reasonably hope for from a 
 man of sense, naturally virtuous, and of a gene- 
 rous and grateful disposition. He will think him- 
 self the happiest of men in the possession of so dear 
 a friend, so sweet a companion. His love will be 
 exalted and refined by sentiments of friendship and 
 esteem. His tenderness and affection will rather 
 increase than diminish as years pass over his 
 head. In the hour of sorrow or of suffering, he 
 will feel for her a redoubled tenderness, a more 
 anxious solicitude. When age or sickness shall 
 alter or impair that beauty which once captivated
 
 18S 
 
 him, and paleness and decay shall sit on that cheek 
 on which the rose once bloomed and health and 
 pleasure beamed, he will still be to her the same 
 affectionate partner as in the first days of their love 
 — his attachment, in truth, will be more deeply and 
 unalterably fixed. He will often recall, and dwell 
 with gratitude and delight on the days and hours of 
 happiness he has enjoyed in her society- — on the blame- 
 less tenor of her life, and on the innumerable proofs he 
 has received of her tender attachment. Such a man 
 may err — for where shall we look for faultlessness on 
 this side of the grave .'* — he may be betrayed into 
 a momentary hastiness or displeasure — he may even 
 be seduced, for a moment, from the path of duty ; 
 but never will his heart be hardened by vice- 
 never will he become unkind or indifferent to the 
 wife of his bosom — she alone will remain, to the 
 latest hour of his existence, the dearest, the most 
 beloved object of his attachment.
 
 189 
 
 A TALE. 
 
 " Time tempers love, but not removes, 
 More hallowed when its hope is fled ! 
 Oh ! what are thousand living loves 
 To one that cannot quit the dead !" 
 
 When in London, a few years ago, we met, at the 
 house of a worthy friend of ours, a widow lady, 
 for whom, from the painful vicissitudes of her for- 
 tune, we felt a deep sympathy. Mrs D , the 
 
 wife of our friend, gave us a brief sketch of this un- 
 fortunate young Avoman's life : — 
 
 Mrs L was, at the time when we knew her, 
 
 still in the prime of life ; but sorrow had wasted her 
 bloom and withered her cheek. ' She was the daugh- 
 ter of a poor, but respectable schoolmaster in a small 
 town in the north of England, who took the utmost 
 pains, she being an only child, to cultivate and im- 
 prove her mind. But the kind of readino- he recom- 
 mended to Mary — this was her name — was not ex- 
 actly suited to her taste. Works of fancy were her 
 chief delight. She read with avidity most of the 
 novels and romances which were in vogue at the 
 time. The characters and descriptions, the love- 
 stories, and ideal adventures she met with in these.
 
 190 
 
 made a powerful impression on a heart naturally 
 warm and ardent ; and produced a certain enthusi- 
 asm, which, while it elevated, often misled her ima- 
 gination. Occasionally, however, she varied the in- 
 tellectual treat by reading the poets, the most beau- 
 tiful passages from whom she carefully treasured up 
 in her memory, and could repeat with surprising fa- 
 cility. In short, at seventeen Mary was considered 
 a girl of extraordinary mental attainments ; even at 
 that early age, some poetical trifles of her writing 
 evinced a taste and feeling which would have done 
 honour to riper years. Nothing delighted her more 
 than to wander, during the sweet and tranquil even- 
 ings of sinnmer, with some favourite author in her 
 hand, amidst the thickest shades of an adjoining 
 forest, or along the margin of the mountain-embo- 
 somed lakes in the neighbourhood, where she might 
 contemplate Nature in all her beauty, freshness, and 
 magnificence. 
 
 When she had reached her eighteenth year, she 
 became acquainted with a young man, the son of a 
 gentleman of small landed property in a neighbour- 
 ing county, who was of a character and disposition 
 quite congenial to her own. He had read much ; 
 but his favourite stvidy was the drama, and Shak- 
 speare his beloved author. This young man had 
 been placed by his father in the office of an attorney, 
 which situation Avas not at all suited to his taste. 
 Disgusted with the dry, tedious, monotonous duties 
 he had there to perform, he one dav took an uncere- 
 
 ^
 
 191 
 
 monious leave of his master, and joined an itinerant 
 company of Thespians in a neighbouring town, whose 
 performances he had witnessed. In this situation 
 he promised himself the pleasure of enacting some 
 favourite characters, besides Jiaving a chance of 
 finding in it that novelty of adventure for which he 
 thirsted. Our dramatists stopped in their route at 
 the birth-place of Mary, to perform for a few nights ; 
 during which time, the young debutante got acquaint- 
 ed with her. The first conversation they had, pro- 
 duced powerful impressions on both sides — in short, 
 they soon discovered that they could not be happy 
 asunder. The father of Mary observed the inti- 
 macy, and admonished his daughter; but it was in 
 vain — the dye was cast, — and, as both the lady 
 and gentleman were delighted with the romantic, 
 they, by way of a first adventure, one morning took 
 a post-chaise and drove off for Gretna-green, where 
 they were united by the Avorthy personage wiio so 
 accommodatingly awaits the commands of fugitive 
 lovers. The infatuated Mary had not been many 
 miles from her father's dwelling ere she began deep- 
 ly to regret the step she had taken, for she was far 
 from being an undutiful child, and her heart smote 
 her when she thought of the pain this act of disobe- 
 dience would give so kind and indulgent a parent. 
 She even entreated her lover, to convey her back to 
 her home, as he valued her happiness ; and it was 
 with some difficulty he succeeded in overcoming her 
 scruples, by soothing her with the assurance of parental
 
 192 
 
 forgiveness. He was not mistaken. The good school- 
 master received his imprudent, but affectionate 
 daughter, with the smile of kindness and forgiveness. 
 He was grieved, but not obdurate— he could not find 
 it in his heart to turn away from a beloved and only 
 child — what was done could not now be undone. 
 Not so did her haughty father-in-law — a Welshman 
 by birth, and proud of his pedigree — act ; he wrote 
 a furious letter to his son, full of reproach, and an- 
 nouncing his determination thenceforth to regard him 
 as one who had forfeited every title to his counte- 
 nance and protection. The kind-hearted father of 
 his beloved Mary, on being informed of this harsh 
 sentence, advised his son-in-law to apply himself 
 without delay to some substantial profession, which 
 might be a source of future support to him and his 
 wife. But his admonitions made but little impression 
 onMr L (such was the name of this young gentle- 
 man^. Filled with high hopes of what his genius 
 was capable, and the gifts of fortune it would pro- 
 cure him, he would not hear of any pursuit in which 
 it would be cramped and without scope. The anxi- 
 ous father then proposed, as a necessary measure of 
 prudence, that he should leave his wife under the 
 parental roof until he had got into some way that 
 would enable him to provide for their support. But 
 the ardent and sanguine youth, fixing his eyes ten- 
 derly on his wife, exclaimed.
 
 193 
 
 " Shall we part, sweet girl ? 
 Xo, let my father seek another heir. 
 Therefore devise with me how we may fly, 
 Whither to go, and what to bear with us." 
 
 A silent and pensive look shewed the conflicting 
 state of Mary's mind ; but love and hope prevailed. 
 It was finally resolved, that, with the assistance of 
 what money the father could spare, and a letter of 
 introduction to a cousin of his settled in London, the 
 youthful couple should depart for that great mart 
 of genius and talent, where the husband had no 
 doubt of being engaged at one of the theatres, and 
 where the romantic Mary would have scope and en- 
 couragement for the exercise of her literai'y talents. 
 She had already written some little tales and poeti- 
 cal trifles, which she hoped would at least establish 
 her fame. 
 
 At length the youthful pair took their departure. 
 Mary's heart sunk within her when she tore herself 
 from the parting embrace of her kind and affectionate 
 father, and fixed her eyes, perhaps for the last time, 
 on that dwelling and those scenes where she had 
 passed her earliest years in innocence and serenity. 
 Those only who have experienced such a parting- 
 can form an idea of her feehngs on this occasion. 
 
 Soon after their arrival in London, Mr L 
 
 waited, self-introduced, on one of the manao-ers of 
 theatre, and was received with a cold repul- 
 sive look, not at all encouraging to so sanguine a 
 spirit — mixed, on his reciting some passages from his 
 
 I
 
 194 
 
 favourite bard, with certain significant hems and hahs, 
 and sarcastic grins. The interview ended, by his being 
 informed that his provincial accent and incorrect de- 
 livery would not be endured by a London audience ; 
 but that, after a few years drilling in a provincial 
 theatre, there might be some hopes of his succeeding 
 in minor parts. For the first time were the brightly- 
 pictured hopes of this aspiring youth damped, and 
 the sensation he felt may well be conceived. He 
 soon, however, rallied his spirits, and resolved on 
 taking the advice of his unsympathizing monitor. 
 His faithful Mary agreed to accompany him, and 
 even to prepare herself for the boards. They were 
 not sensible to the miseries of such a life — they 
 thought only of the novelties and adventures with 
 which it might be attended. 
 
 We shall not recount all the vicissitudes which this 
 romantic couple experienced in their peregrinations — 
 sometimes with pockets tolerably filled — at others, 
 without a shilling to buy a dinner — one time flattered 
 with applause, at another hissed and pelted, as thetaste, 
 humour, or caprice, of their auditors led them. Often 
 cheated, abused, envied, and opposed by their breth- 
 ren, and not unfrequently exposed to brutal insults 
 by unfeeling wretches calling themselves gentlemen. 
 The amiable Mary, in particular, was often shocked 
 by indecent familiarities and licentious proposals, 
 which she treated with the indignant scorn they de- 
 served. This was not a life suited to the taste and 
 feelings of either, keenly sensible as they were to 
 
 i
 
 195 
 
 any thing like unkindness or indignity ; though 
 Mary remarked, that many distinguished females, 
 whom she had read of, had been exposed to still more 
 cruel sufferings. Sick, however, at length of these 
 endurances, they returned to the metropolis. 
 
 By the kind interposition of a gentleman of one of 
 the theatres, Mr L was now employed as a per- 
 former. But here he soon found abundant matter 
 to wound his pride and pain his feelings. Instead 
 of that eminence he had fondly anticipated, he 
 found himself thrown into the shade, neglected and 
 despised. No plaudits, no cheers, no waving of 
 hats and handkerchiefs, or other demonstrations of 
 pleasure, hailed his entre, nor was he encouraged 
 by one solitary encore. All the first and second rate 
 characters were engaged by performers older than 
 himself, and he was compelled either to fill inferior 
 and insignificant parts, or give up his engagement. 
 Indignantly he chose the latter. 
 
 And now, instead of treading the boards of a 
 theatre, he took up his pen to write for it — a nobler 
 employment, he thought, and one in which his genius 
 would not be so basely shackled and cruelly kept 
 down. In six months he finished a tragedy, which 
 many of his literary acquaintance lauded to the skies for 
 its eloqvient and glowing language, splendid imagery, 
 and lofty sentiment. Flattered, delighted, proud of 
 this his first essay, he hastened with it to one of the 
 managers, who, after keeping him in suspense for 
 several months, returned it, with an intimation, that
 
 196 
 
 it icould not suit the stage. He attributed this 
 rejection to prejudice and want of taste, and offered 
 it to one of the other theatres, but with no better 
 success. Disappointed and enraged, he tendered it 
 to a bookseller, who, after some hesitation, offered 
 him five guineas for the copyright, which, with silent 
 bitterness of heart, he accepted. 
 
 But he did not despair. He studied more in- 
 tensely than ever the great models of dramatic 
 excellence, and again produced another tragedy, 
 which he put into the hands of a gentleman eminent 
 alike for liis literary attainments and generous phi- 
 lanthropy. By him, with the consent of the author, 
 this piece was pruned of many redundancies, altered 
 and new-modelled in such a manner as to fit it for 
 representation. He did more — he sent it, with the 
 fiat of his approbation, to one of the theatres. Thus 
 ushered into notice, it was at length put into rehear- 
 sal, and finally announced in the play-bills. This 
 was a crisis the most momentous in the life of 
 L- ; it was to decide the fate of his genius — ^his 
 hopes — to give a colour to all his future prospects. 
 He attended unprovided with friends, either to 
 prompt, oppose, or repress clamour, and with breath- 
 less expectation beheld the opening scene of his 
 piece go off with tolerable eclat ! This was encour- 
 aging. The three first acts passed off in much the 
 same manner, only now and then there was heard 
 an ominous hiss, mixed, however, with occasional 
 applause. But, soon after the opening of the fourth
 
 197 
 
 act, a clamour broke forth more appalling to the 
 heart of the youthful bard than the wildest tempest 
 on the zvaste of waters to the untried voyager ! 
 
 Many — among the rest L 's kind literary friend — 
 
 cried out, " Shame ! shame ! the piece has not a 
 fair chance." From the opening to the close of the 
 last act, all was uproar and confusion. Attempts 
 were made to bring the house to reason, but in 
 vain. At length it was announced that the piece 
 would be withdrawn — in other words it was damned! 
 The state of mind in which the unfortunate poet 
 returned to his home can better be conceived than 
 described — it bordered on distraction. But by de- 
 grees he suffered himself to be soothed by the sweet 
 sympathy and tender caresses of his amiable Mary. 
 
 His tragedy, though by no means faultless, was 
 not treated with that candour and fairness to which 
 it had at least a claim. There was a schism among 
 the performers on account of its being brought 
 forward. Some opposed it in toto ; others disliked 
 certain of the characters, and were averse to fill 
 them, but, yielding to the authority of the manager, 
 did so with such apathy that they looked more like 
 walking automatons, than actors desii'ous of giving 
 force and effect to the poet's meaning. Tlie auditors 
 were disgusted, and vented that displeasure on the 
 piece, a portion of which ought at least to have 
 fallen on certain of the performers, — and in no mea- 
 sured tone of remonstrance, for it is one of an 
 Englishman's prerogatives to be as riotous, turbii-
 
 198 
 
 Jent, and noisy, when he thinks fit, in a theatre, as 
 at an election. 
 
 Mr L now renounced all thoughts of writing 
 
 for the stage, and even his favourite Shakspeare 
 was thrown aside as no longer attractive. He now 
 set about writing tales, essays, and miscellanies for 
 the magazines, — in which he was greatly assisted by 
 his affectionate partner, — and now and then under- 
 took a pamphlet, or a translation. These resources 
 scantily provided for the day which was pass- 
 ing over their heads, but afforded no provision for 
 the future, — and he was now the father of two chil- 
 dren. Mrs L , too, devoted all her leisure 
 
 hours to writing. She had already produced a 
 novel, which, however, brought her but a trifle; 
 nor was she much more successful with her poetical 
 effusions, though some of them were simple, pa- 
 thetic, and touching. 
 
 All, in short, which their literary exertions could 
 raise was utterly insufficient to enable them to live 
 with ordinary comfort. Mrs L suffered in si- 
 lence. Her chief care was to solace and comfort her 
 husband, who, with all the sensibility of a generous 
 spirit, wanted the firmness of an enduring mind. All 
 his sanguine hopes were blighted almost in the bud. 
 He had written repeatedly to his father, in a penitent 
 and supplicating style, but all he obtained was a 
 scanty supply of money, totally inadequate to his 
 wants. To add to his distress, he had unhappily 
 contracted debts which he was utterly unable to dis-
 
 199 
 
 charge. The o-ood schoohnaster had occasionallv 
 assisted them out of his humble savings. But, alas ! 
 
 the time soon came when poor Mrs L was to be 
 
 deprived of that kind and good father ! She received 
 the afflicting: tidings of his death at a moment when 
 her heart had need of support, and was little able to 
 bear so heavy a calamity. The violence of her 
 grief, on this distressing occasion, had nearly proved 
 fatal to her. 
 
 But a calamity of a still more overwhelming nature 
 awaited the unfortunate Mary. Her husband, whose 
 mind had for some time past been agitated by various 
 conflicting-passions, fell into a settled melancholy, which 
 terminated in the deprivation of his reason ! Soon 
 after the fatal symptoms appeared, he wandered from 
 his home, and was seen no more by his unliappy wife ! 
 His body was found in a sequestered spot near Rich- 
 mond, and a pistol lying by his side. He had pvit a pe- 
 riod to his life in a moment of insanity ; for, had rea- 
 son existed, the thought of a beloved wife, if no 
 other consideration had prevailed, would doubtless 
 have arrested his fell purpose. When the unhappy 
 suicide is thus visited, what can be said on such an 
 occasion ? — That, the reasoning principle being gone, 
 the wretched victim ceases to be an accovmtable 
 agent. Let us not too hastilv condemn him ; for the 
 Almighty alone, who knows the hidden springs of all 
 our actions, can tell how far an overpowering phrensy 
 may have impelled the dreadful blow. We speak 
 not of the self-destroyer, who, plunged in ruin, and
 
 200 
 
 driven to despair by wicked and dissipated courses, 
 terminates his existence with his hopes, — but of the 
 man of noble and magnanimous feehng, on whom 
 affliction hath laid its finger, and dire mishap mark- 
 ed out as its victim. Such was the ill-fated L— — -. 
 
 " Is this, mistaken scorn wQl cry, 
 Is this the youth, whose genius high 
 
 Could build the genuine rhyme ; 
 WTiose bosom mild the fav'ring Muse 
 Had stored with all her ample views. 
 
 Parent of fairest deeds and purposes sublime ? 
 
 Ah ! from the I\Iuse that bosom mild 
 By treacherous magic was beguiled. 
 
 To strike the deathful blow : 
 She fill'd his soft ingenuous mind 
 With many a feeling too refined, 
 
 And roused to livelier pangs his wakeful sense of wo." 
 
 Waktov. 
 
 It would be in vain to attempt to describe the 
 dreadful suspense which the wTetched wife suffered 
 on missing her husband, or the despair into which 
 she was thrown on learning his fate. This ca- 
 tastrophe her terrors had, at moments, anticipated ; 
 but then she had only fancied it — the dreadful cer- 
 tainty struck her, like a thunderbolt, to the earth ! 
 — it bereft her of sense, reason, recollection, and 
 nearly, very nearly, of life. What followed, during 
 the dansrerous fever with which she was seized on 
 this occasion, she has no distinct memory of — it may
 
 201 
 
 be likened to a wild, hideous, and incoherent dream. 
 When her faculties returned, it was but to shew her 
 the utter desolation and helplessness in which she was 
 placed. The measure of her sufferings was now full, 
 even to overflowing ; and she would have loathed 
 life, but for a mother's anxiety for her helpless off- 
 spring. This tie, and only this, reconciled her to 
 existence She prayed to God to support her in this 
 hour of trial, and that support was vouchsafed to her. 
 The circumstances of the suicide of the unfor- 
 tunate L , and the unhappy and forlorn situa- 
 tion of his widow and children, as detailed in the 
 newspapers, had excited a lively interest and feeling 
 in many. Some of whom, — among the rest the wor- 
 thy Mr D , — sent small sums for their relief. 
 
 Mr D did not stop here. He went to the hum- 
 ble abode of the unhappy sufferer, and obtained for 
 her proper medical attendance, and a careful nurse. 
 He made particular inquiries into her character, and 
 other circumstances, and being satisfied on these 
 points, he proposed to her, on beginning to recover, 
 to I'emove to his house, informing her of his being a 
 married man. This offer she gratefully accepted, 
 and no kindness could have been more seasonable. 
 Ever since she has been under this hospitable roof, 
 
 it has been the unceasing endeavour of Mrs D , 
 
 who is a kind-hearted, amiable woman, to sooth and 
 comfort this child of sorrow and suffering. She felt 
 even the fondness of a sister for her ; she found in 
 her an amiable, interesting, and intelligent compa- 
 
 T «^
 
 202 
 
 nion, and a useful assistant in her household af- 
 fairs. 
 
 The too severely tried Mrs L endeavoured at 
 
 times to put on a look of serenity, but it could be easily 
 seen that a settled melancholv sat at her heart : she 
 mixed in no gayety, and declined accompanying Mrs 
 
 D to places of public amusement. She devoted 
 
 much of her time — indeed too much, considering the 
 depressed state of her mind — to solitary musing and 
 religious meditation. She often remarked to her 
 
 friend, Mrs D , that we are too apt to blame 
 
 Providence for misfortunes which we have brought 
 on ourselves ; and declared that she traced hers to an 
 early perversion of mind and mistaken way of think- 
 ing, produced by a too indiscriminate reading of 
 novels. This led her to think too lightly of an act at 
 which she now shuddered — filial disobedience to a 
 kind and indulgent parent. She observed, that she 
 is now convinced that the bulk of our novels are cal- 
 culated rather to mislead the young and inexperienc- 
 ed of the sex, than convey to them any solid and use- 
 ful instruction ; but allowed that there were some of 
 a superior stamp, that might with safety and benefit 
 be put into their hands, and which, as they are inca- 
 pable of selection themselves, should be pointed out 
 to them by their instructors. 
 
 With respect to the unfortunate L , he was 
 
 one of the number of those ardent, early-talented 
 young men, who launch on the ocean of life with 
 high-towering hopes, which are doomed to fade away
 
 203 
 
 and perish like the " baseless fabric of a vision." 
 Their ardent and creative fancies conjure up splendid 
 visions of the future, which disappear as the fond en- 
 thusiasts advance and come in contact with the reali- 
 ties of life. With less of the fervency and impatience 
 of hope, and of the waywardness of passion, the ge- 
 nius with which nature had gifted them might have 
 proved a blessing : as it is, it only serves to give a 
 keener edge to misfortune, to add to the bitterness of 
 disappointment, and, finally, hurry the devoted vic- 
 tims to despair or insanity. Collins, Chatterton, 
 Fergusson, Dermody. Burns, &c. were all martyrs to 
 the fatal sensibility attending genius, when abandoned 
 to the dominion of the passions. 
 
 The following stanzas were written by Mr L 
 
 a few months prior to his death : he doubtless had 
 Burns in bis view when he penned them. 
 
 Wtfe ilU&tavveti Cijtitr of €feniu$. 
 
 Her favoured sons oft Genius leads 
 From humble hearths and lowly meads, 
 
 Lights in them the etherial fire. 
 Which lifts, above the rhyming throng, 
 Each heaven-born poet's raptured song, 
 
 And gives a nameless magic to his lyre. 
 
 Though poor the birth, the lot though hard. 
 Of nature's rude untutor'd bard, 
 Yet oft, amid the lonely scene,
 
 204 
 
 He tastes an intellectual bliss — 
 A fleeting gleam of happiness, — 
 
 Which common minds can ne'er obtain. 
 
 No humble flower that decks the vale, 
 No blossom that perfumes the gale, 
 
 No tree, the clear brook shadowing o'er, 
 Waves in the breeze its foliage green, 
 But yields his soul a pleasure keen. 
 
 Twines for him an Elysian bower. 
 
 Even mid the dark and pathless waste. 
 Where desert rocks eternal rest. 
 
 Fancy still charms him to her bower, — 
 Or o'er the bleak and desolate shore, 
 AVhere wild winds howl, and billows roar. 
 
 Leads the enthusiast in the sternest hour. 
 
 Yet, ah ! how oft amid the dreams, — 
 The enchantments to his soul thus given, — 
 When all with fairy radiance beams — 
 The poet's visionary heaven ! — 
 Is the heart torn, by passion tost, 
 Youth's bright day-dream for ever lost ! 
 Life's stern realities tread close behind. 
 And chase the blissful visions from his mind. 
 
 W^ith penury oft struggling hard, — 
 No generous friend to sooth his soul, —
 
 205 
 
 No outstreteh''d hand to save the bard, 
 
 And his unhappy fate control, 
 See his proud spirit silent bend 
 
 Beneath the storm,— each lingering gleam 
 Of latest hope, the wretch's friend. 
 
 Evanishing in darkness like a dream ! 
 
 Hail, Child of Genius ! though laid low 
 By pitiless neglect — by woes, 
 Alas ! too keenly felt, — yet now, 
 When thy freed spirit finds repose, 
 To thee shall sculptured glories rise ! 
 Thy country shall thy genius prize, 
 And, while she lauds thy deathless song, too late 
 Bewail thv sufferings and untimely fate I
 
 206 
 
 TRAVELLING CONVERSATIONS. 
 
 " To chaiicc alone we ov/e the free discourse. 
 In vain you purpose what you cannot force ; 
 'Tis v/hen the favourite themes ur.biddeii spring, 
 That fancy soars with such unwearied wing.'' 
 
 A FEW years ago, we liappened to be travelling from 
 London to the north in one of the stages. It was in 
 the beginning of the ungenial month of November, 
 and it would, therefore, have been a dull enough jour- 
 ney, liad it not been our good fortune to fall iii with 
 two very pleasant and intelligent fellow-passengers, 
 among others with whom we were at least amused. 
 There were five in the coacli, besides ourselves — 
 namely, a half-pa}^ captain of artillery ; a naval lieu- 
 tenant, also out of employment ; a rider in the em- 
 ployment of a wholesale London dealer, and late a 
 lieutenant in a volunteer corps — a bold, forward, 
 presuming coxcomb, half soldier, half civilian, but 
 assuming the character and port of the latter, and the 
 nom de guerre of captain ; — a London druggist and 
 apothecary, proud of the money he had made, proud- 
 er still of the self-assumed title of doctor^ implying of 
 coiirse profound erudition and dignified wisdom ; — 
 and, lastly, a clerk to a haberdasher in Nevr Bond 
 Street, equipped in the true dandy style.
 
 207 
 
 From such a group we of course anticipated some- 
 thing that would beguile the tedium of a winter's 
 journey — and we were not mistaken. It has been 
 remarked, that persons accidentally brought together 
 generally evince a great anxiety to raise them- 
 selves, in some way, in each other's estimation. It 
 is doubtless laudable so to do by fair methods — 
 that is, by the exhibition of qualities and talents 
 that may please and win approbation, or of pre- 
 tensions that entitle us to respect ; but it is not quite 
 so praiseworthy to make such an attempt at the ex- 
 pense of truth and connnon modesty. True merit is 
 ever unassuming ; and real gentility neither requires 
 nor seeks the blazoning of false colours. We found 
 these remarks strikingly exemplified in these our 
 companions. The two officers (both dressed in plain 
 clothes) appeared to be strangers to each other, and 
 were at first rather shy ; but, after conversation be- 
 gan, this reserve was thrown off. They both 
 seemed to be men of middle age, and, if we might 
 judge by their sun-burnt faces, had seen much hard 
 service. The captain had been in tiie peninsular 
 war, and at Waterloo. The naval lieutenant had 
 fought in the late American war. In their demean- 
 our they were polite, affable, and gentlemanly. The 
 soi-disant captain talked big, and expatiated largely 
 on his military exploits, his hair-breadth escapes, 
 and his amours. The doctor, with a true John Bull 
 burliness, Avrapt himself up in a dignified and impe- 
 netrable silence. The dandy, on the contrary, with
 
 208 
 
 all the degage obstrusiveness of a Frenchman, was 
 exceedingly loquacious, prating incessantly of the 
 delightful amusements of fashionable life, in the west 
 end of the town, and of the men of rank and figure, 
 and ladies of the first fashion, with whom he had the 
 honour of being acquainted. In this he probably 
 did not exceed the bounds of truth ; for persons in 
 his situation can find little difficulty in becoming ac- 
 quainted with such characters, in their official capa- 
 city. But his pretensions to taste were not confined 
 to the atmosphere of London. He spoke in raptures 
 of the charms of a rural life, and in order to convince 
 us of the soundness of his taste, he put his head out 
 of the coach-window, while we were crossing a com- 
 mon, unenlivened by aught but decaying verdure, 
 and a few leafless elms in the distance, and ex- 
 claimed — " O, what an enchanting view !''' 
 
 The volunteer hero, after a reasonable endurance 
 of his self-sufficiency, was set down by one or two 
 pointed questions from the artillery captain as to his 
 campaigns, the battles in which he had fought, and 
 the corps he had served in : the dandy, though he 
 could not be laughed out of countenance, was at 
 least kept in check by an occasional Jlap when he 
 began to buzz too loudly ; while the doctor was left 
 to his self-important taciturnity. He was, however, 
 not a little annoyed by the dandy, who, considering 
 him as the safest butt of the party, set about exer- 
 cising his quizzing talent upon him, but without elicit- 
 ing any other reply than a look the most caustic and
 
 209 
 
 contemptuous — as much as to say, " Shall a man of 
 my dignity contend with an insect !" — And yet, after 
 all, it is perhaps hard to say to which of these gen- 
 tlemen the palm of absurdity ought to have been as- 
 signed. The dandy was consummately vain, but 
 then he was young, ignorant, and effeminate. The 
 doctor had the advantage of years and experience, 
 setting aside his great learning and weighty talents, 
 yet had he not learned a simple lesson — to subdue a 
 selfish overweening pride, excusable only in the igno- 
 rant, but debasing in the scholar and philosopher, — 
 a character, by the bye, to which we suspect the doc- 
 tor had little just pretence. Had that pride been 
 confined to the treating with silent disdain the imper- 
 tinence of a coxcomb, it would not have been over- 
 stretched ; but it appeared to have exalted its possess- 
 or, in his own conception, far above every one of the 
 party. 
 
 A few words now, before we proceed, in defence of 
 that much-abused character, the dandy, or exquisite, 
 of the present day. He has been considered as a 
 creature of modern birth. This is a mistake. He is 
 in fact nothing more than a slight variation of a spe- 
 cies that has existed for ages past. The heau of foi-- 
 mer times — the -petit maitre of the French — is the 
 dandy of the present day : the name is changed, and 
 there is a difference in the manner and costume, but 
 the nature, the qualities, and habits remain much the 
 same. If we were to say to whom we would give the 
 preference, in point of rationality, it would be to the
 
 210 
 
 modern dandy. He is neither so mischievous as the 
 blood, nor so effeminate as the beau, of a century and 
 a half ago. It is true, he breaks a few lamps, and 
 knocks down half-a-dozen watchmen, now and then ; 
 but that he cannot help, as it is characteristic of the 
 species. He also wears stays, laces tightly like the 
 ladies, and exhibits other oddities ; but he neither 
 cuts so ridiculous a figure, nor consumes so much 
 time and money in equipping himself, as the ancient 
 beau. Take, for example, the picture of an Oxford 
 beau, or dandy, of a century ago, drawn by a con- 
 temporary. " When he walks the streets, he is 
 easily distinguished by a silk gown, which rustles in 
 the wind as he struts along; a flaxen tie-wig, a broad 
 bully cock-hat, or a square cap of about twice the 
 usual size ; white stockings, thin Spanish leather 
 shoes; his clothes lined with tawdry silk, and his 
 shirt ruffled down the bosom as well as the wrist. 
 He has a delicate jaunt in his gait, and smells very 
 philosophicallj'^ of essence." 
 
 We must, after all, do the doctor, the dandy, and 
 our soi-disant captain, the justice to acknowledge, 
 that they became somewhat more rational compa- 
 nions ere they parted from us. The doctor conde- 
 scended to give utterance to one or two saore remarks 
 — the dandj^ became less talkative and obtrusive — 
 and the captain, discovering the company he had 
 fallen into, softened his martial aspect, and authori- 
 tative tone, into somewhat of benignity, and even 
 withdrew the cockade from his hat as an inconvenient
 
 211 
 
 appendage. Had it not been for the presence of our 
 other two fellow-travellers, we should, however, have 
 found ourselves not very delightfully situated. In 
 their company and conversation we passed the time 
 as agreeably as we could desire. 
 
 We talked over a variety of subjects, such as the 
 later events of the war with France, and of the con- 
 test with America — the campaigns and battles in 
 Spain — the battle of Waterloo — the conduct and 
 character of Buonaparte — the military talents of the 
 Duke of Wellington, and several other topics. The 
 captain bestowed a very high eulogium on the Duke 
 of Wellington's pre-eminent skill as a general, and 
 observed, that he might most justly be styled, if not 
 the first, one of the first captains of the age ; for 
 he considered Marshal Blucher * (who had so often 
 foiled the boasting Napoleon) to be in all fairness en- 
 titled to rank with him. As to Buonaparte, it 
 would, he said, be absurd to deny that he was the 
 greatest general which any age or nation had ever 
 produced — great from his many splendid and asto- 
 nishing victories — obtained, however, over leaders 
 far inferior in vigour and talent to himself. But 
 that name he had iu a great measure forfeited in his 
 last campaign ; and at Waterloo his fame was fairly 
 thrown into the shade by the eminent skill of Wel- 
 lington, and the firmness of his army. He (the cap- 
 tain) was decidedly of Marshal Ney's opinion, that 
 Buonaparte did wrong in dividing his army and 
 
 • The Marshal was alive at this time.
 
 212 
 
 fighting two battles on the 16th (two days before the 
 battle of Waterloo) instead of attacking the Prus- 
 sians with his whole force, with the exception of a 
 small corps to keep in check the advance of the Bri- 
 tish — in which case he would at least have so crippled 
 and disorganized the former as to have rendered 
 them for some time incapable of co-operating with 
 their allies, the English, — who, in their turn, would 
 have been destroyed by an overwhelming superiority 
 of force. At Waterloo (the captain continued) 
 Buonaparte fought under a positive assurance of vic- 
 tory — a fatal error, as the event shewed, for it does 
 not appear that he had made any arrangements for a 
 retreat ; while Wellington, relying on the steady re- 
 sistance of his troops until dark, meditated, in the 
 event of his being beat, a retreat into the forest of 
 Soignies, where he could have defended himself until 
 joined by the Prussians, when, falling back upon 
 Brussels, and taking up a position in front of that 
 city, he would have been in a condition to have 
 again given battle to the enemy, with better chance 
 of success. 
 
 We are not sufficiently skilled in military opera- 
 tions to venture an opinion on these subjects; but 
 the captain''s ideas are, we believe, those most ge- 
 nerally received on this short but brilliant and 
 decisive campaign. He said, it was impossible for 
 one, not bred a military man, and accompanying the 
 Duke of Wellington in his peninsular campaigns, to 
 form any idea of the difficulties he had to surmount 
 on his taking the command of the army in Spain.
 
 213 
 
 Indeed, those difficulties appeared so terrific, so in- 
 surmountable, that there were not wanting, in the 
 army, even among men of considerable military ex- 
 perience, forebodings of ultimate ruin and discom- 
 fiture — of some destructive battle, or disastrous re- 
 treat. There were few, in short, he believed, who 
 anticipated the brilliant triumph which crowned the 
 struggles of the British army in the Peninsula. 
 There unhappily existed a too prevailing impression 
 of Buonaparte"'s invincibility, wliich had a tendency 
 to discourage and unnerve the bravest hearts. Buo- 
 naparte, who, with all his great talents, was an in- 
 sufferable boaster, was not content with upholding 
 this opinion by the most hyperbolical vauntings, but 
 affected to hold in the uttermost contempt the Duke 
 and hishandful of English (who were to be driven into 
 the sea !) and criticised and ridiculed his operations. 
 There is a saying, that they xcho xohi may laugh. The 
 Duke, despising these petty efforts to undervalue his 
 military character, pursued his course steadily and 
 vuimoved, and at length succeeded in turning the 
 arrogance of his traducer into an argument against 
 him. Not that the Duke was insensible to the gi- 
 gantic difficulties he had to grapple with, but that 
 his undaunted spirit rose above them : he saw this 
 would be a work of time, of prodigious effort, and 
 of many dire sacrifices ; but he shrunk not from the 
 undertaking. His army, at the outset of the penin- 
 sular war, was far inferior to that of the enemy in 
 every respect, but that of an unconquerable spirit,
 
 214 
 
 and disregard of every danger. It had by no means 
 the same experience and habits of regular warfare. 
 It was totally unprovided with sappers, miners, and 
 pontooners, so indispensably necessai-y in such a war 
 as he was entering on. These he formed and or- 
 ganized. His troops, by degrees, became inured to 
 fatigues, privations, and exposure, consequently more 
 hardy, enduring, and vigorous ; — till at length they 
 grew so far physically and morall}'^ superior to the 
 enemy as to defeat him in every battle subsequent to 
 that of Talavera, and finally to drive him out of 
 Spain, and victoriously pursue him into the very 
 heart of his own territories, vauntingly styled by 
 Buonaparte the sacred empire ! The jealousies and 
 opposition he met with from the juntos and generals 
 of the very people he had come to defend are well 
 known : these too frequently reduced him to painful 
 dilemmas, disconcerting his plans, and defeating his 
 operations — as if those authorities were actually in 
 league with their invaders to throw every obstacle in 
 his way ! It required no ordinary mind to struggle 
 with, and triumph over, such complicated difficulties. 
 But this the Duke of Wellington had done. 
 
 This picture of the noble Duke, though drawn by 
 the hand of an enthusiastic admirer of his great and 
 commanding talents, can hardly be deemed over- 
 charged. Unquestionably he has achieved great and 
 astonishing things. 
 
 The captain frankly acknowledged that he had 
 had his misgivings on the morning of the ever-me- 
 
 J
 
 215 
 
 morable 1 8th of June. When he beheld the oppo- 
 site heights of La Belle Alliance covered by the 
 French army, with the redoubted Buonaparte at its 
 head, and reflected that only thirty-five thousand 
 British, with about an equal number of foreign auxi- 
 liaries, were to try the fate of battle with so mighty 
 a host, he could not help having his doubts as to the 
 issue of so unequal a conflict. But his apprehensions 
 gradually gave way after the battle commenced, and 
 finally vanished when he observed the undaunted 
 firmness with which not only the British, but, with 
 a few exceptions, the foreign infantry repulsed the 
 reiterated attacks of the French cavalry, supported 
 by their artillery and infantry, and the brilliant and 
 effective charges of the British cavalry on the ene- 
 my''s retreating squadrons. But, aliove all, the well- 
 known talents and resources of their commander were 
 a tower of hope and confidence to the whole army. 
 The sound of the Prussian cannon, when first heard, 
 communicated (the captain said) an indescribable 
 emotion of joy to the army ; for its ranks had 
 been seriously thinned, and the battle still raged with 
 undiminished fury. But the word advance ! on the 
 disorderly retreat of the French, produced an effect 
 still more electrifying. The soldiers, animated to 
 the highest pitch of enthusiastic joy, rushed forward 
 impetuously, forgetful of their fatigues, and regard- 
 less of their exhausted strength. 
 
 But this high-wrought feeling soon subsided, giv- 
 ing way to a keenly-felt sorrow and melancholy con-
 
 216 
 
 templation of the thousands of brave fellows — com- 
 rades, friends, companions in the common cause, 
 whose lifeless bodies bestrewed the field of death ! 
 The pride and exultation of victory was chastened 
 and subdued by those sad memorials of man's frail 
 and perishable state. This deep feeling of sorrow 
 for the fallen brave, — more especially those who were 
 our esteemed friends and beloved companions, far 
 from arguing weakness or effeminacy in the soldier, 
 is one of the noblest traits in his character. In this 
 feeling the gallant Duke himself fully participated. 
 
 " Nothing, believe me,""" says he, in a letter to a 
 friend, " excepting a battle lost, can be half so me- 
 lancholy as a battle won. To win even such a bat- 
 tle as this of Waterloo, at the expense of the lives of 
 so many gallant friends, could only be termed a 
 heavy misfortune, were it not for its important re- 
 sults to the public benefit." 
 
 Among those who fell on this great day, no one 
 was more deeply lamented than the gallant Picton, 
 who had so often led his division to victory, and at 
 length died amidst its shout ! " Shame to the coun- 
 try," said the captain, " that had so ill rewarded his 
 great and glorious services." 
 
 From military topics, we now proceeded to discuss 
 naval affairs. And here the lieutenant, being in his 
 element, gave his opinions very frankly. 
 
 He said the navy had been badly managed for 
 some years back, but especially during the late 
 American war, when our ships were neither ade-
 
 217 
 
 quately mounted nor manned for such a service, and 
 there was a total want of vigour and vigilance. He 
 censured, in severe terms, the too great prevalence 
 of court favour and influence in the promotion of 
 officers ; which was the less excusable, as, commis- 
 sions not being purchasable commodities, as in the 
 army, merit and long services ought alone to be 
 the objects of reward : on these only should the 
 officer be taught to rest his hope of rising in his pro- 
 fession. But it is not always so. He could, for 
 example, name many masters and commanders, and 
 even some post-captains, who were his juniors in 
 the service ; and yet he was unconscious of having 
 ever failed in his duty, or committed any act which 
 called for the censure of his superiors. His case was 
 by no means a singular one. He conceived that the 
 Board of Admiralty should be composed of none but 
 old experienced admirals, who had gallantly fought 
 for their country, who knew what the hard- 
 ships of a seaman's life were, and what it was to fit 
 out a ship. 
 
 He thought it would be a most desirable thing if 
 our navy could be manned without having recourse to 
 impressment. He conceived this to be practicable 
 enough, in ordinary times, by a registration of our 
 discharged seamen, who should be liable to be called 
 upon in times of necessity, extending the bounties to 
 volunteers, and by gi-anting small pensions, after a 
 certain period of service, to be augmented after fur- 
 ther periods of such service. In the emergency of a
 
 218 
 
 sudden war, however, he conceived it might become 
 necessary to authorise impressment (by a temporary 
 act of the legislature), as the only means of procuring 
 a prompt supply of able seamen. 
 
 He again animadverted on the strange supine- 
 ness and neglect of the naval department, on the 
 breaking out of the late war with America, and said 
 that the Admiralty either were utterly ignorant of 
 the American system of equipping and manning their 
 ships of war, or they unwarrantably expected that 
 our naval officers and their crews were to perform 
 miracles. An American forty-four gun frigate was 
 superior to a British frigate (at that time) of the 
 same class, in the ratio of four to three in metal, 
 and more than three to two in men, numerically and 
 effectively considered ; yet were our frigates sent 
 to contend against such fearful odds ! It is true, ships 
 adequately manned and mounted, were subsequently 
 sent to the American coast ; but this was not done 
 till two or three of our frigates had been captured, 
 and a stain consequently cast upon the British flag. 
 But — no — he would retract these words, for what 
 can the bravest men do with an overwhelming supe- 
 riority of force against them ? Whenever the ships 
 of the two nations had met on any thing like equal 
 terms, the British had invariably shown their supe- 
 riority, — as in the action between the Shannon and 
 the Chesapeak, when the latter was taken possession 
 of within fifteen minutes after the firing of the first 
 gvm. He inveighed much against the total want of 
 
 J
 
 219 
 
 preparation to meet the enemy on the lakes, by which 
 neglect many brave men had been uselessly sacri- 
 ficed, and an occasion afforded to a vain, boastful 
 enemy to triumph over fallen valour. 
 
 With the true esprit-de-corps^ he ridiculed the 
 notion that America would one day be a match for 
 England on that element from which she had swept 
 every other nation, and pronounced it to be absurd 
 in the Americans to draw any arguments in favour 
 of their navy from their late successes, which were, he 
 repeated, solely owing to the great superiority of their 
 ships, in guns and men, over the British ships they 
 had captured, and to the advantage which they de- 
 rived from the skill, and, he might add, desperation, 
 of the British sailors, deserters from our navy, with 
 whom their ships were partly manned. He acknov^- 
 ledged, however, that the Americans had fought their 
 ships well, perhaps better than any other nation, the 
 British excepted. They were not, therefore, an 
 enemy to be despised, as was a little too much the 
 fashion at the breaking out of hostilities, some of 
 our naval commanders taking up a notion that an 
 English thirty-six gun frigate was more than a match 
 for any frigate in the American navy ! 
 
 There was much shrewdness in the lieutenant's re- 
 marks, though some of them were probably some- 
 what tinctured by that feeling of disappointment 
 natural to a brave man whose services have not 
 been adequately rewarded. He appeared to be a 
 man of considerable information, cultivated mind.
 
 220 
 
 and gentlemanly manners,— unlike the Trunnions 
 and Hatchways of the old school, who (if the pic- 
 tures exhibited of them be correct) despised all 
 knowledge but that of their profession, had a sove- 
 reign contempt for every thing like refinement, 
 and partook of all the rude, but honest bluntness 
 of the common tar. The officers of the new school 
 have fought as well as their predecessors — a proof at 
 least that refinement of manners and gentlemanly 
 accomplishments are not incompatible with intre- 
 pidity in battle. 
 
 After all, war is a dreadful trade, and, we cannot 
 but be of opinion, has a tendency to harden the 
 heart to human suffering. At least, such, we con- 
 ceive, is its effect on the lower orders employed in 
 it ; though on superior and enlightened minds it 
 will not so operate. That it is a great evil no one 
 will deny ; but then it is a necessary evil. In the 
 present state of the Avorld, how is it always to be 
 avoided ? Whether posterity may be so far enlight- 
 ened above the present race of men as to be able to 
 devise a preventive against it is a question we are 
 not competent to discuss. 
 
 With much regret we parted with our two agree- 
 able companions, and even exchanged a friendly 
 adieu with the dandy, the doctor, and the soi-disant 
 captain.
 
 221 
 
 ANALYSIS OF CURIOSITY. 
 
 One may see now and then this humour accompanied with an in- 
 satiable desire of knowing what passes, without turning it to any 
 use in the world but merely their own entertainment. — Ad- 
 Disoy." 
 
 Curiosity, or a spirit of inqiiisitiveness, is a passion 
 (if it may be so called) implanted in us for wise 
 purposes, though, like other passions, it has its 
 abuses as well as its uses. There is a laudable and 
 salutary curiosity — a news-hunting and a novelty- 
 hunting curiosity, — and a prying and impertinent 
 curiosity. 
 
 It is a laudable curiosity that incites us to that 
 eager and unwearied research into the works of 
 nature and the wonders of creation, which has 
 produced such astonishing discoveries, and spread 
 such incalculable benefits over the earth. To this 
 species of curiosity every science owes, in a certain 
 measure, its first development and present perfec- 
 tion. The spirit of enterprise which actuated those 
 gi-eat and distinguished men who have, at different 
 periods, contributed, by their labours and researches, 
 to extend the sphere of human knowledge, was 
 first awakened by this useful and active passion.
 
 222 
 
 It led Columbus, in the dawn of science, over the 
 trackless wilderness of an unknown ocean, in quest 
 of new worlds. — It prompted the immortal Newton 
 to penetrate into the depths of space, and explore 
 the nature, motions, and boundaries of the systems 
 and worlds which are scattered over it. — It insti- 
 gated Watt, and other great experimentalists, to 
 those wonderful discoveries which facilitate, and 
 even, in part, supersede human labour. It is, in 
 short, the parent and nurse of invention, discovery, 
 and improvement. 
 
 It is a laudable curiositv, too, which prompts us, 
 along with other motives, to add to our stock of 
 useful and elegant knowledge, by which our minds 
 are improved, and we become more deeply and 
 effectually impressed with a sense of those duties, 
 which we owe as Christians, as members of society, 
 and which flow from the private relations of life. 
 
 A news-hunting curiosity is a very common spe- 
 cies of this passion ; for Avith it the innvmierable 
 host of theoretical politicians are infected, as well as 
 that no less numerous class of persons who eagerly 
 thirst after every description of diurnal information. It 
 calls forth those copious streams of intelligence, public 
 and private, which flow incessantly from the press. 
 It is perpetually on the wing to catch all sorts of, 
 what may be called, news — authentic or doubtful 
 it matters not, — but especially the floating events of 
 I he passing hour. 
 
 We were certainly inclined to consider Murphy's
 
 223 
 
 Quid Nunc as a caricature until we became acquaint- 
 ed with our worthy friend Caleb Chronicle, who 
 may be regarded as a counterpart of that well- 
 known character. Such is Caleb's insatiable crav- 
 ing for news, that no sooner has he gulped down 
 half-a-dozen remarkable and interesting events, than, 
 like a habitual tippler, whose thirst is rather in- 
 creased than satisfied by the frequent potations in 
 which he has indulged, he is eagerly in quest of 
 something still more striking and wonderful. With 
 a, good heart and the best intentions in the world, 
 our friend is yet so exceedingly amused by narra- 
 tives of bloody battles, horrible murders, afflicting 
 accidents, suicides, executions, shipwrecks — disasters 
 by flood or fire — all the dire calamities to which 
 *' flesh is heir,"" — that he pronounces a newspaper 
 absolutely good for nothing that does not contain a 
 reasonable portion of those interesting recitals. If 
 the French were to evacuate the Peninsula peace- 
 ably, he would feel not a little chagrined, though 
 he is an ardent friend to the cause of Spanish free- 
 dom and prosperity. Though he detested Buona- 
 parte, in the zenith of his power, he became his 
 idolizer in the hour of his adversity ; and no event, 
 of a public nature, ever gave him more pain than 
 his transportation to St Helena. Now that he is 
 numbered with the dead, he thinks it would be a 
 good thing, if, by a miracle, he could be restored 
 to life and freedom, if only to keep the Holy Alli> 
 ance in check, and excite a little astonishment.
 
 Our friend is ever on the alert on the arrival of 
 a mail, anticipating, on the occasion, a rich repast. 
 He eagerly devours the columns of the various jour- 
 nals, the contents of which — such parts at least as he 
 caWs great news — nothing earthly could induce him to 
 forego. These become the subject of discussion for 
 a few days ; after which he is again on the hunt for 
 more nezvs. As remote events have no charms to 
 him, he seldom dips into history, or indeed into any 
 other subject, except to beguile a tedious hour. 
 Such is the inquisitiveness of our friend Caleb 
 Chronicle — an inquisitiveness exceedingly amusing 
 to himself, without doing harm to any one else. 
 
 A novelty-hunting curiosity produces a restless 
 and irresistible desire, in a very large portion of his 
 Majesty's liege subjects, to witness and behold what- 
 ever may be deemed rare, curious, or diverting- 
 such, for instance, as honest Punch and his wife — 
 an exhibition of wild beasts — an animal with two 
 heads, or one with six legs — a man standing on his 
 head, or hanging by his heels — in short, all those 
 things which are popularly called strange sights. 
 We mention these merely as specimens, for they 
 form but a very inconsiderable part of those which 
 John Bull is in the constant habit of visiting— as 
 plays, pantomimes, spectacles, panoramas, phantas- 
 magoria, picture-galleries, museums, repositories, 
 musical concerts, feats of horsemanship, exhibitions 
 of 7iatural curiosities, mermaids, giants, dwarfs, 
 lusus natu7'W, sleight-of-hand tricks, optical decep-
 
 225 
 
 tions, lectures, recitations, &c. &c. all which amus- 
 ing matters ease John's pockets of ahout tzao mil- 
 lions per annum, speaking within bounds, — which 
 weighty tax on his curiosity John pays cheerfully 
 and magnanimously, though he is continually 
 grumbling at the demands made on his pocket 
 for conducting the affairs of the nation. But it is 
 one of John's privileges to bully and abuse tax- 
 makers and tax-gatherers ; while he is very civil and 
 good-humoured to those who levy contributions on 
 him by tickling his fancy, or raising his wonder. If 
 a man brings a mermaid, a griffin, a salamander, or 
 some other non-descript animal, from foreign parts 
 for the edification and amusement of John, he must 
 go and view it of course — aye, and his wife anci 
 children must go and view it too, — at an expense of 
 six, seven, or more shillings ; but he growls out- 
 rageously at an additional farthing on his pot of 
 porter. To hear an Italian singer, or behold a 
 veritable representation of a battle or a city — for any 
 thing, in short, which regales his ears or his eyes, — 
 he willingly lays down the dust ; but he thinks it a 
 grievous imposition to be obliged to pay for the 
 privilege of seeing common objects in his own house. 
 John's neighbour, Sawney, is generally of a more 
 cautious and calculating turn than John in the lay- 
 ing out of his money on sights ; but of late years he 
 has been following the example of his brother- 
 witness the many novelties which are perpetually 
 attracting his attention in the gude town of Edin- 
 
 K 2
 
 226 
 
 burgh, and other parts of auld Caledonia. As to 
 Paddy — though he is mightily fond of sights— he 
 has not so much superfluous cash as John to lay out 
 in that way : and, besides, he can always get up a 
 little novelty of his own at fairs and other meetings, 
 which is quite as amusing to him as a collection of 
 wild beasts, non-descript animals, or mock-fights. 
 
 A prying and impertinent curiosity is a very 
 troublesome passion both to its possessor, and to 
 others within the sphere of its observation. Females, 
 of weak and shallow minds, generally seasoned with 
 a suitable spice of uncharitableness, are the characters 
 most commonly infected with this species of curi- 
 osity. These worthy persons are exceedingly dili- 
 gent in prying into the affairs of their neighbours, 
 that they may, in the first place, gratify their 
 ruling passion, and at the same time appear to be 
 wondercms knowing, by retailing all the petty intelli- 
 gence or private history they can collect. Their 
 whole conversation consists of scandalous anecdotes 
 of individuals and families living in their neighbour- 
 hood. They either know, or pretend to know, 
 not only every little incident which takes place in 
 families, but even the very conversations which 
 occur ! Nothing, in short, remains secret or sacred 
 to the busy, prying curiosity of these gossips. How 
 they acquire all this information it is not difficult to 
 divine. Their inquisitive spirit prompts them even 
 to the meanness of employing spies and informers, 
 in the persons of their servants, who, knowing what
 
 227 
 
 an acceptable treat a little secret history is to their 
 employers, sift and worm out whatever they can 
 from other servants relative to their masters and 
 mistresses, and not unfrequently, as may be ima- 
 gined, embellish with inventions of their own these 
 tales of scandal. Thus do the impertinently curi- 
 ous put themselves on a level with, and, in some 
 measure, in the power of, their servants. Cer- 
 tainly there cannot be any thing more mean and 
 mischievous than such a practice. It has not un- 
 frequently been the means of dividing families who 
 had long been on the most intimate and friendly 
 footing, and of producing, in the place of amity 
 and social intercourse, a spirit of enmity which has 
 broke forth into hatred and mutual revilinjrs. But 
 this is not the greatest evil produced by a prying 
 malicious curiosity. How many are there of both 
 sexes — but especially innocent, unsuspicious fe- 
 males — whose reputations have been injured or 
 blasted by it ! The simplest circumstances are a 
 sufficient foundation for fixing suspicion, if not ab- 
 solute guilt, on the unsuspecting victim ; and thus 
 is the happiness and respectability of individuals, 
 and the peace of families, too often destroyed, for 
 the amusement of inquisitive and meddling gossips.
 
 228 
 
 SACREDNESS OF SOCIAL CONVERSATION. 
 
 " Give ev'ry man thine ear, but few thy voice." 
 
 There are few of our moral writers who have so fully 
 exposed, or pointedly reprobated, a certain flagrant of- 
 fence against the commonly received laws of convivial 
 intercourse as it appears to deserve — namely, the 
 disclosure of social and confidential conversations, 
 without regard to the propriety and consequences of 
 such publicity. At the first glance, and without 
 examination, this offence may appear venial and trif- 
 ling, and in this light superficial and unthinking 
 minds generally view it ; but when we come to con- 
 sider it in its consequences, what a different opinion 
 must we form of it ! It is a species of espionage in 
 the commonwealth of social intercourse, which, if ge- 
 nerally tolerated, would soon destroy that mutual 
 confidence on which it rests, and by which it is as it 
 were hallowed. The wholesale revealer of conversa- 
 tions may, in fact, be the cause of the dissolution of 
 long-standing friendships, of unappeasable enmities 
 between families and individuals, of ruinous law- 
 suits, and even the shedding of blood ! He scatters 
 the elements of discord, hatred, and revenge around
 
 229 
 
 ]iim, and all, too, with, perhaps, very i?inocent in- 
 tentions ! So, too, may the idiot, without malice 
 against any one, throw deadly missiles into the midst 
 of a crowd. 
 
 But how few are there who are not aware of the 
 mischievous consequences of this fetching and carry- 
 ing of conversations ? It is true, there are men who 
 have such an irresistible itch for relating and retail- 
 ing all they know, and all that they hear, that they 
 are carried away by it, maugre the dictates of pru- 
 dence, discretion, and even honour. But let such a 
 man be marked— dreaded — viewed with the askance 
 eye of doubt, distrust, and suspicion. And would 
 not these be the feelings with which every man 
 would regard his neighbour, and which would seal 
 his lips the moment he entered into a company, if 
 sudi practice was tolerated — nay, was not execrated 
 by the common consent of civilized society ? 
 
 But let us distinguish. There are conversations 
 which may be very innocently repeated; and the 
 worst name by which we can designate such repeti- 
 tions is that of a little harmless gossiping. But to 
 repeat that which is calculated to embroil one indivi- 
 dual, or one family, with another, or which has any 
 other mischievous tendency, and in such a way as is 
 sure to take effect, is a proof either of folly, or of an 
 insidious and malignant heart. A man may, in a 
 company, hear his friend traduced, or spoken disre- 
 spectfully of. In this case, let him openly espouse 
 his cause, or declare his intention of communicating
 
 230 
 
 what has been said of him in the event of its not 
 being retracted, or satisfactorily explained away. 
 This would be manly and candid. But what shall 
 we think of men who listen silently only to betray, 
 and without even the pretence of being at all inter- 
 ested about the party spoken of ! 
 
 There are moments when the most prudent may be 
 so far off their guard as to say things in a company 
 which they are subsequently convinced they should 
 not have said — not because what they have said is 
 unjust or unfounded (for no honest man will allow a 
 deliberate falsehood to escape his lips), but because 
 it was indiscreet so to have spoken. At the convivial 
 board men, warmed by the circulating glass, gene- 
 rally lay aside their accustomed reserve, and mutu- 
 ally unbosom themselves ; they are prone to regard 
 each other with a feeling of kindliness and confidence 
 approaching to friendship, and therefore freely and 
 unsuspectingly say what they think on the various 
 matters which may become the topics of conversation. 
 On such occasions the universal understanding is, that 
 this conversation is sacred — at least that such parts of 
 it as would, if repeated abroad, be productive of mis- 
 chief, shall not go farther. Let us suppose the con- 
 trary, and what would be the consequence ? That, 
 as we before said, mutual distrust, ill-humour, jea- 
 lousy, and suspicion, would take the place, in the 
 social circle, of candour, confidence, and good 
 humoiu' — nay, even suspend 
 
 " The feast of reason and the flow of soul."
 
 231 
 
 Let us draw another picture. Suppose a social 
 party met, mutually pleased with each other, and 
 freely intex'changing opinions and sentiments on vari- 
 ous topics. Suppose them, for example, frankly and 
 fairly discussing the merits and measures of some 
 great public man, — when in pops one of your fetch- 
 ers and carriers of conversation — one notorious for 
 his treacherous duplicity : let us imagine the effect 
 Avhich the sudden appearance of such a person must 
 produce on the company. A momentary pause ensues 
 - — each person glances his eye significantly at another 
 — grave looks and expressive coughs and hems suffi- 
 ciently indicate that the party would willingly dispense 
 with the presence of this intruder. If he should be one 
 of those insignificant beings who, for want of think- 
 ing justly, or lack of thinking at all, spreads dis- 
 cord, enmity, and mischief, by a petty gossiping 
 propensity to relate all he hears, a ludicrous way of 
 punishing him would be the sending him away with 
 a budget full of rare neros — alias inventions, the 
 hawking about of which would be a vast addition to 
 his already acquired reputation. But the insidious 
 and designing tale-bearer should be treated in a more 
 summary way — that is, by civilly desiring him to 
 walk out of the door, or, if that will not do, shew- 
 ing him the shortest way to it. 
 
 When one of your prying, busy, meddling pickers- 
 up and retailers of conversation, once obtains a foot- 
 ]f\g in two or three neighbouring families, the mis- 
 chief he may do is incalculable. Every day's ex-
 
 232 
 
 perience evinces the truth of tliis observation. A 
 httle spark will light up a mighty flame. How many 
 families, who have long lived on terms of the closest 
 intimacy and friendship, have on a sudden become 
 the most inveterate in enmity and hatred— it matters 
 not how shght the cause — how venial the offence — 
 how frivolous the whisper, which brings about this 
 mighty revolution. One of these officious repeaters 
 of speeches and sayings informs a female member of 
 one of those families, that Mr, Mrs, or Miss Such- 
 an-one, of a neighbouring family, was heard to 
 say, " that she was by no means thought hand- 
 some — that many people thought she had crooked 
 legs— that her singing was little better than croak- 
 ing, — and as for her dancing, it was any thing but 
 easy and graceful. This is enough. The whole fa- 
 mily espouse the cause of their injured relation. The 
 flame of discord spreads, and speedily lays waste the 
 fair fabric of concord which years of social inter- 
 course and mutual good offices had reared. But 
 still more serious mischief than even this may be done 
 by this disseminator of discord. He or she may, by 
 repetitions of whispers of a more serious nature, 
 excite among the male relatives of those families un- 
 appeasable feuds, frequently leading to fatal results.* 
 It is, in short, no exaggerated assertion to say of the 
 habitual repeater of conversations calculated to set 
 man against man, and embroil family with family, that 
 
 • We have repeatedly known affairs of this sort end in duels.
 
 S33 
 
 there is hardly a more dangerous and mischievous 
 character in society, even when not actuated by maUg- 
 nant intentions. When he is so actuated — when, in 
 order to gratify some bad passion — hatred, mahce, or 
 revenge — he turns some unguarded words, spoken to 
 him with the most unreserved confidence in his ho- 
 nour, to the injury of the speaker, we do not know of 
 any measure of detestation which can equal the base- 
 ness of the act. 
 
 But as experience must shew a man how few there 
 are among his acquaintance whom he can truly de- 
 nominate friends — men in whose honour and discre- 
 tion he may place an unlimited reliance, let him be- 
 ware how he commits what he does not wish to be 
 repeated to the keeping of persons who neither care 
 a pin about him, nor have a due sense of what men 
 owe to each other in the common intercourse of life. 
 Rochefoucault (who, by the bye, is not in general a 
 great favourite of ours) very justly asks — " How 
 can we expect that another should keep our secrets, 
 when it is more than we can do ourselves T'' To di- 
 vulge some things to any but a very particu- 
 lar and long-tried friend would be the very acme of 
 folly, which would not perhaps be too severely pun- 
 ished by their publication, with additions and em- 
 bellishments, the usual accompaniments of xvell- 
 known secrets. But, putting these out of the ques- 
 tion, it is idle to say that men are always to be so 
 close, circumspect, and guarded, as never to suffer 
 one sentence to escape their lips which they would
 
 234 
 
 not desire to have officiously handed about. There 
 are close, cautious men, it is true, who guard them- 
 selves against such an indiscretion by an invincible 
 taciturnity ; but what sort of companions do such 
 men make ? Considered as one of a social circle, the 
 silent man is little better than the chair on which he 
 sits. As he contributes nothing to the entertainment 
 of the company, so neither is he likely to excite an 
 interest by the " mysteriousness of his carriage," 
 Avhich, as has been well observed, is sometimes as- 
 sumed to " cover the defects of the mind."" 
 
 " Some will say — " Let us never speak out what 
 we would not wish repeated." When Astrea shall 
 descend from heaven, and again take up her abode 
 on earth — when there shall no longer be any but wise 
 and honest men in the world, — then shall there be no 
 conversation but on subjects purely scientific, moral, 
 or literary. At present, to make out the practicabi- 
 lity of such a maxim, we must assume that the folly 
 and wickedness of worthless characters shall not even 
 be mentioned, much less censured, by the world ! 
 In what code of ethics is such a principle recognised ? — 
 Or who woidd wish to see it established .'* A man 
 may, in the honest warmth of his heart, speak in 
 terms of severe, but merited censure of the conduct 
 of another; yet however just, and in unison witii 
 public opinion, these his strictures might be, still 
 they might become the cause of serious mischief 
 to the speaker, if officiously conveyed to the ear of 
 the person of whom they were spoken. How liable.
 
 235 
 
 too, are the best of us to be led, by a momen- 
 tary impulse of just indignation, to speak of ano- 
 ther with an acrimony which, in our cooler moments, 
 we may condemn, — a proof, at least, that our resent- 
 ment was not prompted by malice. Now, though we 
 do not stand justified for allowing passion to carry us 
 thus far, yet would it not be an insidious and treach- 
 erous act to turn such unguarded ebullitions to the 
 injury of a companion at the social board? — how 
 much more so if they were uttered in the hour of 
 confidential intercourse with a friend, or one whom we 
 had a right to deem such. If a man goes into a 
 public place and proclaims his opinions of indivi- 
 duals, whether conscientiously or from malice it 
 matters not, the case is very different ; no one who 
 hears him is then bound, except by Christian charity 
 — a rather scarce commodity in these times — not to 
 repeat what he hears. 
 
 If it were practicable to exclude, on the principle 
 here contended for, any class of persons, ostensibly 
 respectable, it should be such as a cool, designing ma- 
 lignity of heart, instigated to vihfy and calumniate 
 the characters of those who happened to be ob- 
 noxious to them. But unfortunately we cannot al- 
 ways distinguish between such a character and the 
 man of honourable feeling, who would sooner perish 
 than foster a malignant spirit against any human 
 being. 
 
 There are just two species of misrepresentation 
 which the latter would equally detest — namely, that
 
 236 
 
 by which the reputation of a deserving man would 
 be injured, and that by which a worthless character 
 would be raised to unmerited estimation. 
 
 i
 
 237 
 
 THE DEBATING SOCIETY. 
 
 " Next is OUT club ; 
 We term it free and easy, and yet we 
 Find it no easy matter to be free. 
 Even in our small assembly, friends among. 
 Are minds perverse, there's something will be wrong ; 
 Men are not equal ; some will claim a riglit 
 To be the kings and heroes of the night. 
 With their own favourite themes and notions start, 
 And you must hear, offend them, or depart." Crabbe, 
 
 When we were in London, a few years ago, we one 
 night accompanied a friend to one of those pohticai 
 societies, the members of which are so disinterested 
 in their zeal for the good of their country, as to dis- 
 cuss and settle its affairs gratuitously. The question 
 to be decided by those politicians was — " What 
 should be done towards remedying the present dis- 
 tresses and difficulties of the country .p" 
 
 On this question being repeated by the president 
 as the topic of the evening's debate, — it having been 
 proposed, agreeably to rule, at the close of their last 
 sitting, — a member got vip, and casting his eyes with a 
 stern and scrutinizing glance round the table, fixed them 
 at length on a person present, and, turning to the pre- 
 sident, announced the presence of a government spy.
 
 238 
 
 Immediately all strangers were called upon for their 
 tickets of admission, when the suspected individual 
 not having one to produce, and no member l:no'wing 
 any thing about him, further than that each had 
 good reason for suspecting him to be a spy, he was, 
 after a good deal of remonstrance on his part, turned 
 out in a very unceremonious style. 
 
 The member who denounced him then proceeded to 
 make a most furious speech against the xvhole existing 
 order of thing-s in the country^ — in which he was oc- 
 casionally hissed and cheered, and more than once 
 called to order by the president and others. In the 
 exordium of his harangue, he uttered the most bitter 
 invectives against the employment of spies and in- 
 formers, which " none," he said, " but a weak and 
 wicked ministry, conscious of their own imbecility 
 and malversations, Mould have recourse to — that 
 they were unheard of in this once free and happy 
 country till within the last quarter of a century, — 
 and that they were signs which could not be mistaken 
 of that despotism to which we were fast approach- 
 ing, and of which they were the ready tools and atro- 
 cious instruments." He said, " the country would 
 never be without plots, trials, executions, and massa- 
 cres, while such infamous characters were encouraged 
 to roam over the kingdom, and to instigate and be- 
 tray the needy, the ignorant, and unsuspecting, — of 
 which detestable practices we had lately had such 
 numerous and glaring proofs." The orator j^ro- 
 noimced the whole of the members of administration
 
 239 
 
 to be " downright enemies of the country ;" and de- 
 clared " the to be worse than a cipher, in- 
 asmuch as he lent the authority of his name to all 
 the wicked acts, the corruption, peculation, and rob- 
 bery of which those calling themselves his servantty 
 were guilty." He denounced the majority of the 
 House of Commons " as the enemies and betrayers 
 of the people, instead of being, as; in honour and 
 conscience bound, their guardians and protectors — 
 not from misapprehension or error of judgment, but 
 from the base and sordid consideration of a place, a 
 pension, or a promise — in short, that these corrupt 
 legislators, like the whole race of Tories, fattened on 
 the very life-blood of the wretched and oppressed 
 people, whose representatives they called themselves."^ 
 
 Nor was he a whit more sparing of the Whigs, 
 who wei'e, he said, " a shuffling, canting, hypo- 
 critical crew, who assumed the mask of patriotism 
 for the sole purpose of acquiring popularity, as a 
 stepping-stone by which they might get into place 
 and power, of which they would make no better use 
 than their predecessors, the Tories."" 
 
 He pronounced the bulk of the laws to be " wicked, 
 partial, and iniquitous ; and defined a lawyer to be a 
 time-serving, cold-blooded, conscienceless being, who 
 would with as little remorse punish an innocent man 
 as he would get off a rogue or a ruffian, his services 
 in both cases being measured, not by principle, but 
 by his gains — whose highest boast and praise lay in 
 falsehood and perversion, — and who dabbled in the
 
 240 
 
 pure stream of justice only for the purpose of pollut- 
 ing and defiling it !" 
 
 Here the orator was interrupted by a little man 
 (who we afterwards understood to be an attorney,) 
 who started up, and, with fury in his looks, called 
 him to order, — in which he was seconded by the pre- 
 sident. This occasioned a short interruption ; after 
 which the orator passed to the subject of religion, 
 which he declared to be the " grossest imposture 
 which had ever been practised on mankind, and that 
 its ministers were either besotted fanatics, or artful 
 hypocrites, who kept up the farce for purely selfish 
 purposes." He added, that he " did not know which 
 most to admire — the impudence of those who would 
 foist on the world such contemptible fables as the 
 
 S s contained, or the profound ignorance and 
 
 credulity of those who could swallow such childish 
 inventions !" 
 
 But we shall forbear repeating all the horrid and 
 disgusting blasphemies which this man uttered against 
 our holy religion. We felt a thrill of horror creep 
 through us on listening to him. Tliis man, said we, 
 mentally, 
 
 " Is fit for treasons, stratagems, and spoils ; 
 Let no such man be trusted." 
 
 The orator now touched on the national debt, 
 which he considered as a most iniquitous burden 
 thrown on the shoulders of the oppressed people by 
 the borough-mongers, whose debt it in fact was, and
 
 241 
 
 by whom alone it should be paid — at all events, ra- 
 ther than one penny of it should come out of the na- 
 tional purse, he would have it cancelled by a dash of 
 the pen. He concluded his harangue by declaring 
 it to be his conscientious opinion, that there was no 
 effectual remedy for this, and all the other abuses and 
 oppressions under which the country groaned, but in 
 a complete and radical reform and regeneration of 
 its government, legislature, and all its institutions. — 
 " And" (exclaimed the orator, raising his voice) " if, 
 in the attainment of this paramount object, blood 
 must be shed, be it so ! Better that bad rulers 
 should perish, than that the people should suffer by 
 their tyranny.'"' 
 
 This revolutionary speech was greeted, by a small 
 part of the audience, with loud plaudits ; but by the 
 majority was heard with considerable disapprobation, 
 which they testified by hisses and groans. The in- 
 stant the orator sat down, three members started up 
 to speak, one of whom the president declared to be 
 the person who had a right to be heard. 
 
 This speaker began by remarking, " that, in the 
 speech they had just heard, invective and abuse had 
 been substituted for sound and rational argument, 
 and that it was therefore calculated to convey no 
 other feeling to the mind, than that of unqualified 
 disgust. I conceive it," said he, " to be, in fact, a libel, 
 or string of libels, throughout. Not only the govern- 
 ment, but all the institutions of the country, and all 
 its functionaries, from the sovereign downwards, had 
 
 L
 
 242 
 
 been vilified in the gross. That there are abuses 
 and defects in the government, the legislature, the 
 laws, and the church, I will not pretend to deny ; 
 but shall we therefore falsely denounce the whole of 
 them as corrupt and bad, that we may have a pre- 
 tence for levelling the whole fabric of order and go- 
 vernment in tl\e dust ? Shall we, in place of seeking 
 for a constitutional reform of acknowledged abuses, 
 aim only at subversion? The member has pointed 
 out no specific remedies for those abuses, nor for the 
 distresses of the country — he has not told us how we 
 shall heal, but what we shall cut off. Like an un- 
 skilful and merciless practitioner in surgery, he would 
 be for amputating every diseased limb, however sus- 
 ceptible of cure by alteratives and emoUents — he 
 would destro}^ the very vitals of the constitution, in 
 place of seeking to restore it to health and vigour. 
 And what would he give us in the place of that which 
 he would destroy ? Anarchy, bloodshed, and crime ! 
 Every lover of his country must see and feel the ne- 
 cessity of reform — constitutional reform, obtained by 
 constitutional means, — not by lawless violence and 
 seditious turbulence. I venerate the constitution of 
 my country, and am only an enemy to the encroach- 
 ments on it. Though there may be laws that I deem 
 partial and oppressive, and practices in the courts that 
 are vexatious, yet, as a whole, I consider our judi- 
 cial code an excellent one, and the general admini- 
 stration of justice as pure, equitable, and impartial. 
 The great evils attending our laws are the enormous
 
 243 
 
 bulk to which they have grown, rendering what was 
 before dark and intricate now doubly so, and the 
 uncertainty, delay, and expense attending the admi- 
 nistration of them.. 
 
 " With respect to the attack which the member 
 has thought fit to make, not on the particular discip- 
 line and government of the established church, 
 which at least would not have been an impious at- 
 tack, there being doubtless something in these cap- | 
 able of amendment, but on the Christian religion in 
 general, it would be an insult to the understandings 
 of those who hear me were I to make any reply to it, 
 in the way of argument or refutation. Indeed, he 
 has not so much aimed at any species of reasoning 
 against religion, as to cast ridicule and contempt on it 
 by impious sneers and blasphemous revilings. Even 
 setting aside all consideration of the evidences which 
 attest its truths, what sort of a man must that be 
 who would deprive the wretched of solace, and accu- 
 mulate vice and crime in the world, by cutting off 
 the fountain of men's faith and hope — ^by destroying 
 the foundation of all the moral and social duties ! 
 — Need I go further ? 
 
 " As to his gross and undistinguishing attacks on 
 particular professions and classes of men, I conceive 
 them to be unworthy of a serious reply. If, because 
 I am a friend to the leading principles of the Whigs, 
 I were to hold up the whole body of the Tories as 
 corrupt, bad men, and betrayers of their country — 
 or if, because my lawyer may have deceived and
 
 2U 
 
 imposed on me, I should pronounce all lawyers to be 
 dishonest men, I should deserve to be considered as 
 an ignorant enthusiast, or something worse. 
 
 " The observations of the member on the employ- 
 ment of spies and informers I consider to be in the 
 main just. Yet it cannot be denied, that an emer- 
 gency may arise when they may become indispensa- 
 bly necessary — for instance, where a nation is in dan- 
 ger of being plunged into anarchy, or a civil war, by 
 the machinations of a desperate faction. Of two 
 evils we choose the least — better that a part of the 
 community should suffer by the one, than that the 
 whole nation should be overwhelmed by the other. 
 It is the employment of such instruments in ordinary 
 times that I deprecate and condemn."" 
 
 The orator then entered into a discussion of various 
 measures for the relief of the country. " Much 
 good," said he, " would be done could opulent men 
 be prevailed upon to come forward with such a sa- 
 crifice as would redeem a large portion of the national 
 debt, which in fact was the root of much of the pre- 
 sent suffering. He said the next point was the adop- 
 tion of a rigid system of economy by government. 
 But this, he was sorry to say, had in vain been look- 
 ed for by the nation. The truth was, that the go- 
 vernment had such a host of partisans and depend- 
 ants to provide for, and keep in pa}, with a view to 
 what is called strengthening its hands, that there was 
 little hope of any thing effectual being done — at least
 
 245 
 
 by the present ministers — towards retrenchment.* 
 From a viruous, independent, popular, and patriotic 
 ministry alone can that economy and reform so much 
 wanted be rationally expected. Rut where are we 
 to find such a ministry ? Among the Whigs ? Alas — 
 notwithstanding the high opinion I have of many of 
 that party, I much fear that power and place would 
 soon transform them into Tories. Corruption and 
 bribery, and a wasteful expenditure of the public 
 money have prevailed almost under every ministry, 
 whether Whig or Tory, for the last half-century. 
 We have had a trial, not a great many years back, of 
 a pure Whig ministry — men of great and acknow- 
 ledged talentSy and no doubt of very good intentions, 
 but did they come out of office with clean hands ? 
 Had they not, too, their numerous friends, support- 
 ers, and retainers to provide for out of the public 
 purse ? If then it is in vain to expect we can have a 
 ministry who will of themselves sweep away all 
 abuses, do away all corruptions, and become the 
 faithful guardians of the people's money, and the 
 protectors of their rights, where shall they, the peo- 
 ple, look for friends and redressers in this their hour 
 of need .'' To whom but their representatives in parlia- 
 ment, who are, or ought to be, their natural guar- 
 dians and defenders ? But what do we find here ? a 
 powerful majority, who have identified themselves 
 with ministers, instead of being v/hat the constitution 
 
 * The orator, if he be living, will now see both retrenchment and a 
 reduction of taxes carried into effect by ministers.
 
 246 
 
 intended they should be, a salutary check and con- 
 trol over them. Here is the root of most of the 
 evils we suffer ; and I see no remedy for it but in the 
 union, firmness, and perseverance of the friends of 
 the constitution and the people, both in and out of 
 the House — not by violence and outrage — which, 
 besides being a treasonable contempt of the laws, can 
 only retard the great work of reform — but by sound 
 argument, remonstrance, and exposure. These will 
 at least be productive of ameliorations, if they do not 
 brins; about a thorough amendment." 
 
 The concluding part of this speaker's harangue 
 was interrupted by hisses and other manifestations of 
 displeasure, mingled with a few solitary cheers. It 
 was, in fact, of too milk-and-water a cast for the ma- 
 jority of his auditors, who had a relish for sharper 
 and prompter remedies than sound argument and 
 patient remonstrance. 
 
 The little man now got on his legs, and retorted 
 violently on the first orator, whom we understood to be 
 a bookseller and an author. Among other things, he 
 said — " If, Mr President, I were to accuse this man 
 of vending treason and blasphemy — some of which of 
 his own manufacture, by wholesale and retail — not to 
 promote the good of the country or the interests of 
 the people, but to put money in his pocket, and get 
 a great name among a certain description of persons, 
 I would be speaking the truth ; but if I said that all 
 booksellers were capable of the same base practice, I 
 would stand accused of uttering a most malignant
 
 247 
 
 falsehood. Of this the orator has been guilty in 
 speaking of the highly-respectable profession of the 
 law — a profession, which, while it is occasionally 
 disgraced by worthless members, had produced the 
 most distinguished ornaments of the country. Look 
 at the bench and the bar at the present moment. In 
 what profession, or among what class of men, will you 
 find more eminent talent, or more vmsullied integrity ? 
 Every one who hears me must be aware, that the 
 invidious practice of generalizing Avhole professions 
 and classes of men in one sweeping censure must ever 
 be founded in error, prejudice, and injustice ; for in 
 every one there must be a proportion of good and bad 
 men." 
 
 The orator, in the subsequent part of his speech, 
 declared his opinion to be, that nothing short of a 
 radical reform could remedy the distresses of the 
 country. 
 
 The bookseller got up to explain, and quoted the 
 last speaker himself as an illustration of what he had 
 said of lawyers in general ; for that he was one whose 
 principles were solely governed by interest, he having 
 at one time, while he held a small post under govern- 
 ment, been a rank Tory ; but no sooner was he 
 kicked out of office — not, if report says true, for 
 having kept his hands clean and his conscience clear 
 — than he joins the ranks of the Radicals. " I say, 
 gentlemen," (cried the orator, with a Stentorian 
 voice) " let us look with a suspicious eye on such 
 apostates : an offer of a bribe from government
 
 248 
 
 would again make a convert of him, and we should 
 then see him among us, not as a friend, but as an in- 
 quisitor."" 
 
 The lawyer, with a fierce and menacing look, 
 made an effort to answer ; but was anticipated by 
 another speaker, who rose to reply to some obser- 
 vations which had fallen from the bookseller respect- 
 ing the character and conduct of Sir Francis Bur- 
 dett, which he pronounced to be highly illiberal and 
 unjust. " Sir Francis," said the orator, " stands 
 at this day pre-eminent above all others as a patriot 
 and friend of the people. The noble stand he has 
 made in their behalf is beyond all eulogium. While 
 others temporized, or shrunk from the contest, he 
 has stood firm and undaunted. He has braved the 
 tempest, and will one day weather it. He has met 
 fine, imprisonment, and every other means of intimi- 
 dation undismayed. Calumny has unceasingly as- 
 sailed him — he has been abused, vilified, and mis- 
 represented by men of every party ; but still he has 
 come forth from the fiery ordeal triumphant and 
 unhurt, and the shafts of malice have recoiled upon 
 those who levelled them against him. Among the 
 most scurrilous of his assailants appeared pre-emi- 
 nent that charlatan — that changeling, that weather- 
 cock in politics, Cobbett, who can blow hot and 
 cold in a breath — who first abuses Sir Francis, then 
 professes himself his friend and admirer — then turns 
 round and abuses him again, and at length, to wind 
 up the farce, again comes forward with a whining
 
 249 
 
 tone of affected reconciliation, and an offer of his 
 friendship^ — provided, however, — now mark the dis- 
 interestedness of this loving J'riend, — that he, Sir 
 Francis, would generously draw his purse-strings in 
 aid of his, Cobbett's, prospective political elevation ! 
 He had tasted the sweets of the Baronefs generosi- 
 ty on former occasions, and had no doubt a high 
 relish for it." 
 
 Here the orator was interrupted by a member, 
 who got up and gave a flat contradiction to all he 
 had said respecting Cobbett, who, he said, much 
 better deserved the title of Champion of the People 
 than Sir Francis did. " It is true," said the orator, 
 " he, Cobbett, had seen occasion to change certain 
 opinions he had been in the habit of maintaining ; 
 but this, far from evincing a want of consistency 
 and sincerity, was a decided proof of a frank and 
 manly candour, open at all times to conviction when 
 there were grovnids for it. Who is there, at the 
 present day, that will bear a comparison with Cob- 
 bett for talent and public usefulness ? He is one of 
 those prodigies of natural genius which appear but 
 once in an age. With all the disadvantages of a 
 limited education, he possesses a powerful, vigorous, 
 and original mind, with which there are few, how- 
 ever gifted by education and talent, will venture to 
 grapple. In political economy, he lias, on various 
 occasions, displayed an originality and reach of 
 thought, which even his enemies have borne testi- 
 mony to ; and in politics he is a giant in strength. 
 
 L 2
 
 250 
 
 From a humble station he raised himself to honour 
 and distinction, and such was his display of vigour- 
 ous talent, even at the outset of his career, that 
 prime-ministers courted his friendship, and besought 
 the assistance of his powerful pen. Even at the 
 present day, though advanced in years, his mind 
 retains all its pristine vigour and activity." 
 
 " That he is a powerful writer," replied the Bur- 
 dettite, " I do not mean to deny ; but his strength, 
 in a great measure, consists in coarseness and scur- 
 rility. Men shrink from a contest with an opponent 
 who flings dirt by handfuls on all who venture to 
 come in contact with him. And how has he em- 
 ployed the talents Avith which nature has thus gifted 
 him ? In alternately advocating and vilifying the same 
 men and measures — flying from one party to another 
 — either a flaming ministerialist, or a reviler of go- 
 vernment — as suited the views of the moment. To 
 crown all, and exhibit himself an origmal in ethics 
 as well as politics, he has the effrontery to advocate 
 a new and convenient mode of paying just debts — 
 which, as Sir Francis Burdett pithily observes, was 
 equally ' laughable in theory, as it was detestable in 
 practice.' " 
 
 Here the president interposed, and observed, that 
 " the gentleman had lost sight of the question before 
 them. The society had not met for the purpose of 
 criminating or vindicating this or that public cha- 
 racter, but to discuss the more important subject of 
 the state of the nation.''''
 
 251 
 
 An orator now got up, and made a speech in the 
 true radical style. He was followed by others in 
 nearly the same strain. Sickened, at length, by this 
 jargon, our friend and us withdrew. On our way 
 home, he said — " Well, what think you of the state- 
 doctors we have heard to-night ?" " We think," said 
 we, " that if some of their prescriptions for the con- 
 stitution were carried into effect, there would at least 
 be some blood-letting-. It is lucky such men have 
 the power to deal only in theory." Some of these po- 
 Uticians," said our friend, " conceive there is no more 
 difficulty in managing the state-machine than in play- 
 ing a game at chess. In the state-game I apprehend 
 (added he) they would make sad havock among the 
 kings, bishops, and knights."
 
 252 
 
 STORY-TELLING. 
 
 " Against this vice we all are ever railing, 
 
 And yet, so tempting is it, so prevailing, 
 
 You'll find but few without this useful failing." — Garrick. 
 
 It will no doubt startle many to be told, that there 
 are few men who are not in the habit of violating 
 truth in some shape or other ! — Indeed, on the first 
 contemplation of this subject, we ourselves regarded 
 such an assertion as a rash and unqualified one. 
 But, on further consideration, we were induced to 
 change our opinion, and now feel pretty confident 
 that we shall be able satisfactorily to prove, not 
 only that such is the fact, but that, in some cases, 
 story-tellhig (to use a mild term) meets with general 
 countenance and encouragement ! — Nay, we shall go 
 to the extent of attempting a sort of apology for this 
 practice, — classing the different kinds of it under the 
 following heads ; — Political — Professional — Courtly 
 — Marvellous — Habitual — Interested — Gossiping, 
 —and Malignant. 
 
 The first of these may be termed lying on a grand 
 scale for the good of mie's country. This species of 
 story-telling is considered as so beneficial to a nation's
 
 253 
 
 weal, so necessary to its interests, that, far from dis- 
 honour being attached to it, it is generally regarded, 
 especially when successful, as a proof of masterly 
 policy and talent. Without a little heightening, or 
 diminishing, as occasions may require, what were the 
 labours of the statesman, or the diplomatic efforts of 
 the negotiator ? Were they to tell the simple truth 
 at all times, what discontent would be excited, what 
 clamours raised at home, and what advantages taken 
 abroad, of such impolitic frankness ? In the honour- 
 able profession of arms, too, political story-telling is, 
 in certain situations, not only allowable, but becomes 
 an imperative duty. What sort of a general would 
 he be, who, if besieged in, or besieging, a city or 
 fortress, would not represent his strength and re- 
 sources as far beyond what they actually were ? 
 There is certainly an infinite difference betAveen this 
 sort of story-telling and some of the others which we 
 have enumerated. When nations and armies endea- 
 vour to overreach each other by mis-statements of the 
 truth, patriotism and universal usage seem to sancti- 
 fy the act. 
 
 Professional story-telling is, in certain cases, so 
 necessary, so indispensable^ that no one can well ob- 
 ject to it, especially as it must, before hand, be un- 
 derstood to be authorised by general custom — and 
 practice. For instance, when two able and eloquent 
 professors of the law set forth and elucidate a cause 
 in such a diametrically opposite way, that one must 
 necessarily he wrongs however earnest and indefatig-
 
 254 
 
 able he may be in maJcing' the worse appear the better 
 side ; or when a rapacious under-strapper of the 
 same profession encourages, by fallacious assurances, 
 an unfortunate and trusting litigant to persevere in 
 a hopeless and expensive suit. Does not the em- 
 piric boldly, and in the face of the world and of his 
 more regularly-bred brethren, declare his nostrums 
 to be infallible remedies for all, or most of the dis- 
 eases which afflict the human frame, while hundreds 
 are falling victims to the use of them ? — Yet is not 
 this considered as so excusable a things that the faculty 
 quietly look on, no doubt impressed with the acknow- 
 ledged axiom, that all trades should be alloiced to live? 
 In a country where lying and cheating, 62/ whole- 
 sale, are considered as so incompatible with the cha- 
 racter of a gentleman, is it not wonderful that there 
 should exist a calling, not unfrequently dabbled in 
 by gentlemen, of which these made an essential and 
 avowed part? — and yet such is jockeyship in its true 
 spirit. The deep ones, and Icnowing ones, some too 
 of patrician blood, would not care a farthing for the 
 pleasures of Newmarket, were it not for this pro- 
 fessional spirit, or in-faking privilege. 
 
 The next class of storj'-tellers — the courtly — has 
 so much of vu'banity in it — so much of the pleasing, 
 the obliging, the hope-inspiring, that really we do 
 not know how any one brought vip in a Christian 
 country, and conversant in polished society, can well 
 find fault with it. The amiable offices of the court- 
 ly story-teller consist in buoying you up with pro-
 
 255 
 
 fessions which mean nothing, and promises which 
 are never meant to be fulfilled. He may also, occa- 
 sionally, if you should have it in your power to 
 oblige him, persuade, or attempt to persuade you, 
 that you possess qualities and talents to which you 
 have no more pretence than the man in the moon, ! 
 and though time and reason may dissipate those hopes, 
 and that pride of imaginary worth he may succeed in 
 inspiring, yet do you not in the mean time enjoy, as 
 a compensation, the pleasure ai'ising from those illu- 
 sions ? You must argue pliilosophicallj'- on the sub- 
 ject. True happiness, we are told, is no where to 
 be found. That semblance of it which we enjoy 
 consists, as we are also told, not in possession, but in 
 hope and expectancy — 
 
 " We never are but always to be blest." 
 
 It would be a pity, therefore, that this species of 
 story-telling should altogether be abolished, while 
 flatterers and dealers in empty promises contribute 
 so much as tlic}'- do, aiid at so small an expense, to 
 the comfort and pleasure of their fellow-creatures. 
 
 The marvellous story-teller is so diverting a crea- 
 ture, that it is no wonder he should meet with ^-ene- 
 ral countenance and encouragement. We once knew 
 a notorious wonder-dealer — we beg pardon for using 
 the word notorious — who was the delight of every com- 
 pany by the astonishing gravity with which he would 
 relate stories and anecdotes, xoithin his own Icnoxoledge, 
 which every one wlio heard him knew to be not only
 
 256 
 
 improbable, but physically impossible. | At length a 
 habit of stretching, or, to use a still more popular 
 phrase, shooting xvith a long how, carried him to such 
 lengths, that if he heard an expression of doubt dropt 
 by any one, or even noticed a sceptical shake of the 
 head, he would assume a look of displeasure and 
 surprise, and, with dignified gravity, ask, whether 
 the unbeliever meant to call in question his veracity. 
 And yet this man not only maintained his credit 
 with these his auditors (some of whom were men of 
 erudition), but was even in high estimation among 
 them ! So true it is, that what we despise, we do 
 not always hate, and, vice versa, we may at times 
 dislike that which we cannot but admire. When 
 Prince Harry sees his old friend Jack FalstafF — of 
 lying, bullying, drinking, and diverting memory — 
 prostrate on the ground, and apparently dead, he 
 feelingly exclaims — 
 
 " I could better have spared a better man." 
 
 Men who have travelled far, and seen much, should 
 not come home with a dry, \uiinteresting, often-re- 
 peated detail of common-place matters : something 
 of a very surprising nature is of course expected. 
 Now, as to entertain our friends is doubtless a most 
 laudable employment, and as it is proper a traveller, 
 when he attempts this, either b}^ the fireside, or in a 
 ]!underous volume, should not disappoint their ex- 
 pectations, a certain latitude is allowable for embel- 
 lisking to all those who have explored remote regions
 
 257 
 
 of the globe, and have beheld things of which their 
 less travelled acquaintance could have formed no 
 possible conception — things more astonishingly won- 
 derful 
 
 " Than fables yet have feigned, or fear conceived." 
 
 How infinitely is the world indebted to those edi- 
 tors of newspapers, whose inventive faculties afford 
 it so much amusement during a scarcity of real won- 
 ders, by recitals of surprising events, melancholy 
 catastrophes, dreadful accidents byjlood and fire, &c. 
 together with descriptions of unheard-of monsters, 
 attested by credible eye-witnesses, and of supernatur- 
 al escapes, equally zoell authenticated^! 
 
 Habitual story-telling, or that innocent species of 
 it which custom and common practice sanction and 
 authorise, cannot well— nay, should not perhaps — 
 be utterly abolished. It is a sort of current medium 
 which passes in society, in lieu of the more sterling 
 specie of genuine kindness, generosity, and benevo- 
 lence, — ^become somewhat scarce in these hard and 
 pressing times, like the unadulterated bullion, the 
 value of, and demand for which rises in proportion 
 to the compulsory extension of the paper-currency. 
 Agreeably to the established value of this current 
 medium, which, by the bye, is depreciated as low as 
 it can well be, we find a very great and a very proud 
 man acknowledging himself, under his hand and 
 seal, the obedient, JliitJiful, and humble servant of a 
 poor needy creature, or bowing dependant, whom in
 
 258 
 
 reality he most cordially despises, and to whom he 
 would not for the world deign to offer, in public, a 
 shake of the hand, or even a recognising nod. We 
 hear, too, one man address another b}'^ the endearing 
 epithets of " my dear fellow,"'' — " my worthy friend," 
 &c., though the fact is, he entertains but a very so 
 so opinion of the person he thus addresses — nay, could 
 almost wish him at the devil ! Is it not the common 
 custom for the polite and obliging to offer their " re- 
 spectful compliments," their " best wishes,*" their 
 " kind regards,'' their " love,"" and so forth, to indi- 
 viduals, for whom, in truth, they have neither re- 
 spect, love, nor regard, — indeed, feel no interest in, 
 nor have any inclination so to do ? How many spon- 
 taneously declare themselves your's most sincerely-— 
 protest how infinitely happy they always are to see 
 you — inquire anxiously about 3'our health — ^admire 
 and speak in praise of all your hobbies — your wife, 
 your children, your plans, your opinions ; — and yet 
 by how simple an experiment may you prove the 
 depth of this affectionate regard, and show its solidi- 
 ty ! Offend in some trifling affair, decline compliance 
 with some unreasonable request, or ask the accom- 
 modation of a few hundreds, and either of these acts 
 will probably prove a sufficient touchstone. But as 
 the exact value of all these kind of professions is, or 
 should be, previously and mutually understood 
 among mankind, we do not know that we can, gener- 
 ally speaking, attribute to them any deliberate design 
 to deceive. Constituted as the world is, it is rather
 
 259 
 
 desirable that men should not at all times speak as 
 they think of and to each other ; such plain-dealing 
 would probably beget feuds and animosities in pri- 
 vate life, which would soon convert a polished circle 
 of gentle^ humanized beings, mutually pleased with 
 each other, into a community of savages. As for 
 those few select circles, in which love, friendship, 
 and esteem are found, in their true and primitive 
 sense, it is not, we beheve, necessary that the popu- 
 lar refinements of which we have been speaking 
 should here prevail. 
 
 We need say little about interested story-telling, 
 as it may be said to be closely interwoven with most 
 of the foregoing kinds. It may, therefore, be suffi- 
 cient generally to remark, as some sort of apology 
 for it, that it springs from an inseparable quality of 
 our nature — which, as Rochefoucault and some other 
 moralists tell us, enters into our every action, even 
 the most apparently disinterested and praiseworthy ; 
 although there are others, of at least as much emi- 
 nence, who call in question this position, in the over- 
 strained extent to which it has been carried. 
 
 The gossiping, like tlie marvellous story-teller, is 
 such an entertaining personage, that, however well 
 designing people ma}'^ occasional l}' inveigh against 
 him, or lier (for be it known, gossiping is not confin- 
 ed to either sex), as a silly and not unfrequently mis- 
 chievous animal, yet we do not find some even of 
 those orave and discreet censors themselves at all 
 times averse to be amused by their lively and enter-
 
 260 
 
 taining anecdotes. Do not misconstrue us, good 
 reader ; we do not mean, by what we have said, to 
 put the marvellous and gossiping story-teller ex- 
 actly on a footing ; for though the former astonishes 
 you by his recitals of wonders, and tales of monsters 
 and " Chimeras dire," until your very hair stands on 
 end, yet even these do not excite half the interest 
 that a tale of private life, in which your acquaintances 
 are concerned, never fails to do. In short, were 
 we to banish all embellishments from the little tales 
 relative to our neighbours, which form at times so 
 essential a part of the entertainment of select and in- 
 telligent parties of both sexes, v/e should take from 
 them much of their interest, and of course diminish 
 the pleasure with which those good people would 
 listen to them. 
 
 The reader will doubtless be at a loss to guess in 
 what manner we shall go about apologizing for the 
 race of malignant story-tellers — a class of mortals 
 perhaps more mischievous, and certainly not less 
 wantonly cruel, than those monsters of antiquity 
 which Hercules, we are told, encountered and de- 
 stroyed ; and, in truth, we are rather in doubt that 
 the apology we mean to offer will not be received as a 
 satisfactory one by all our readers. However, such 
 as it is — and perhaps it is not more lame than many 
 apologies which are offered in public and private, for 
 doubtful actions — we here humbly offer it. 
 
 There are certain dispositions and inclinations in- 
 herent in some minds, Avhich, it would seem, the
 
 261 
 
 possessors can no more shake off than they can aUei* 
 the physical construction of their bodies. Those 
 unfortunate beings see the mischief which bad pas- 
 sions daily produce — they feel the misery and mis- 
 fortunes to which they subject them, and yet they 
 cannot, or will not, make any effort to triumph over 
 them. The envious, the revengeful, the malignant 
 of our species, if they are objects of our aversion, 
 are not less so of our pity. They inflict evils on 
 society which generally recoil upon themselves ; they 
 are the slaves of inward demons, which incessantly 
 torment them ; yet does the misery they endure 
 teach them no lesson of forbearance, of candour, and 
 gentleness, though such a change of conduct would 
 not only ease them of an intolerable burden, but en- 
 title them to a portion of our esteem. Is not this a 
 species of fatality ? and if it be so, can we hesitate to 
 allow that it is at least a sort of apology for the 
 malignant story-teller ? 
 
 A sort of apology indeed ! exclaims the reader — a 
 sad, miserable apology !
 
 262 
 
 THE MANIAC. 
 
 " Alas ! how light a cause may move 
 Dissension between hearts that love ! 
 Hearts that the world in vain has tried, 
 And sorrow but more closely tied. 
 
 Some difference of this dangerous kind, 
 
 By which, though light, the links that bind 
 
 The fondest hearts may soon be riven ; 
 
 Some shadow in love's summer heaven, 
 
 Which, though a fleecy speck at first. 
 
 May yet in awful thunder burst." MoORE. 
 
 No tale of distress, real or fictitious, ever, perhaps, 
 left a deeper or more acute feeling of sorrow on our 
 mind than the tragical event which suggested the 
 lines hereunto appended, and which happened a few 
 years ago in England. The outlines of this affect- 
 ing story are as follow : 
 
 A young lady, of beauty and accomplishments, 
 and of a lively and amiable disposition, was be- 
 trothed to a young man, by whom she had for some 
 time been courted. The bans were already published, 
 and they promised soon to become a happy and affec- 
 tionate couple. A few days previous to the intended 
 solemnization of their nuptials, the young lady dis- 
 appeared, and could not be found. This mysterious 
 circumstance excited much terror and alarm in the 
 minds of her distracted friends, and every inquiry 

 
 263 
 
 was made by them which could throw light on it. 
 It was ascertained that the young lady was in com- 
 pany with her lover on the evening preceding her 
 disappearance — that they had been left alone to- 
 gether, and that high words had been heard between 
 them. It appeared, also, that, after sitting up to an 
 unusually late hour, they had walked out together 
 — that he had then been heard to use very violent 
 language to her, and seen to strike her twice, and 
 throw her violently on the ground ! On being inter- 
 rogated on the subject, he appeared to be astonished 
 and distracted ; but acknowledged that there had 
 been a very serious quarrel between them, — in con- 
 sequence, it appeared, of an unhappy suspicion of 
 the fidelity and chastity of the object of his affec- 
 tions. That this was a most unfounded suspicion 
 evidently appeared from various circumstances. 
 
 At length, some time after the disappearance of 
 the girl, her body was taken out of an adjacent 
 river, and exhibited marks of violence about the 
 head. Strong suspicions now attached to Mr — — ■, 
 and popular feeling rose to such a height as even to 
 endanger his life. In consequence of this, he quit- 
 ted his home, and soon after exhibited all the symp- 
 toms of a disordered mind. He spoke little, and in- 
 coherently ; his looks were wild, gloomy, and dis- 
 tracted, and he was seen to evince a desire to destroy 
 himself. This he soon after effected, and it yet re- 
 mains a mystery whether the ill-fated young man 
 was actually the murderer of the intended wife of his
 
 264 
 
 lx)som, or wliether, driven to despair by his violent 
 conduct and cruel suspicions, she had become her 
 ov/n destroyer. In either case, he must be regarded 
 as the author of the dreadful catastrophe. — But on 
 this subject his God must be his judge. 
 
 Oh ! didst thou mark yon victim of despair ? 
 Mark'd thou his haggard look, and vacant stare, 
 His idiot laugh, wild shriek, and plaintive moan, 
 Sign of a broken heart, and reason gone ! 
 Each earthly hope and bliss, poor outcast wretch, 
 For ever fled — placed far beyond thy reach. 
 
 He starts — he raves — he trembles at each sound — 
 He stares on high — he gazes wildly round, — 
 Then bounds away, as if he saw some sight 
 That keenly touched his soul, and urged his flight. 
 He stops — extends his arms — the vision's gone, 
 Deep from his heart bursts forth the piercing groan ! 
 With terror he avoids the haunts of men, 
 As once he would the hungry tiger's den : 
 To woods, and wilds, and caves, he hies away, 
 As if abhorrent of the light of day ; 
 Or wistful looks adown some frightful steep, 
 As from its airy summit he would leap ; 
 Or rushes forth, at the deep midnight hour. 
 When dismal howls the blast and torrents roar — 
 To the fierce winds his head and bosom bares. 
 And counts the livid flash that round him glares.
 
 ^65 
 
 The cold, damp earth he makes his lonely- bed, 
 And pillows on the rock his naked head. 
 
 O ! he a tale of horror could relate — 
 Too dreadful to contemplate — of his fate, 
 Could one faint ray of reason but return, 
 And give his soul again past scenes to mourn. 
 Yet does a gleam of reminiscence dart 
 At times across his brain, and touch his heart, — 
 When down his pallid cheeks big tears of grief 
 Steal, as it were to give the wretch relief. 
 
 He mutters faintly — something he'd reveal — 
 Hark !— 'tis the Maniac's dark, mysterious tale. 
 
 " Where hast thou fled, my life ! my love ! 
 Why shunn'st thou thus thy lover true ? 
 O'er woods, and wilds, and seas I rove, 
 With weary step, to look for you. 
 
 " Oh ! thou were wont, my true love dear. 
 To meet me with an angel-smile ; 
 Why fleest thou from me then with fear, 
 And leav'st me many a weary mile ? 
 
 " Stop, dearest girl ! and let me kiss 
 That ruby lip, that rose-hue cheek- 
 Sooth me but with one kind embrace- 
 No other bliss of Heaven I seek ! 
 
 H
 
 266 
 
 " But thou look'st cold — ha ! is it so ?— 
 Thou art not true — false girl begone ! 
 O, thou hast pierced with deadliest blow, 
 A heart that loved but thee alone ! 
 
 " Does conscious guilt thy soul then move ? 
 Well may'st thou tremble, weep, turn pale — 
 O, curst remembrance ! hated love ! 
 Wretch ! to the earth I could thee fell. 
 
 " 'Tis past — I've done the ruthless deed ! 
 Against thee raised my murderous arm ! 
 Is't so ? poor girl ! and do'st thou bleed ? — 
 Ah !— no — I could not do thee harm ! 
 
 " It was some fiend that gave the blow — 
 For I would fain thy cold lips press, 
 By thy wan form would lay me low, 
 And warm thee A\ith a kind embrace ! 
 
 " But she is gone ! swift did she fly * 
 To heaven — I saw her bi'ight ascend — 
 And, lo ! from yonder azure sky 
 With pitying eyes she seems to bend. 
 
 " Oh, blessed seraph ! look'st thou down 
 To heal thy lover's anguish'd heart ! 
 Thou art a radiant angel grown. 
 And would'st thy heaven to me impart.
 
 267 
 
 " No !— no ! — thou spurn'st me, cruel sprite ! 
 As thou would'st spurn thy deadhest foe ; 
 Now foul fiends tear me from thy sight ! — 
 Yet one last kind look ere I go !"" 
 
 Dread was the look, and ghastly wild the stare 
 That from the wretched Maniac's eyes did glare ; 
 Prone on the flinty rock he threw him down, 
 And pierced the heavens with his unpitied moan ; 
 His livid lips oft quivered as it were 
 The mutterings of a wild abortive prayer. 
 Poor wanderer ! now no orisons shall more 
 Shed peace on thee, nor reason's beam restore ; 
 For thou, in phrenzied hour, a deed hath done 
 Which ages of remorse would scarce atone : 
 Heaven from its lengthened tortures did thee save, 
 And soon shall shroud thy misery in the grave.
 
 268 
 
 GOOD NATURE. 
 
 " Eternal smiles his emptiness betray, 
 
 As shallow streams run dimpling all the way.'' 
 
 There is perhaps no term in the EngHsh language 
 which is more misunderstood, and more misapphed, 
 than that of good nature. A constitutional softness 
 and apathy, which nature gives a man, just as she 
 would a particular colour of hair or cast of features, 
 and which it is almost impossible to move to any 
 lively feeling either of resentment or gratitude, is 
 dignified by the name of Good Nature. Now we have 
 a very different view of that which entitles a man to 
 be called a good-natured man. We would call that 
 man good-natured, who conquers, or endeavours to 
 conquer, the propensities to anger, revenge, and other 
 violent and ungenerous passions inherent in our na- 
 ture, from a sense of their odiousness, and of the in- 
 jury of which they may be productive to those with 
 Avhom he is connected. Good nature, in short, ap- 
 pears to be a quality which is entitled to the homage 
 of our praise ; but we cannot justly commend that 
 which is a mere gift of nature, not the fruit of a mag- 
 nanimous eff*ort. The good-natured man, commonly 
 so called, is capable of being led to do things of
 
 269 
 
 which the really good-natured •man is incapable. 
 The former, it is true, would not of his own accord 
 act thus, but he has so little of self-possession, as to 
 be prevailed upon, by example and importunity, to 
 do very reprehensible things. Examples from life 
 will best illustrate the difference between the consti- 
 tutional good-natured man, and he who is so from 
 reason and principle. 
 
 Horatio has had much experience of the world, 
 and is in the habit of reflecting much on what he 
 has seen and experienced. Like the bulk of his fel- 
 low-creatures, Horatio is a compound of defects and 
 excellencies. His feelings are strong, and his pas- 
 sions rather inclined to be ungovernable. The former 
 are such as do honour to human nature ; while by 
 the latter he is sometimes led — or rather misled — so 
 far as to dishonour himself in his own eyes. His 
 reason and his feelings revolt as often as he is thus 
 misdirected, and the pain he suffers from an after- 
 meditation of his errors, sufficiently shows that he is 
 not a hardened offender. Horatio's faults are not of 
 a serious description. There is that within his breast 
 which would not permit him to be guilty of habitual 
 or premeditated wrong. He is rather, when he does 
 what is wrong, surprised into it by accidental circum- 
 stances. His feelings and affections are of the most 
 magnanimous kind. His gratitude to a real friend, 
 and his tenderness for the wife of his bosom, are 
 warm and sincere ; yet he will at times be angry 
 with both, and afterwards angry with himself for be-
 
 270 
 
 ing so. To the latter, he will one moment speak 
 hasty and unkind words, and the next shed tears of 
 remorse for having so spoken. These faults and 
 contradictions in his character he sees, feels, and re- 
 grets, — seriously sets about amending them, yet has 
 reason to grieve that his efforts are not always so 
 successful as he could wish. No man can possess a 
 better heart than Horatio, though the warmth of his 
 temper is thus apt to lead him into momentary error. 
 Heis hasty, but neither sullen nor perverse ; onthecon- 
 trary, he never is more delighted than when the mo- 
 ment of eclaircissement arrives, when he has an op- 
 portunity of making the most ample atonement for 
 what he has said or done that is amiss ; while, in the 
 interval between that moment and the period of 
 misunderstanding with his friend, he suffers all the tor- 
 ment which an ingenuous mind, under a sense of error, 
 can easily be supposed to feel. In short, Horatio has a 
 magnanimity which would not permit him to justify 
 what was blameable in himself, however prone he is to 
 be led or betrayed into it ; his friendship and kindness, 
 whenever he meets with a deserving object, are of 
 the most generous and undisguised nature. Still 
 Horatio is a frail human being, liable, at times, to 
 err against his better sense and feelings. 
 
 Theodore is of an easy placid temper, not liable 
 to be disturbed or ruffled by almost any thing. It 
 is difficult to provoke him to anger, and, perhaps, in 
 his whole life, he never was in a passion. What a 
 happy and amiable man is Theodore ! many who know
 
 271 
 
 him exclaim, thus exempt from those quick hasty 
 emotions which occasion so much unJiappiness to 
 other men and their friends. It is true, Theodore 
 suffers very httle on this score ; but neither has he 
 much enjoyment from this obtuseness of feehng. He 
 neither rejoices at the happiness, nor weeps for the 
 afflictions, of a friend ; all is the same to Theodore. 
 Neither would he take the trouble to warn or coun- 
 sel that friend, however beneficial it might be to 
 him. He cares^ little more for one man than for an- 
 other ; therefore, though he has had friends and well- 
 wishers, he deserves them not. Companions and 
 hangers-on he has in abundance, and of the merits of 
 these he is not very solicitous about. The most 
 %vorthless may, by a little flattery and perseverance, 
 obtain as much, nay, more, of his favour — attach- 
 ment it cannot be called — than the most estimable of 
 his acquaintance. He will not reject an intimacy 
 with the latter, neither will he court it ; he is indif- 
 ferent on the subject — quite passive, and without 
 predilection for this or that person, except in so far 
 as he may administer to his present enjoyments. 
 The death of one with whom he has long been in 
 habits of kindness and intimacy affects him but for 
 a moment ; it passes by him like a common event. 
 He was once a married man. His wife, though she 
 could not be pained, as some wives occasionally are, 
 by the heat and hastiness of their lords, was more 
 deeply wounded by his mortifying indifference, at- 
 tended, not unfrequently, by an inexplicable and
 
 272 
 
 silent sullenness. If he did not check or contradict 
 her in any thing, neither would he take the trouble 
 to give her the counsel of a friend, however impru- 
 dently she might be led to act. She had her own 
 way in every thing, and so had he. He seemed to 
 take little pleasure in her society, and was therefore 
 seldom at home ; or if prevailed upon to devote an 
 evening to her company, it was in the power of two 
 or three idle and debauched companions to draw him 
 away from her. Death deprived him of her at length, 
 and on this occasion, to do him justice, he appeared 
 to feel very sincere regret, but this impression was 
 transient as a summer's cloud. His next companion 
 was a mistress, who was shrewd enough to perceive, 
 and to avail herself of his proneness to be led. She 
 obtained a complete ascendency over him, and ruled 
 him with a high hand ; in return for which, he be- 
 came quite an obedient, humble, and tractahleyriencl 
 to her. Theodore was called by all his cronies a 
 d — d good-natured fellow. Certainly, if that kind 
 of imbecility of character and neutrality of feeling 
 we have described, deserves the name of good nature, 
 he was really so. 
 
 As a counter-part to the foregoing character, let 
 us view that of the soft and smiling Serena — a lady 
 who wins all hearts by the dove-like gentleness with 
 which she receives every one who has the felicity of 
 being introduced to her. Her countenance is soft- 
 ened by a perpetual smile, she listens to you with so 
 bewitching an affability, and replies in accents so
 
 ^73 
 
 sweet and placid, that all hearts are captivated, and 
 every tongue speaks the praises of Serena. Every 
 thing she does is done with such a grace and dignity, 
 softened by such sweet condescension, that a stranger 
 is in raptures with her at first sight. Thus strongly 
 prepossessed in her favour, or rather absolutely in 
 love mth her winning manners, how would he be 
 disappointed, if told, that this angel of sweetness had 
 a cold, selfish, unfeeling heart ; yet nothing is more 
 true. Serena can hear a tale of deep distress with- 
 out shedding one tear of sympathy, nay without show- 
 ing any extraordinary emotion. If a friend, relative, 
 or acquaintance, is suffering under some affliction or 
 misfortune, she will speak of it with almost as nmch 
 sang Ji'o'id as she would of any indifferent circum- 
 stance. Yet she can be easily offended. If any one 
 says any thing to wound her vanity and pride — of 
 which she has no ordinary share — she is as keenly 
 alive to it as the most animated of her sex, though 
 she betrays no warmth or symptom of anger at the 
 moment, but she broods over it, and will be sure to 
 take occasion afterwards to say or do something ill- 
 natured or disobliging towards the person who has 
 so displeased her ; nor will she readily forgive one 
 who has thus incurred her well-dissembled resent- 
 ment. Serena is incapable of feeling a generous and 
 undisguised affection for any one. Even to her hus- 
 band and children she is prone at times to speak with 
 a freezing coldness, and she receives an old friend or 
 acquaintance with as little Avarmth as if she had 
 
 M 2
 
 274 
 
 never before set eyes on him. In short, Serena is a 
 pretty exact transcript of Pope's Chloe : 
 
 " With every pleasing, every prudent part, 
 Say, what can Chloe want ?— She wants a heart. 
 She speaks, behaves, and acts just as she ought, 
 But never, never reach 'd one generous thought." 
 
 Elvira is a character in ahnost every respect the 
 opposite of that of Serena. Elvira is possessed of 
 considerable discernment and reflection, and justly 
 considers, that if we were to treat every casual ac- 
 quaintance with the same attention and respect which 
 we would show to a tried and deserving one, 
 our favour would cease to be of any value in the eyes 
 of those whose friendship and esteem were worth the 
 acquiring. She conceives that politeness is due to every 
 one, but cordiality and confidence to but few. No 
 human being ever possessed more generous and dis- 
 interested feelings than Elvii-a. Whenever she meets 
 with one who is worthy of her kindness and regard, 
 her whole heart is, as it were, devoted to that person. 
 But then she looks for a suitable return : if at any 
 time she perceives an appearance of coldness, pride, 
 or caprice in a friend, she feels it in an instant, and 
 resents it indignantly. Her resentment on such oc- 
 casions is prompt, but not implacable. The least 
 concession on the part of the offending person paci- 
 fies her, and often indeed, without such concession, 
 she Avill at times think that she has carried her re- 
 sentment too far. In proportion to the gratitude
 
 275 
 
 with A\^hich she feels acts of kindness and respect, 
 does she resent whatever has tlie appearance of a 
 want of them. Her ardent and unsuspicious nature, 
 however, notwithstanding her good sense, too often 
 leads her to throw away her kindness and confidence 
 on objects utterly undeserving of either — on female 
 acquaintances not a hundredth part so amiable, and 
 who sometimes return her friendly attentions by a 
 studied disrespect and. an unaccountable caprice. 
 
 Elvira is wedded to a man who fully appreciates 
 her worth, and strives by every means in his power 
 to evince his unbounded affection for her. This 
 homaffe of the heart she returns even with interest. 
 Elvira and her husband, in short, are a couple so 
 entirely wrapt up in each other, that nothing seems 
 wanting to complete their happiness. Yet — such is 
 the frailty of human nature — such the imperfection 
 of our purest enjoyments — the happiness of this 
 truly fond couple is liable to occasional interruptions. 
 That affection which subsists between a husband and 
 wife, tenderly attached to each other, is of a more 
 fragile texture, if we may be allowed the phrase, 
 than any other ; it is liable to be ruffled by the least 
 breath of suspicion, the simplest and most innocent 
 act — a word, a look, may produce an effect on it ; 
 words, remonstrances, contradictions ensue, and love 
 the most tender and true is changed for a time into 
 unseemly strife, and the appearance of enmity ! 
 
 " And hearts, so lately mingled, seem 
 Like broken clouds — or like the stream
 
 276 
 
 That smiling left the mountain's brow 
 As though its waters ne'er could sever ; 
 Yet, ere it reach the plains below, 
 Burst into floods that part for ever.'* 
 
 What poor frail beings are the sons and daughters 
 of man ! Elvira is sensible of the danger of these tem- 
 porary ebullitions of passion, and strives to conquer 
 them. In an instant after they have subsided, the 
 voice of reason prevails, and sorrow and remorse for 
 the folly of such conduct succeed this burst of, per- 
 haps, causeless anger, and affection and fondness are 
 redoubled to make atonement for it ! — Elvira has a 
 heart not only overflowing with kindness for those 
 whom she loves and values, but full of a generous 
 feeling for all her fellow-creatures. A recital of some 
 affliction or distress fills her with the most tender 
 compassion, and she is ever ready to minister com- 
 fort and relief to the unhappy sufferer. She is ut- 
 terly incapable of doing an injury to any living crea- 
 ture. No one was ever more free from envy, malice, 
 or an ungenerous resentment. If she hears a tale of 
 detraction, far from joining in, or being gratified by 
 it, she will say something in favour of the slandered 
 person, or express a doubt of the truth of the report. 
 Such is Elvira, adorned by every amiable virtue, 
 yet prone to be roused to feelings of anger, which 
 triumph for a moment over her good sense, by the 
 least appearance of coldness or unkindness in a friend, 
 especially the friend of her bosom. Had it not been 
 for this single defect, the usual concomitant of a warm
 
 277 
 
 and generous heart, Elvira would have approached 
 to the perfection of an angel. As it is, she ranks high 
 in the scale of female excellence. 
 
 Elvira could never have endured such a partner 
 as Theodore, nor could Horatio have been happy 
 with such a wife as Serena ; yet it would have been 
 well for both had they possessed somewhat more of 
 their mental tranquillity and self-possession ; for it is 
 unquestionably true, that a proneness to be ruffled 
 and put out of temper on slight occasions, is the source 
 of much of the misery of human life — it is equally a 
 misfortune to ourselves, and to those, however belov- 
 ed, with whom we are connected. Nor let it ever be 
 forgotten, that, in the heat of intemperate debate, 
 words may escape us which may for ever dwell in the 
 remembrance, and in a degree embitter the feelings 
 of those most dear to us, and on whose happiness our 
 own in a great measure depends. 
 
 What excellent advice the following lines convey to 
 every married couple, who are, or may have been, 
 happy in each other ! 
 
 " Should erring nature casual faults disclose, 
 Wound not the breast that harbours your repose ; 
 For every grief that breast from you shall prove, 
 Is one link broken in the chain of love. 
 Soon, with their objects, other griefs are past. 
 But pains for those we love are pains that last."
 
 278 
 
 GEORGE THE THIRD. 
 
 " England ne'er lost a king of so much worth." 
 
 The following reflections and brief notices of the 
 character of our late venerable sovereign were writ- 
 ten at the time of his decease. 
 
 The event for some time looked for has come to pass. 
 George the Third is no more ! He is gone to the 
 " place appointed for all living" — but a little Avay 
 behind his faithful consort, — followed by the univer- 
 sal regret of his people, — or rather, perhaps, we 
 should say, grateful remembrance ; for surely it can- 
 not be a subject of lamentation that he is at length 
 removed to a better world. We do think, that when 
 it pleases the Almighty to bereave us of that faculty, 
 without which we are but as vegetating matter, and 
 no hope remains of its restoration, it is rather a mercy 
 than a visitation when Providence calls us from such 
 a state. 
 
 The late King has long been but as a shadow to his 
 friends, the nation, and himself, as far as regarded his 
 relative duties in this world. Yet had he never ceas- 
 ed for a moment to be an object of interest and ve- 
 neration to the people whom he had so long governed
 
 S79 
 
 with mild parental sway. How many a sigh of vain 
 regret has been breathed by that people, when turn- 
 ing their eyes towards him in his hopeless visitation ! 
 In him have they beheld a mild sovereign, living, 
 yet lost to them — a friend, now no longer sensible to 
 their affection — a mortal like themselves, once hap- 
 py, great, and glorious — now buried in darkness and 
 desolation ! Had he been taken from his pepole 
 seven years before, this feeling would not have been 
 so intense, for even then he would have been taken 
 away in the fulness of years. As it is, the nation 
 cherishes, and will long cherish, the remembrance of 
 his virtues, while they are no longer doomed to mourn 
 in him the afflicted good man, and melancholy me- 
 mento of man's utter helplessnes, in his highest es- 
 tate, when it pleases Heaven to visit him with severe 
 bodily or mental suffering. Perhaps, however, we 
 misname the deprivation of reason Avhen we call it 
 suffering. That it is a calamity which, while that 
 reason exists, a feeling and reflecting mind will, de- 
 precate more than death, we can well conceive ; buf , 
 happily for the devoted maniac, the consciousness of 
 his loss is not felt by him. Though an object of 
 deep regret and sympathy to his friends, it is at least 
 some consolation to them to reflect, that he had been 
 spared many severe mental afflictions, which a heart so 
 susceptible as his would have been ill prepared to bear. 
 However painful to his relatives and people to be- 
 hold their venerable monarch under this awful visi- 
 tation, yet had the restoration of his reason almost
 
 S80 
 
 ceased to be a rational object of their wishes ; for 
 who among them would have purchased even such a 
 consummation at the expense of the misery which, 
 in such an event, would have clouded and embittered 
 the evening of his days ? He would have look- 
 ed around — if with his intellectual his visual dark- 
 ness had also been removed — and beheld the traces 
 of desolation in his house — his eyes would have wan- 
 dered to meet objects dear to his heart, and in the 
 place where they were would have found nought but 
 the chasms of death ! He would have had to weep 
 over the dead, and to deplore much that respected 
 the living. One amiable trait in his character was 
 that of a tender and affectionate attachment for the 
 members of his family. With somewhat more of that 
 cold and heartless philosophy, which wastheboastof the 
 ancient Stoics, and is a leading feature of that modern 
 school, whose professors can regard a dying friend 
 with little more of emotion than they would a decay- 
 ed tree or a faded flower — he might possibly have es- 
 caped his last mental malady. But he was not made 
 of such stern materials. It is w^ell known that his last 
 sad interview with his favourite daughtei' was attend- 
 ed with such touching circumstances as were too 
 powerful for his nature to sustain. To a struggle of 
 the heart — which can neither be conceived nor de- 
 scribed — an aberration of reason succeeded — it fled, 
 and never returned ! 
 
 George the Third did not possess what are called 
 brilliant talents and a highly-cultivated mind ; but
 
 281 
 
 he had a strong natural understanding — a more than 
 common quickness of perception — and a promptness 
 and decision in acting, when occasions required, which 
 more than once called forth the admiration of the 
 country : — More particularly on one occasion, during 
 the alarming riots in 1780, when the metropolis was 
 threatened with total conflagration and pillage, and 
 when there existed, in consequence, a universal pa- 
 nic ; — " From which (says Dr Johnson) the King 
 was the first that recovered. Without the concur- 
 rence of his ministers, or the assistance of the civil 
 magistrate, he put the soldiers in motion, and saved 
 the town from calamities, such as a rabble's govern- 
 ment must naturally produce." Let it not, however, 
 be imagined that the King hastily and unadvisedly 
 took such a step. He had more respect for the con- 
 stitution than to do so ; he was borne out in what he 
 did by the opinion of one of the ablest crown-lawyers 
 of that time, Mr Dunning, then attorney-general. 
 It is more than probable, that, had the King consult- 
 ed the dead more, and the living less — in other words, 
 drawn his information more from books than oral 
 communication, he would have possessed a mind of 
 no ordinary stamp. But he read little and convers- 
 ed much. Now books are not so likely to flatter and 
 mislead kings as courtiers are, few of whom would 
 stand so much in their own light as to offend the royal 
 ear with blunt truths and rude contradictions. Much 
 of the odium of the impolitic and unpopular measures 
 of his reign necessarily attached to him ; but not
 
 282 
 
 always justly. Many of those measures were either 
 forced upon him by his ministers, or he was drawn 
 into an acquiescence in them by their specious repre- 
 sentations. When we consider the difficulties which 
 a monarch has to contend with — how little comes 
 under his personal observation, and how rarely 
 he is suffered to form his own unbiassed judg- 
 ment, it is not to be wondered at if he should 
 sometimes fall into error. The events and issue 
 of the contest with the American provinces were 
 subjects of deep and serious regret to him. Doubt- 
 less his opinions of the policy of that measure were 
 equally erroneous and uncompromising. A too te- 
 nacious adherence to opinions and principles he had 
 once taken up was the greatest— we might almost 
 say the only — defect in his character. But when we 
 come to reflect, that he conscientiously adopted those 
 opinions, from a firm and dehberate persuasion that 
 they were correct, and that the line of policy to 
 which they had relation was calculated to promote the 
 welfare of his people and the empire at large, much 
 allowance is to be made for this pertinacious adhe- 
 rence to them. 
 
 Upon the whole, the late King was, perhaps, a 
 sovereign of more unexceptionable character than 
 any of his predecessors since the Conquest. If he 
 fell short of some in certain points, he excelled them 
 in others of still greater moment to the interests and 
 happiness of the people. To him we owe the inde- 
 pendence of our Judges — a proof that he was a sincere
 
 283 
 
 friend to a pure and impartial administration of the 
 laws. With respect to rehgion, though a sense of the 
 duty he owed as sovereign of a protestant people made 
 him adverse to any farther concessions to the catho- 
 lics, many circumstances of his private life shew that, 
 on the whole, he was a friend to toleration and liberty 
 of conscience. During his reign, liberty, know- 
 ledge, science, and humanity made rapid advances. 
 Though, like the Henries and the Edwards, he was 
 not a warrior, he was far superior to them in all the 
 milder virtues. Besides, it is not now necessary that 
 a King of England should be the leader of its armies ; 
 neither is it desirable that he should have a taste and 
 genius for war, as that might lead him more fre- 
 quently to embroil the nation than either wisdom or 
 justice would warrant. It is true, that, during his 
 reign, the British nation was engaged in almost per- 
 petual wars ; but these were in a great measui'e the 
 fruit of the policy of his ministers. To conclude, 
 our late venerable sovereign possessed the benefi- 
 cence, piety, and domestic virtues of Charles the 
 First, without his intolerance, his despotic principles, 
 and the duplicity of which he stands accused. No 
 king and queen ever exhibited a brighter example 
 to their subjects of moral purity and rational devo- 
 tion, than did George the Third and his excel- 
 lent consort. This alone entitled them to the gra- 
 titude and veneration of their subjects. The man- 
 ners and morals of a people receive, in a great mea- 
 sure, their tone and complexion from the court of
 
 284 
 
 their sovereign. A vicious court is as baneful to the 
 public morals as a virtuous one is salutary and bene- 
 ficial. Charles the Second encouraged, by his exam- 
 ple, licentiousness and immorality among the people 
 over whom he was placed. — The example of George 
 the Third and his Queen had a powerful inflluence in 
 checking licentiousness and infidelity at a time when 
 such example was most importantly beneficial,
 
 285 
 
 PRIVILEGES OF THE BAH. 
 
 " Honour, my Lord, is much too proud to catch 
 At every slender twig of nice distinctions. 
 These for the unfeeling vulgar may do well ; 
 But those whose souls are by the nicer rules 
 Of virtuous delicacy only sway'd, 
 Stand at another bar than that of laws." 
 
 We were one day in a company, partly consisting of 
 gentlemen of the law, in which the principal topic of 
 conversation was the proceedings in the House of 
 Lords against a late illustrious personage. Almost 
 all that was said was nothing more than a repetition 
 of the pros and cons so fully discussed in the proper 
 place, and therefore had no novelty to recommend it. 
 In the course of this discussion, the splendid and elo- 
 quent speech of her Majesty"'s Attorney-General was 
 commented upon. Every one acknowledged that a 
 more powerful harangue had not been delivered in 
 ancient or modern times — that it combined the force 
 and energy of Demosthenes with the classical ele- 
 gance of Cicero ; but there was one part of it, the 
 morality of which a friend of ours, who was present, 
 took occasion to question. This led to a long and 
 keenly-contested argument, not only touching this ob-
 
 286 
 
 jectionable portion of the speech, but on the duties 
 of advocates in general towards their chents, in which 
 our friend, who is somewhat uncompromising in 
 maintaining his opinions, took a conspicuous part ; 
 we say conspicuous, for he had to contend with se- 
 veral acute and clever opponents. But he would not 
 yield an inch of his conviction, though at tinies hardly 
 pressed by his more wordy and dexterous adversaries. 
 Occasionally we endeavoured to give him a helping 
 hand, for he would probably have been argued into 
 silence, though not into a change of opinion, had the 
 dispute experienced no interruption — in other words, 
 the logic and ingenuity of his legal opponents were 
 likely to hold out longer than his, and it is an awk- 
 ward thing to repeat reasons and arguments which we 
 have already urged in vain. The controversy origi- 
 nated in a diiFerence of opinion between our friend 
 and his host, who, uniting to a superior understand- 
 ing the suavity and politeness of a gentleman, 
 parried, with equal dexterity and good-humour, some 
 of the home-thrusts of his plain-dealing opponent ; 
 so that the harmony of the party was in some mea- 
 sure preserved amidst the war of words which ensued. 
 Our friend commented with considerable asperity 
 on some parts of the speech of her Majesty ""s Attor- 
 ney General. " In his exordium," said he, " he lays 
 down principles which I conceive to be false in con- 
 ception, and immoral and dangerous in their ten- 
 dency. He says (according to the report of his 
 speech) it is the duty of an advocate to save his
 
 287 
 
 client by all expedient means — to protect him at all 
 hazards, and to the injury of all others, and of him- 
 self among others, if it be necessary. He must not 
 hesitate at the pain he may inflict in the prosecution 
 of that duty, &c. Now, as this doctrine is laid 
 down, without qualification or condition, what are 
 we to understand by it, but that, whether an advo- 
 cate be impressed with a persuasion of the justice of 
 his client's cause or not, he is bound to defend and 
 protect him, at whatever hazard or sacrifice of pri- 
 vate happiness, or public quiet ! Now this I deny. 
 His client, whether innocent or guilty, is entitled to 
 all his zeal, diligence, ingenuity, and eloquence, but 
 not to the sacrifice of his integrity and his conscience. 
 If assured, on unquestionable grounds, of his inno- 
 cence, it is his sacred and indispensable duty to 
 make that innocence manifest, and, whatever the 
 rank or station of his prosecutors, to expose their in- 
 justice, lay open their artifices, and reprobate their 
 malignity. But under a different persuasion, or even 
 in a doubtful cause, his client, in my opinion, has no 
 claim to more from him than the utmost exertion of 
 his professional talents, and all the resources of his 
 ingenuity — as far as truth, justice, and moral obli- 
 gation will permit. If, for the sake of his client, he 
 violates these, he acts repugnantly to the dictates of 
 his conscience — he oversteps the line of his duty, and 
 does an injury to individuals and the pubhc, more 
 or less hurtful, according to the nature of the case. 
 If, for example, an advocate, in defending a client in-
 
 288 
 
 dieted for treasonable or seditious practices, accused 
 the government, by whom he, his client, was prose- 
 cuted, of cruelty, oppression, and revenge, no matter 
 how fairly, for the purpose of working on the feel- 
 ings of the jury, he would justly stand charged with 
 an inflammatory and seditious attack on that govern- 
 ment. If, again, in a trial for any other criminal 
 offence, he accused the prosecutor of being actuated 
 by malignant or other unworthy motives, or the 
 witnesses of wilful perjury, for the mere purpose of 
 serving his client, and without the most positive evi- 
 dence on which to ground such charges, he would 
 be guilty of a most unwarrantable attempt to blacken 
 and vilify the characters of men who might be no 
 way deserving of such foul imputations ; nor would 
 the privileges of his official situation screen him, in 
 such a case, from the charge of being a wilful calum- 
 niator.'" 
 
 *' A counsel (continued our friend) may conceive 
 that he is justified in endeavouring to bully and in- 
 sult a witness, for the purpose of throwing him off 
 his guard, or of confusing and stupifying him by 
 unnecessary and irrelevant questions, in order, if 
 possible, to ehcit contradictory answers from him, 
 and consequently throw suspicion on his testimony. 
 However it may be the usage of courts of law to 
 tolerate such a practice, no one will say that it is not 
 repugnant to reason and fairness. The most unim- 
 peachable witness may be so far bewildered and per- 
 plexed by a multitude of strange and unexpected
 
 289 
 
 questions, put to him in a pert and peremptory style, 
 as to fall into some apparent contradictions, though 
 without the most distant intention of swerving from 
 the truth. It is true, this sort of cross-examination 
 may be inlisted on the side of truth and justice, — 
 though one would think that truth and justice re- 
 quired no such aid, — but may it not be, — is it not 
 also employed to second the ends of a dishonest 
 client, or save a guilty one from the vengeance of 
 the law — in other words, to defeat, not promote, 
 the ends of justice ? In short, no witness should be 
 subjected to rude and unnecessary interrogatories, 
 unless he shews a disposition to prevaricate, and con- 
 sequently forfeits all title lo respect. An advocate 
 might even go so far, for the sake of his client, as to 
 attempt, indirectly, to intimidate a prosecutor, the 
 witnesses, and even the judges and the jury; but 
 would any privilege with which he is invested bear 
 him out in so daring an attempt to intercept the 
 course of justice, and render abortive the laws of his 
 country .'* In fine, (continued our friend,) if the 
 learned counsel had subjoined to the words I have 
 quoted from his printed speech, the simple addendum 
 of, as Jar as truths Justice, and moral Jitness will al- 
 low, I should have understood him, and, for one, 
 have subscribed to his doctrine, — which, without 
 such qualification, might, if practically acted upon, 
 lead to the most mischievous consequences and fla- 
 grant injustice.*" 
 
 Our friend had scarcely ended his remarks ere
 
 290 
 
 three or four voices simultaneously exclaimed, that 
 he had altogether misconceived the subject on which 
 he had been speaking. One gentleman at length 
 took the lead, and observed, that he was not a little 
 surprised at the observations he had just heard, 
 more particularly as coming from one of our friend's 
 years and experience. He would take leave to cor- 
 rect some of his misconceptions, not only as regarded 
 judicial proceedings, but on the wider ground of uni- 
 versal justice. He contended that the duties of an 
 advocate to his client were precisely such as her Ma- 
 jesty*'s attorney-general had stated in the outset of 
 his eloquent and luminous speech — that it was not 
 the business of a counsel to entertain doubts and 
 demurs as to the soundness or justice of his cli- 
 ent's cause ; he is, on the contrary, to believe it to 
 be such only as is set forth in the brief put into 
 his hands. He must neither turn to the right nor 
 the left, but pursue the straight-forward duty he 
 has to perform, of defending his client agreeably 
 to the instructions contained in that brief. He 
 is to listen to no statements, reports, or insinua- 
 tions which militate against his client. He must do 
 his vitmost to impugn, invalidate, and discredit the 
 evidence against him, not only by the most rigid 
 cross-examination, but by availing himself of every 
 thing unfavourable or suspicious in the characters of 
 the witnesses on the opposite side, into which it is 
 his duty to make inquiry. In that scrutiny and 
 cross-examination, he must not allow a false delica-
 
 291 
 
 cy or mistaken forbearance to interfere, to the preju- 
 dice of his chent's cause ; to the paramount duty of 
 defending him must be given up the ordinary cour- 
 tesies by which men are governed in their intercourse 
 in private hfe. A counsel may, unfortunately, at 
 times offend the dignity, or give pain to the feelings, 
 of a respectable witness and very honourable man; he 
 cannot help it; he follows the instructions in his brief, 
 and, being a stranger to the individual in question, can- 
 not rightly estimate what is due to his character. Even 
 should it be necessary, for the saving of his client, to go 
 the length of charging a witness, or witnesses, of wilful 
 and corrupt perjury, on what appeared to him good 
 grounds, he does not overstep the line of his duty ; 
 such a charge would only be indefensible if made in 
 direct opposition to his own conviction and the facts 
 of the case. As to an advocate's vilifying and abus- 
 ing the government by whom his client is prosecuted, 
 or his attempting to intimidate a prosecutor, the wit- 
 nesses, and even the judges and jury, they are hypo- 
 thetical cases : it is indeed possible such things may 
 occur ; and if there was any thing which could give 
 a sanction to so extraordinary a proceeding, it would 
 1)6 that generous and fearless enthusiasm — that irre- 
 sistible sense of duty which woidd lead an advocate 
 to hesitate at nothing which might save an innocent 
 client from ruin or death — which would not allow 
 any consideration, even of his own safety and in- 
 terest, to interfere with this most sacred duty. Be- 
 sides, might not a case occur when a counsel might 
 
 IMKil'
 
 292 
 
 well give a salutary warning to government, and even 
 to judges and juries ? 
 
 Our friend briefly combated these arguments. 
 He " well understood (he said) the high and sacred 
 duty of an advocate to his cUent ; but he contended, 
 that there were paramount duties which he owed to 
 his conscience, to truth, morality, and the public 
 o'ood. Was it to be understood that a covmsel 
 should be as pertinacious in defending a villanous 
 cause as one the most unquestionably just ? What 
 should we think, if, through the eloquence, the ta- 
 lents, and dexterity of an advocate, the murderer or 
 the ravisher escaped the just vengeance of the laws, 
 but that he had laboured to defeat the salutary ends 
 of public justice, and inflict an injury on society ? It 
 will be said, that the most atrocious criminal is enti- 
 tled to the benefit of a defence. Granted ; but not 
 to a defence v/hich would clothe crime in the habili- 
 ments of innocence, and let loose the rufiian and ma- 
 lefactor on society.*" 
 
 To this it was replied, that our friend " was de- 
 scribing what a judge should be, not an advocate. 
 It was the duty of the former to hold the scales of 
 justice with even hand — of the latter to make that 
 scale preponderate in Avhich the cause of his client 
 lay. The most atrocious offender was entitled to the 
 benefit of this endeavour in his behalf. It was an 
 egregious error to suppose that the efforts of a coun- 
 sel in behalf of a criminal amounted to an endeavour 
 to defeat the ends of public justice, or that they were
 
 293 
 
 likely to do so ; his duty to his client, were the lat- 
 ter as deeply dyed in guilt as even Cain was, so 
 well understood and appreciated by both judges and 
 juries, that no evil could result from the most stre- 
 nuous and laboured defence he could make for him ; 
 it was not likely that they would be so far worked 
 upon by the power of his eloquence, or the dexterity 
 of his arguments, as to acquit a felon : they would, 
 on the contrary, be directed in their judgment by the 
 whole evidence and facts of the case before them ; 
 nor would an attempt to garble, misrepresent, and 
 pervert facts, by the counsel on one side, be likely to 
 escape detection and exposure by the opposite coun- 
 sel, and by the bench. He who, after trial, is proved 
 to be a most atrocious criminal, is yet, before it, 
 agreeably to the spirit of our laws, held to be inno- 
 cent ; and is entitled to a full and fair trial, includ- 
 ing, of course, a regular defence by his counsel. 
 How often has it happened that innocent persons 
 have been deemed guilty, by the public, before 
 trial — ^have been found to he so, by a conscientious 
 jury, after — and have, in consequence, suffered the 
 sentence of the law ! When too late, circumstances 
 have transpired which have made manifest their inno- 
 cence — to the utter astonishment and unavaihng re- 
 gret of the world. Who can tell what delusive cir- 
 cumstances may mislead judges and juries.'' Or will 
 it be said that there are not wretches in the world 
 capable of swearing away the life, liberty, or pro- 
 perty of a fellow-creature ? Were it the practice for
 
 294 
 
 counsel privately to weigh, consider, and be convinc- 
 ed of the soundness of a cause, before they undertook 
 to defend it, to what confusion and probable injus- 
 tice would it not lead." 
 
 " And yet (rejoined our friend) there are noble- 
 minded men at the bar who would scorn to prosti- 
 tute their talents by advocating every villanous 
 cause that might be offered to them. I believe all 
 who are here know more than one who would rather 
 for ever remain in contented mediocrity, than pur- 
 chase wealth at such a price. I believe, too, that the 
 most vehement admirers of a bold, liberal, and inde- 
 pendent spirit in advocates, will allow that much of 
 the spirit and efficiency with which a cause is ma- 
 naged depends on a stimulus not the most disin- 
 terestedy 
 
 These somewhat too pointed remarks drew forth 
 some sharp animadversions from two or three of the 
 company in particular. But, as the debate was now 
 likely to become rather more animated than suited 
 the harmony of a social party, our worthy host pru- 
 dently introduced a new topic of conversation.
 
 295 
 
 CRIMINAL LAWS. 
 
 " The proper ends of punishment are reformation, and the prevention 
 
 of crime." 
 
 The English criminal code has long been a great 
 national opprobrium. Many attempts have been 
 made to effect a revisal and amendment of it, espe- 
 cially within the last ten years, but Avith little suc- 
 cess, until lately, that some salutary improvements 
 have been made. That eminent lawyer and good 
 man, Sir Samuel Romilly, devoted much of his time 
 and attention to this most important subject ; and, 
 with all the weight of his great authority, and benefit 
 of his previous labours, it has been brought forward 
 in parliament by Sir James Mackintosh, a man not 
 inferior in legal knowledge and patriotic spirit to his 
 excellent predecessor. It is indeed matter of asto- 
 nishment, that the English statute-book should have 
 been so long disgraced by a catalogue of sanguinary 
 laws against minor offences — between which, and 
 some crimes visited by the same punishment, there 
 was an infinite difference in magnitude and atrocity. 
 Nor have those laws, which ought long ago to have 
 been annulled or modified, always remained a dead
 
 296 
 
 letter on the statute-book. Even as late as 1814, a 
 man was hanged in England for cutting down trees. 
 There is something revolting to feeling, as well as 
 incompatible with the spirit of retributive justice, in 
 the circumstance, that the man who commits an act 
 of forgery, or of shop-lifting, steals a sheep, pilfers 
 privately from a dwelling-house, or cuts down a few 
 trees, should be deemed equally guilty with the mur- 
 derer, the ravisher, or wilful fire-raiser ; for same- 
 ness of punishment implies sameness of guilt. The 
 above-mentioned crimes, with the exception of for- 
 gery, are now punished with transportation. With 
 respect to forgery, it is surely to be lamented that 
 the man who counterfeits another''s signature for the 
 purpose of defrauding him of a sum of money, how- 
 ever small the amount, should be doomed to suffer 
 the same punishment as the most hardened and atro- 
 cious criminal. It is alleged, that in a commercial 
 country like Great Britain, incalculable mischief 
 would arise were it otherwise. We conceive, that 
 transportation for fourteen years would operate 
 equally well as a check on the crime, besides being 
 a more appropriate punishment ; at least, where the 
 forgery does not involve a considerable sum, it is 
 somewhat too much to visit it with death. 
 
 An exceedingly distressing case, arising out of this 
 vmmitigated severity of the laws,* was detailed some 
 
 * It must be said, to the honour of judges and juries of the pre- 
 sent day, that there is generally in them a strong disposition to miti-
 
 297 
 
 years ago in the House of Commons — we think, by 
 Sir Wilham Meredith, in a speech on the subject of 
 the criminal laws. " The shop-lifting act," said the 
 honourable member, " was to prevent bankers' and 
 goldsmiths', and other shops where there were com- 
 monly goods of great value, from being robbed ; — 
 but it goes so far as to make it death to lift any thing 
 off a counter, with intent to steal. Under this act, one 
 Mary Jones Avas executed, whose case I shall just 
 mention. It was at the time when press- Avarrants were 
 issued, on the alarm about the Falkland islands. The 
 woman's husband was pressed, — their goods seized 
 for some debt of his, and she, with two small chil- 
 dren, turned into the streets begging. It is a cir- 
 cumstance never to be forgotten, that she was very 
 young, (under nineteen,) and most remarkably hand- 
 some. She went to a linen-draper's shop, took some 
 coarse linen off the counter, and slipped it under her 
 cloak ; the shop-woman saw her, and she laid it 
 down — for this she was hanged ! — Her defence was, 
 that she had lived in credit and wanted for nothinsr, 
 till a press-gang came and stole her husband from 
 her, — that since then she had no bed to lie on, — no- 
 thing to give her children to eat, and they were al- 
 most naked ; and perhaps she might have done some- 
 thing wrong, for she hardly knew what she did. — 
 The parish-officers verified the truth of this story ; 
 
 gate the severity of the law, in cases which call for such leaning to 
 mercy. 
 
 N 2
 
 298 
 
 but it seems there had been a great deal of shop-hfting 
 about Ludgate, — an example was thought necessary ; 
 and this woman was hanged for the comfort and 
 satisfaction of some shopkeepers in Ludgate Street. 
 When brought to receive sentence, she behaved in 
 such a frantic manner, as proved her to be in a dis- 
 tracted and desponding state; and the child was 
 sucking her breast when she set out for Tyburn !" 
 
 Is it possible that so horrible an occurrence should 
 have taken place in free and enlightened England 
 towards the close of the eighteenth century ! Why 
 was not this poor unfortunate female recommended 
 to the royal mercy ? for surely, if this had been done, 
 it would not have been in vain. 
 
 In short, reason, justice, humanity, moral fitness, 
 called loudly for an amendment of the criminal laws. 
 England has been left far behind in this great na- 
 tional concern by some of the states of her transat- 
 lantic daughter. While the former pertinaciously 
 retained laws enacted in the days of her barbarism,* 
 the more enlightened of the American states saw and 
 felt the mighty difference on the scale of guilt, be- 
 tween many of those crimes that are generalized 
 under the name of capital offences ; and, in their 
 amended code, they graduated the degrees of pun- 
 ishment accordingly. The experiment (if it can be 
 so called) has equally reaUzed the views of the states- 
 
 • It is not many years ago since even the laws against witchcraft 
 were expunged from the statute-book.
 
 299 
 
 man and the wishes of the philanthropist. Crimes 
 have rather been diminished than multiphed in those 
 states, and thousands have been restored to society 
 and moral habits, who, in England, would either 
 have been cut off from existence, or< suffered to escape 
 the hands of justice through the natural reluctance 
 of many to prosecute. Individuals who, from a sense 
 of duty to the public, would prosecute a criminal for 
 an offence not of an atrocious nature, punishable with 
 transportation only, will yet shudder at the thought 
 of being instrumental in taking away his life. Those 
 who carry their aversion to all reform to the length 
 of opposing any alteration in the criminal laws, treat- 
 ed this fact as an unfounded hypothesis ; but it 
 was substantiated by a mass of the most unquestion- 
 able evidence laid before parliament. Thus, by the 
 very severity of the laws, numbers of criminals escap- 
 ed punishment, and continued their depredations on 
 society, who, under a better system, would have been 
 atoning for their transgressions either within the walls 
 of a penitentiary, or on the shores of New Holland. 
 To the efficacy of the former, when under proper 
 management, the history of the state prisons of 
 Pennsylvania and New York bears ample testimony. 
 When we were in Philadelphia some years ago, we 
 were astonished at the order and discipline main- 
 tained in the state-prison of that city, combined with 
 as much attention to the health and necessary com- 
 fort of the prisoners as was compatible with the strict- 
 ness of such an institution. There were, at that time.
 
 800 
 
 seven hundred criminals within its walls, — among 
 whom there were only five who had been guilty of 
 murder of the second degree, as it is there called ; 
 or, as it would be termed in the Scottish courts, culp- 
 able homicide. Murders of the first degree, that is, of 
 the most atrocious kind, are, very properly, punished 
 with death. Atrocious crimes rarely, however, occur 
 in this State. In England it would be almost im- 
 possible that a sufficient number of penitentiaries 
 could be established for the reception of all offenders 
 not capitally convicted. Transportation is conse- 
 quently a necessary evil there ; for surely that sys- 
 tem, by which offenders are cast forth without the 
 means of amendment, must be regarded as an evil. 
 It is, however, better to remove such offenders from 
 the country altogether, hopeless as their reformation 
 may be, than to immure them within the walls of a 
 prison, or house of correction, conducted as many of 
 these are in England. From evidence laid before 
 parliament, it appears that some of these (especially 
 in the metropolis) are not only the abodes of inde- 
 scribable misery, but nurseries of every species of de- 
 pravity, — so that offenders come out from them more 
 hardened and abandoned than when they went in.— 
 Those in power are too much taken up with the more 
 momentous affairs of the state to concern themselves 
 much about the internal management of prisons; 
 and the still small voice of reason and humanity issu- 
 ing from the lips of a Howard or a Neill is heard, 
 revered, but soon forgot. Unquestionably much
 
 301 
 
 has been done since the time of Howard in reform- 
 ing the prisons throughout the kingdom ; strange, 
 then, that there should be such glaring exceptions in 
 the capital, whose institutions ought to be models to 
 all others ! Even its principal prison exhibited in 
 its interior, not many years ago, scenes of profligacy, 
 wretchedness, and filth, which would have disgraced 
 the meanest prison in the kingdom. To the exer- 
 tions of a humble, unpretending individual, Mrs 
 Fry, the reformations which have since taken place 
 in it are almost solely owing. We heard that ex- 
 cellent woman and genuine Christian describe the 
 shocking condition, both mental and bodily, in 
 which she found the female prisoners when she first 
 began her labour of love — Ave witnessed the happy 
 change she had brought about, and we said to our- 
 selves, the reward of so beneficent a spirit is not in 
 the praise of man — it is in the approval of Heaven 
 and of her own conscience.
 
 302 
 
 THE DRAMA. 
 
 " For any thing so overdone is from the purpose of playing, whose 
 end, both at the first and now, was, and is, to hold, as 'twere, the 
 mirror up to nature ; to show Virtue her own feature. Scorn her 
 own image, and the very age and body of the time his form and 
 pressure.'* Hamlcfs Advice to the Players. 
 
 Lord Gardenston, in his " Remarks on the Eng- 
 hsh Drama," thus speaks of the dramatic taste of the 
 London audiences of his time. 
 
 " I beg, once for all, that the English traveller, 
 who may chance to cast his eye on these motley re- 
 marks, will believe, that when I express contempt 
 of a London audience, which I most heartily feel, I 
 mean no reflection on the nation in general, nor that 
 audience in particular, but the bulk of them, who are 
 not Englishmen, but the sweepings of every country 
 in Europe. A part of them are undoubtedly supe- 
 rior judges of the English drama, but their voice is 
 lost in the tumult of an ignorant and licentious vul- 
 gar, great and small. Time brings on their judg- 
 ment to prevail ; and suppresses, from age to age 
 the fooleries past, for an endless succession of new 
 ones. Thus, classical productions are thinly scat- 
 tered through the course of time, and thus antiquity 
 is justly valued."
 
 303 
 
 The editor of his Lordship's " Miscellanies" sub- 
 joins the following note to the foregoing remarks : — 
 
 " Mr Congreve appears to have been exactly of 
 our author's opinion with respect to the character 
 and taste of a London audience. In a letter, dated 
 the 9th of December 1704, he says, ' Gibber has 
 produced a play (the Careless Husband) consisting 
 of fine gentlemen and fine conversation altogether; 
 but there are some that knora better.'' Vide Berke- 
 ley's Literary Relics, published in 1789. Many of 
 Dryden's prologues and epilogues contain nothing 
 else but abuse of his audience, whom he loudly 
 charges with the want of candour, judgment, and 
 common sense. The Spectator tells us, that in his 
 age, indecency was expected in every new comedy. 
 He adds, that, for this reason many ladies of his ac- 
 (juaintance were particularly careful to attend every 
 new play, on the first night. A lively specimen of 
 the virtue of our grandmothers ! It would be chime- 
 rical to question the judgment of Congreve or Dry- 
 den, or the veracity of so intelligent a writer as the 
 Spectator. Trinculo, in the Tempest, hath a remark 
 to the same purpose. ' Were I in' England now, as 
 once I was, and had but this fish painted, not an ho- 
 liday fool there but would give a piece of silver. 
 There would this monster make a man ; any strange 
 beast there makes a man ; while they will not give me 
 a doit to relieve a lame beggar, they will lay out ten 
 to see a dead Indian !
 
 304 
 
 ' Whilst this hard truth, methinks, I see 
 
 The monster London laugh at me ; 
 
 I should at thee too, foolish city ! 
 If it were fit to laugh at misery ; 
 
 But thy estate I pity. 
 
 ' Let but thy wicked men from out thee go, 
 
 And all the fools that crowd thee so, 
 
 Even thou, who dost thy millions boast, 
 A village less than Islington will grow, 
 
 A solitude almost.' 
 
 These authorities, to which many others might be 
 •added, as Pope, Fielding, &c. are inserted only to 
 vindicate the text of our censor from any suspicion of 
 improper asperity." 
 
 The dramatic taste of a London audience is not 
 much improved since the time of Lord Gardenston. 
 The love of intellectual pleasure and improvement 
 seems now, in a great degree, superseded, in our 
 theatres, by a fondness for spectacle and other novel- 
 ties. Processions, splendid scenery, the dextrous 
 feats of Harlequin and Pantaloon, singers, dancers, 
 infant actors, — whatever, in short, is calculated to 
 excite astonishment, and please the senses, are pre- 
 ferred to the representation of the finest dramatic pro- 
 ductions in our language. A few good plays are in- 
 deed now and then acted ; but the general run of the 
 performances, with which audiences are now satis- 
 fied, are of so flimsy and frivolous a character as to 
 shew that their authors had nothing further in view 
 than to create a laugh — to tickle the fancy of John
 
 305 
 
 Bull, and send him home in good liumour, in return 
 for his three sliillings — or, perhaps, they are got u\) 
 for the sole purpose of introducing some favourite 
 singer. John, by the bye, is a great amateur in 
 music, and spares no expense in importing it. 
 Though naturally fond of home-made things, he 
 must, for the fashion of the thing, patronize, at a 
 great expense, Italian singers and French dancers, 
 though he could get them, of' his axon manufacture^ 
 at a much cheaper rate. So strong is this passion in 
 Jo'in for foreign music and foreign voices, that he 
 will lay out as much in a single night on an Italian 
 vocalist, as would feed and clothe thirty poor fami- 
 lies for a year ! But to return to our subject — why 
 such bagatelles as we speak of should be resorted to, 
 when there are so many sterling pieces, ancient and 
 modern, or what are called stock-plays, in the cata- 
 logue of the British drama, is only to be accounted 
 for by a natural desire of managers to please the un- 
 reflecting many in preference to the thinking few : 
 they wisely consider that numbers, not weight of ta- 
 lent, put money into their treasuries. It is not their 
 fault— 
 
 " The drama's laws the drama's patrons give, 
 And those who live to please must please to live." 
 
 But though the stage has for the last twenty years 
 been inundated with such ephemeral trifles — just 
 passable enough, with the aid of stage-effect, scenery, 
 and music, as novelties of the hour, that period has
 
 306 
 
 given birth to several dramatic productions of very 
 superior excellence, — which, however, like many 
 others of the same stamp, of older date, are now 
 t hrown on the shelf. There are few, we conceive, of 
 the tragedies of the present day which equal those of 
 the last age in deep pathos, simplicity, and natural 
 feeling; but many, or most of the late writers in 
 comedy, though they may fall short — with the ex- 
 ception of Sheridan — of their predecessors in wit, 
 surpass them in chasteness and elegance. This may 
 in part be owing to the more refined taste of the pre- 
 sent day. The grossness and indelicacy of a Van- 
 brugh, a Farquhar, a Centlivre, a Congreve, would 
 not pass with a modern audience, nay, would be 
 scouted from the stage. It is true, Bertram, and one 
 or two other high-seasoned tragedies, had their brief 
 hour of popularity, but they are now consigned to 
 the tomb of the Capulets. We shall say nothing of 
 ovir immortal bard, nine-tenths of whose produc- 
 tions are laid aside to make room for such rivals. 
 
 With respect to the performers, we have unques- 
 tionably several very excellent ones at the present day, 
 though, with the exception of Kean, Macready , and one 
 or two others, far inferior to those who figured on the 
 boards a fcAv years ago. In the retirement of Mr John 
 Kemble, Mrs Siddons, and Miss O'Neil, the stage lost 
 its brightest ornaments since the days of Garrick. Of 
 the two former it were siiperfluous to speak — their me- 
 rits are universally known. When Miss O'Neil came 
 forward in those deep tragic characters which Mrs Sid-
 
 . 307 
 
 dons had so often personated witli universal and un- 
 bounded applause, the public at once pronounced 
 her a worthy successor of that highly celebrated ac- 
 tress — as one who promised to fill up that chasm in 
 the drama which her removal from the stage would 
 occasion. Nay, there were some who hesitated not 
 to declare, that in some respects the new favourite 
 excelled her predecessor. In our humble opinion, 
 there was by no means any superiority of talent, but 
 there was, in point of figure, an advantage in favour 
 of the former. Those who have seen Miss O'Neil 
 in the characters of Belvidera and Isabella, will re- 
 member how powerfully they were affected by the 
 agonized struggles, the deeply-touching tones, of her 
 unutterable distress. Of Mr Kean's merits as a per- 
 former there are various opinions : his eulogists pro- 
 nounce him to be in tragedy a second Garrick, while 
 others think him a mere ranter. A middle opinion 
 of this celebrated actor will perhaps come nearer the 
 truth. He certainly is too prone to overact some 
 parts — to caricature nature — to step beyond the line 
 of just feeling: — with something less of outrageous act- 
 ing he would be at least a more correct performer, 
 and would command a wider ranije of tragic charac- 
 ters. He arouses attention, startles, and electrifies 
 by the vehemence of his action and his bursts of 
 impassioned declamation, and he is, therefore, unri- 
 valled — at least by any actor of the present day — in 
 his personification of impetuous, daring, and atro- 
 cious characters ; but not so happy in exhibiting
 
 308 
 
 that magnanimous feeling and dignified demeanour 
 of a great and noble character, for which John Kem- 
 ble was so justly celebrated. 
 
 Of theatrical amusements in general, it may, in 
 few words, be said, that a good play, well performed, 
 is not merely an amusing spectacle, but an instructive 
 moral lesson, conveyed in the most impressive man- 
 ner, to the hearts and understandings of those who 
 witness it ; while such as are disgraced by ribaldry 
 and indecent scenes, whatever their wit, must be 
 equally offensive to good taste as they are injurious 
 to the public morals. Perhaps in no country is tiie 
 drama disgraced by so numerous a list of pieces of 
 this stamp. With respect to those harmless trifles 
 which are brought forth in such abundance for the 
 amusement of honest John Bull, they offer an agree- 
 able enough treat to those who have no better way of 
 spending a long winter evening.
 
 309 
 
 ENGLISH AND FRENCH POPULACE. 
 
 " Perhaps no people can produce instances of the same kind, where 
 the desperate mix pity with injustice, still show that they under- 
 stand a distinction in crimes, and, even in acts of violence, have 
 still some tincture of remaining virtue." 
 
 A Foreigner'' s Opinion of the English Haifa Century ago. 
 
 A French and an English mob are characterized 
 by very different qualities and propensities. The 
 former are ferocious, unsparing, and sanguinary, 
 Avhen strongly excited — of which character the his- 
 tor}^ of France affords many dreadful illustrations. 
 The latter are exceedingly turbulent, riotous, and 
 noisy, and often strongly mischievous in their attacks 
 on inert matter — houses, furniture, books, pictures, 
 &c. — these have at times been assailed and destroyed 
 by them with a more than Vandal fury. But there 
 thev stop. To the shedding of blood they have an 
 instinctive horror; nor have they ever been brought, 
 amidst all their tumultuous proceedings, to be guilty 
 of it, at least for the last two or three centuries. 
 History sufficiently informs us on this subject. Per- 
 haps the most serious riot that ever took place in the 
 British metropolis was that of 17S0, commonly call-
 
 310 
 
 ed Lord George Gordon's riot. On that occasion, 
 incalculable mischief was done by the mob in the de- 
 struction of the buildings, and other valuable pro- 
 perty, by setting fire to them ; yet not one drop of 
 blood was shed by the infatuated populace, though 
 not a few of them fell — and justly fell — victims 
 to their blind and atrocious fury. In a more recent 
 affair too — that of Manchester — it does not appear 
 that the misguided multitude took any lives. 
 
 But the true way to form a just idea of the respec- 
 tive characters of the English and French populace, 
 in times of civil convulsion, is to compare the revolu- 
 tions of England and of France. By the revolution 
 in England, we do not mean that commonly so call- 
 ed, but that which cost Charles the First his head, 
 and established a commonwealth on the ruins of the 
 monarchy. Here so far the comparison is in point. 
 In other respects, the two revolutions are character- 
 ized by very opposite features. In France, the po- 
 pulace perpetrated acts of savage ferocity unheard of 
 in the annals of civilized nations, and exceeding even 
 what we read of among the most savage tribes. 
 Countless thousands of innocent, defenceless, unof- 
 fending victims, were dragged from the prisons and 
 inhumanly butchered in cold blood, — without trial, 
 without evidence of guilt, — and, as if the monsters 
 in human shape who perpetrated those crimes were 
 not satiated by the immolation of their victims, they 
 seemed to study how far they could embitter their 
 last moments by every species of insult ! But those
 
 311 
 
 terrible scenes are too well known to require recapi- 
 tulation. How different was the case in England, 
 during the period of her revolutionary struggle. 
 Blood, it is true, was shed, but it was honour- 
 ably and generously shed on the field of battle — in 
 open and manly contest between the armies of the 
 two parties, drawn up in hostile array to decide the 
 question of political ascendency. No massacres, no 
 cold-blooded murders, polluted the cause either of 
 freedom or of loyalty. It is a proud boast to Eng- 
 lishmen, that a civil war, so obstinate and determin- 
 ed, should have been so carried on. Nor have the 
 civil dissensions Avhich have since arisen in Great 
 Britain been conducted by other methods than those 
 of fair and open contests by arms. The knife of the 
 assassin has rarely or never been employed. 
 
 It is, however, to be considered, that the British 
 revolutionists did not, like the French, cast off, with 
 their allegiance to their King, their duty and reve- 
 rence to God. They were neither atheists nor blas- 
 phemers. How far this important difference, as to 
 principle, in the republicans of the two countries, 
 may have operated in leading them to such dissimi- 
 lar conduct — and how far the character of English- 
 men might be changed, and assimilated to that of the 
 French anarchists, by becoming imbued with their 
 atheistical doctrines, are questions on which the ene- 
 mies of religion should well ponder. For our part, 
 Ave conceive it to be as impossible that there should 
 be security and stability in a state, or virtue and
 
 312 
 
 happiness in private life, without reUgion, as that 
 there should be light and warmth in our planet 
 without the sun.
 
 813 
 
 MEDICAL PRACTITIONERS. 
 
 Depend upon it, Nature is the best physician in the world, though 
 she has not taken her degrees in the college." Howard. 
 
 In glancing over a late number of one of our critical 
 journals, we were particularly struck by the follow- 
 ing remarks on a medical education, and on medical 
 practitioners, the writer of which we suspect to be a 
 member of the Faculty himself. 
 
 " Were we, however, (says the reviewer) to 
 hazard an opinion on the subject of medical edu- 
 cation, where it is intended and attempted to make 
 that perfect, we should say that it is too techni- 
 cal. A technical education may teach an art, but 
 never yet taught a science. To what purpose ac- 
 cumulate loads of facts and theories when the rea- 
 soning faculty is neglected ? We are told that bo- 
 tany and chemistry are enlightened additions to 
 a mere medical education ; yet these are but in- 
 ferior technical branches. They may teach the 
 name of a plant, or its analogies in nature, — they 
 will teach us to compound our drugs, or write 
 our prescriptions, — and chemistry introduces us to 
 our medical theories ; yet they are not the studies 
 
 o
 
 314 
 
 that cultivate the powers of the mind. We require 
 enhghtened general views; a mind disciplined in 
 logic — not technical logic, but the logic of science. 
 Without this, all the mere medical learning in the 
 universe, and all the practice of S3^denham or Baillie, 
 will never make more than a mere empiric. Under 
 such auspices, medicine must remain an art, and an 
 uncertain art ; for if there be a collection of facts, 
 and of phenomena of daily occurrence, in any branch 
 of natural histor}', peculiarly difficult to generalize, 
 it is in this one, where a thousand collateral appear- 
 ances serve to confuse and obscure the principal ones. 
 For our parts, if we must give up something before 
 we are allowed to adopt something else, we would 
 willingly surrender materia medica, botany, chemis- 
 try, and perhaps somewhat more, to be permitted 
 that reform on which we dare not dwell. We know 
 not how education can be too general ; and we should 
 even have the better opinion of a physician, if, like La 
 Fieur, he had added to the rest of his acquirements 
 the arts of drum-breaking and spatterdash-making. 
 
 " We fear that all active practitioners are of the 
 Sangrado school, whether they deal in bleeding or 
 calomel, in bark or opium. We fear, also, that it is 
 but too true, that the most ignorant are generally 
 the most active ; and we also believe, farther, that 
 this is a fault of which our national practice may justly 
 be accused. While the mass of practitioners is con- 
 stituted as it is, and as it probably ever must be, it 
 is certainly a mere question of arithmetic ; and we
 
 315 
 
 think that the sooner bleeding and calomel are ex- 
 changed for bouillon and ptisane, the better. We 
 once took the trouble to compare the books of an 
 hospital, attended in three divisions, by three prac- 
 titioners, equally well informed, or equally ignorant, 
 it is the same thing. The cases were similar for all, 
 and equal in numbers, on an average of three years. 
 The two inactive physicians were fully as inactive as 
 M. Broussais could wish ; the other fought the ene- 
 my at all points ; and his proportion of loss was 
 eight to one compared to that of his brethren. It 
 may well then be doubted, as a question of political 
 arithmetic, whether physic be a blessing or an eviV 
 
 This is being very candid and explicit. The very 
 momentous question here put just resolves itself into 
 this, — if we understand the reviewer aright, — that 
 it is doubtful whether physic, with all its uses and 
 abuses, restores a greater number than it destroys, or 
 removes or alleviates more of human sufFerins than it 
 produces ? The remarks contained in the last para- 
 graph of our quotation should, indeed, be written in 
 durable characters, for the benefit of all poor valetu- 
 dinarians who may be in danger of falling into the 
 hands of those terrible Sangrados, who 
 
 " Carry fate and physic in their eye." 
 
 There are some reflections, connected with the 
 practice of physic, which must have occurred to 
 many persons. 
 
 It is, we believe, generally admitted by the Fa-
 
 316 
 
 culty themselves, that, notwithstanding all the hghts 
 and improvements which medical science has receiv- 
 ed, it is still in a very imperfect state. The nature 
 and uses of the different organs and fluids of the hu- 
 man body have been accurately enough defined ; but 
 the various and complicated degrees of morbidity to 
 which they are liable, cannot — at least in many cases 
 — be ascertained ; and consequently the knowledge of 
 the safest and most efficient remedies, in such cases, 
 must remain a desideratum. We need not go into much 
 lensrth to shew that this is the case. How often does 
 disease make its appearance in so questionable a shape 
 as to defy the skill of the ablest physicians. They 
 either mistake it for some other malady, or they can- 
 didly acknowledge their ignorance of its precise na- 
 ture. Another striking proof of their imcertainty on 
 such occasions is, that two medical men, of equal 
 skill and talent, shall entertain the most opposite 
 opinions on the nature and treatment of some certain 
 disease. This diversity of opinion in the Faculty is 
 indeed so common, as to have become proverbial. 
 One physician builds up a system which another 
 pulls down. This may not, in judging of the nature of 
 some diseases, be so much owing to a difference of ta- 
 lent in the professors, as to the obscure and equivocal 
 symptoms by Avhich those diseases are sometimes cha- 
 racterized. Under this uncertainty, the most fatal mis- 
 takes may be committed in the treatment of a patient. 
 It may be that an active course of medicine is order- 
 ed, when Nature, if left to herself, or with very little
 
 317 
 
 assistance from medicine, would have operated her 
 own cure. 
 
 There are some diseases for whicli no remedies 
 have yet been discovered. In such cases, Nature 
 frequently brings about, by her silent and mysterious 
 operations, that alleviation of pain, or restoration to 
 health, which all the physicians in the world could 
 not have effected. 
 
 We will not go the length of saying, that there is 
 no occasion whatever for medical practitioners in the 
 world ; but we will venture to assert, that if all man- 
 kind led a simple, temperate, and active life, there 
 would not only be no occasion for physic, but it 
 would then, on the whole, be rather an evil than a 
 blessing. Luxury and excess engender diseases, and 
 render the aid of the doctor at times indispensably 
 necessary. Among such of the labouring classes as 
 are not exposed to the privations and other evils of 
 extreme poverty, chronic diseases are not known ; 
 both sexes are more hardy and healthy than those in 
 middle life. We rarely or never hear of a labouring- 
 man being a martyr to gout, nor of his wife suffering 
 from nervous disorders, or dying in child-birth. In 
 China, the medical art is little known ; yet China is 
 an over-peopled empire. It is true, war is almost 
 unknown there, but infanticide is a very common 
 crime, and the portion of the population destroyed 
 by this practice may be nearly equal to that which 
 war carries off among more civilized nations. This 
 excess of population is doubtless greatly owing to the
 
 3]8 
 
 simple diet and active life of the inhabitants, together 
 with the advantages of a fine climate and productive 
 soil. It were too much to suppose, that the popula- 
 tion of China would be still greater, were physic, 
 with all its improvements, as extensively practised 
 there as in civilized Europe. 
 
 It is far from our wish to speak slightingly of the 
 medical profession ; on the contrary, we feel a high 
 respect for it and its professors, such as they ought 
 to be ; but we are decidedly of the writer''s opinion, 
 from whom we quote, that there is a class among the 
 latter whom the community could very well dispense 
 with. In one view, indeed, this class might be said 
 to be useful, and that is, in lending their aid to keep 
 down that excess of population, which Mr Malthus 
 deprecates as a great political evil. 
 
 With respect to the enlightened, upright, humane, 
 talented physician, we conceive him to be an eminent 
 blessing to the community in which he lives. Such 
 a character we have often had in our mind's eye, — 
 of which the following is a slight sketch :— 
 
 He unites to a consummate knowledge of his pro- 
 fession, that wide range of knowledge — that insight 
 into human nature — that "philosophy and general 
 benevolence, which peculiarly fits him for the situa- 
 tion in which he is placed. He is not only learned, 
 skilful, and experienced, but he is wise, considerate, 
 candid, and^iimane When called to the sick-bed 
 of a patient, his first inquiries are those of a philoso- 
 pher, rather than of a mere professor of physic. He
 
 S19 
 
 desires to know, not onl}' the origin, the duration, 
 the nature, and the symptoms of the particular ma- 
 lady, on which he is called in to give his advice, but 
 he also inquires into, considers, and Aveighs the ge- 
 neral constitution, the age, the temperament, and the 
 habits of life of his patient. At once he sees both 
 the root and the proper remedy of the disease, and 
 prescribes accordingly, — or, should it be a case on 
 which he cannot form a positive opinion, he adopts 
 what he conceives to be the safest and mildest course. 
 If medicine be indispensably necessary, he is peremp- 
 tor}^ as to its being taken ; but when he perceives 
 that an adherence to a particular regimen is all that 
 may be required, he recommends that only. He sees 
 that Nature has been, in some certain way, outraged, 
 and that a return to a more simple and abstinent life 
 is all that is necessar}"^ lo sooth and restore her. 
 These his sentiments and discoveries he candidly ex- 
 plains to the patient, and, Avith the same frankness, 
 he laj-^s before him the consequences of a non-adhe- 
 rence to his injunctions. Diet, air, exercise, a suspen- 
 sion of injurious habits, are more frequently the I'e- 
 storatives which he prescribes, than draughts, pills, 
 powders, and the other nauseous et cetera of the ma- 
 teria medica. The moment he enters the chamber 
 of a patient, he regards himself as his friend, and 
 he feels for him, and counsels him, with the sincerity 
 of one. To the heart of the poorvApttient, the sight 
 of such a man is a healing balm — 4Rs presence in- 
 spires hope, confidence, and pleasure. He is not
 
 320 
 
 merely the physician— he is, as we have said, the 
 friend, confidant, and companion of his patient. 
 
 Those who may glance over the picture here 
 drawn, will no doubt recognise in it the features of 
 some, both among the living and the dead, whom 
 they have met with in their intercourse with the 
 world, or of whom they may at least have heard.
 
 321 
 
 NAPOLEON. 
 
 " I have touch'd the highest point of all my greatness, 
 And from that full meridian of my glory 
 I haste now to my setting. I shall fall — 
 Like a bright exhalation in the evening !" 
 
 The following reflections were written a short time 
 prior to the death of this great and astonishing man. 
 The character and actions of Napoleon have so long- 
 been the engrossing and universal theme of public 
 attention, and so much has been said on the sub- 
 ject, that it is now almost exhausted. By some he 
 is cried up as a model of all that is great, magnani- 
 mous, and heroic ; while others are at pains to repre- 
 sent him as a compound of every, bad quality. The 
 panegyrics of friends and admirers, and the vituper- 
 ations of enemies, are alike to be distrusted. The 
 truth lies between the extremes of eulogy and abuse. 
 Like other men. Napoleon had his merits and his 
 fault ; and we doubt whether there are many who, 
 placed as he was, would have acquitted themselves 
 better, politically and morally, than he did ; while 
 there are several who would probably not have done 
 so well. It is impossible for the bulk of mankind to 
 form any correct notion how far an individual, thus 
 
 o 2
 
 322 
 
 placed, may be so governed by circumstances, and car- 
 ried away by the tide of events, as hardly to have any 
 choice in the line of conduct he is about to pursue. 
 We are no apologists of the fallen emperor — we 
 merely state what we have here said to shew the 
 folly and absurdity of those who heap tmmeasured 
 abuse on him, and would trace all his actions to the 
 most atrocious motives and designs. 
 
 There are few topics which engage the public 
 attention more at present than Napoleon's captivity 
 and treatment at St Helena ; and, as usual with sub- 
 jects on which " much may be said on both sides," 
 there is a great diversity of opinion on this very novel 
 one. The tide of popular opinion seems now to run 
 almost as much in favour of this once great man, as 
 only, a few years ago, it did against him. For one 
 who is indifferent about his sufferings and complaints, 
 regarding the former as imaginary, and the latter as 
 causeless, there are an hundred who feel a lively in- 
 terest and sympathy in whatever regards him, — who 
 mourn over his fallen estate, and are indignant at 
 the unnecessarily harsh and vexatious treatment to 
 which he is subjected. 
 
 However far this feeling may mislead Englishmen 
 in estimating the endurances of the fallen emperor, it 
 is at least no bad sign of their hearts. When this 
 man was in the plenitude of his power, and insolently 
 threatened at one time to do with England as Wil- 
 liam the Conqueror once did before, John Bull was 
 exceedingly savage and angry with him, — and great
 
 323 
 
 reason he had to be so. He biillied, abused, defied, 
 and gave him many very hard blows, till at length 
 he brought him to the ground. No\v, it is one of 
 John's maxims not to ill use or insult a Aancjuished 
 foe — quite the reverse; for after he has given him 
 a drubbing, he will shake hands with him, and tell 
 him it was all the chance of war. The British na- 
 tion would, in short, have been better pleased had 
 Napoleon been detained a prisoner in England, in- 
 stead of being transported to a solitary rock in the 
 midst of the ocean, and denied all intercourse with 
 civilized Europe, and even \vith his dearest friends, — 
 except on such terms as a lofty spirit could not brook. 
 Independent of the natural sympathy for fallen great- 
 ness, there ai'e many arguments which militate against 
 this treatment. The placing him under such a sys- 
 tem of harsh and rigid control appears too insulting 
 to one who had swayed a mighty sceptre, to which 
 kings and nations once bowed down, and which 
 even England herself, vmder certain limitations, was 
 willing to acknowledge. Only a few weeks before 
 his first abdication, the powers who were in arms 
 against him offered to recognise him as Emperor of 
 France, as France stood at the outset of the revolu- 
 tion. What a novel and dangerous precedent, in 
 the present state of the world, is this treatment of 
 the sovereign of a great nation ! In the event of some 
 future contest, of a similar nature, in Europe, when 
 another Buonaparte shall rise, by extraordinary mi- 
 litary talents, great resources, and a daring spirit, to
 
 324 
 
 the zenith of power, and subjugates the nations 
 around him, will he not say, — " The sovereigns of 
 those nations may hereafter unite against me, over- 
 power me, — (for who shall calculate on the event of 
 battles ?) — and finally doom me to a degrading capti- 
 vity? — I shall put it out of their power; — I shall 
 avail myself of the warning history presents to me ; — 
 I feel that I stand on the brink of a precipice while 
 I suffer the dynasties I subdue to retain a remnant of 
 authority and dominion ; — I shall render them hurt- 
 less to me." — This reasoning, however unprincipled 
 it may be, is yet natural. 
 
 The powers of Europe, in thus treating Napoleon, 
 are either actuated by a spmt of revenge, or by a re- 
 gard for their own safety. In either case, how un- 
 worthy is it of their dignity. We cannot for a mo- 
 ment suppose, that vengeance against a powerless and 
 prostrate enemy, can have any share in the proceed- 
 ings of the sovereigns, however it may still rankle in 
 the hearts of certain of their ministers. Is it, then, 
 the policy of self-preservation, — a regard for the 
 safety of their respective states, — which sets them 
 upon dooming this fallen sovereign to indefinite 
 exile and imprisonment ? What ! dread the efforts of 
 one man, — fallen, — forsaken, — ^vithout money, — 
 without soldiers, — without resources of any kind, — 
 against the united power of all the great and w^arlike 
 states of Europe ! He who, at the head of two hun- 
 dred thousand disciplined troops, was conquered by 
 little more than a sixth part of the armies which those
 
 325 
 
 states had arrayed against him, surely cannot be for- 
 midable to them, with three or four attendants in his 
 train. What will history say to this ? It will doubt- 
 less exalt Napoleon at the expense of the sovereigns. 
 It will say, — How great, how supernatural this 
 man's character and talents must have been, when 
 they filled the combined sovereigns of Europe with 
 terror, even while a captive in their hands ! They 
 did not think themselves safe till they had removed 
 him to an inaccessible rock in the southern hemis- 
 phere, a thousand miles distant from any mainland, 
 surrounded on every side by armed vessels, and 
 jealously watched on shore by cordons of troops. 
 
 Again, Napoleon, in throwing himself into the 
 arms of Great Britain, in preference to any other 
 of the powers, notwithstanding his being her deadly 
 and determined enemy for so long a period, paid 
 the nation the highest compliment a nation could 
 receive under any circumstances. He evinced, by 
 this act, the high opinion he had of its generosity 
 and magnanimity ; and, in return for this confi- 
 dence, it would certainly have been highly credit- 
 able to its government to have rendered his captivity 
 as little irksome and degrading to him as possible. 
 
 On the other hand, much may be said in favour 
 of the policy of securing the person of Napoleon 
 against even the possibility of escape — at least for 
 a necessary space of time. With the knowledge 
 we had of his character and policy, we had good 
 reason to apprehend that he would leave nothing
 
 326 
 
 unattempted to effect his escape, and that, should 
 he succeed, he would again aim at the sovereign 
 power in France, and once more embroil Europe in 
 a sanguinary contest. It is well known there is in 
 France a powerful part}'^ who would be read}"^ to 
 join his standard, and second his most ambitious 
 views. It is not probable, judging from his past 
 conduct, that, if liberty were now" restored to him, 
 he would ever be at rest. He might, as at Elba, 
 remain tranquil for a time, but it would be only for 
 the purpose of meditatiiig new schemes of ambition, 
 and watching for a favourable opportunity of once 
 more coming forward as a mighty actor on the 
 political theatre. In short, there are mau}'^ consider- 
 ations to justif}^ the polic)'^ of confining the person 
 of Napoleon for a definite period. But covdd not 
 this be done in a manner less vexatious and wound- 
 ing to his feelings ? And ^^'lio will sa}^ that the 
 feelings of that man should not be respected, who, 
 had it not been Jbr Ids own 'pervcTse jjride, would at 
 this moment have been recognised b}'^ all Europe as 
 the sovereign of a great nation ? The question is, 
 could he not have been as securely guarded in 
 England as at St Helena.'' or, granting that he 
 could not, where is the necessity for carrying the 
 vexatious minutiae of interdiction and restraint into 
 the Vftiy bosom of his retreat .'' of exercising an in- 
 quisitorial control over his private concerns — his 
 confidential conversations, his epistolary intercourse 
 with his friends— even his very literary amusements ?
 
 327 
 
 Such treatment cannot be deemed creditable to the 
 government which countenances it; it is unworthy 
 of a great and generous nation, by the bulk of whom 
 it is by no means approved. There are a few — 
 and we believe but a few — who affect to sneer at the 
 fallen Napoleon, to ridicule all his complaints, and 
 even endeavour to make him appear an object of 
 contempt. One cannot but smile at the egregious 
 folly of such petty efforts. How easy it is to 
 trample on the fallen ! Who, among the mightiest 
 of his enemies, will say that they were not awed by 
 his great military genius, and the series of his pro- 
 digious victories ? 
 
 There is no man we abhorred move than Buona- 
 parte in the zenith of his pov/er, subduing and in- 
 sulting crowned heads, subjugating and parcelling 
 out nations at his pleasure, triiiuipliiug with a licen- 
 tious spirit over brave but discomfited armies, and of- 
 ten unfeelingljf and treacheroTisl^^ exercising the power 
 fortune had given him ; and there are few political 
 events at which we more sincerely rejoiced, than the 
 defeat and humiliation, — as far as defeat could humble 
 him^ — of this modern Alexander. But now that we 
 behold in him only the unfortvuiate captive, cut off 
 from all intercourse with the world, and with those 
 who are dear to him, and subjected to a mortifying 
 and vexatious control, we must say that all feelings 
 of hostility are absorbed by the contemplation of this 
 awful reverse of his fortunes. 
 
 The life and achievements of this astonishing man,
 
 328 
 
 whatever his future fortunes may be, will be contem- 
 plated with wonder by the latest ages. It is not too 
 much to say, that he has outdone, in military achieve- 
 ment, all the heroes and conquerors of antiquity. 
 Alexander the Great and Julius Caesar shrink into 
 insignificance before him. They were great con- 
 querors it is true ; but the armies they had to con- 
 tend against were chiefly those of barbarians. Na- 
 poleon fought and conquered the disciplined armies 
 of civilized states. Compared with the contempo- 
 rary sovereigns of Europe, he was a giant amidst 
 dwarfs. The brightest sparklings of their fame will 
 be but a reflection from his ; separated from the 
 meridian splendour of his glory, they would shine 
 with but a feeble light. Their names and actions 
 will go down to posterity with his, — they will accom- 
 pany him along the stream of time, — 
 
 " Pursue the triumph, and partake the gale." 
 
 When we consider his obscure origin, — the early 
 development of his genius, — his great talents and 
 prodigious success, as the leader of an army, at a 
 period of life when others rarely attain higher rank 
 than the command of a regiment, — his subsequent 
 astonishing career of victory, — his elevation to the 
 imperial throne of France,— his conquests over a 
 considerable portion of Europe, — his undisputed 
 sway, for a time, over the whole, England excepted, 
 — and the strange and stupendous events which led 
 to his downfall,— he must be regarded as the great-
 
 329 
 
 est prodigy of successful talent and daring on record. 
 To borrow the language of poetry, he was like a 
 mighty comet suddenly rushing amidst the stars of 
 the firmament, eclipsing their splendour, spreading 
 around a terrific and ominous blaze of light, — then as 
 suddenly vanishing from view. Had he not, by his 
 rashness and pride, sacrificed his army in Russia, no 
 one can tell where his career would have ended. His 
 rapid rise, from the situation of a subaltern of artil- 
 lery, to a height of power and grandeur never before 
 possessed by any monarch, exceeds all that history 
 presents to us, and can only be surpassed by his still 
 more rapid and astonishing downfall. He was the 
 architect of his own stupendous fortune, and by his 
 own hand he overthrew it. By prudence and for- 
 bearance, he might have given it stability ; but his 
 illimitable ambition levelled it with the dust ! It 
 seemed as if Providence had sent this political pro- 
 digy on the earth for wise purposes, — to humble the 
 pride of kings and of nations, — to renew the lesson 
 of the folly of a boundless ambition, — to sweep away 
 evils and abuses to which ages had given stability 
 and sanction. He was permitted to rise to a fearful 
 height, only to be cast from it by his own presump- 
 tion. He imagined that he overruled destiny, in- 
 stead of being subject to it. This arrogance carried 
 him into Russia at the head of half a million of men, 
 without allowing him to calculate on the obstacles he 
 might meet with from an incensed and desperate 
 enemy, and from the more terrible visitation of the
 
 330 
 
 elements. His army was destroyed, and his unwill- 
 ing allies turned against him. Still he managed to 
 raise a new and formidable army. In this situation 
 peace was offered to him, on advantageous terms. 
 He rejected it with disdain. Again he was beaten, 
 and forced to retreat precipitately into his own do- 
 minions, whither he was followed by the numerous 
 invading arnjies of the allies. His affairs grew des- 
 perate ; still, such was the awe in which he was lield 
 even in defeat, that, only a fe^v weeks prior to his 
 final subjugation, he Avas offered the sovereignty of 
 France, stripped only of the fruit of his aggressions, 
 Avhich offer, fortunately for Europe, his pride once 
 more prompted him to reject. Again, from obscu- 
 rity and exile, he rose, Anla:us-like, to combat for 
 empire. But the spell was broken ; he was no longer 
 the invincible Napoleon, — the dispenser of fate — 
 the niighty conqueror, at whose nod kings were 
 dethroned, nations parcelled out, and annies annihi- 
 lated. The veteran army, at v/hose liead he had 
 so often conquered, no longer existed ; and at 
 Waterloo, opposed to two generals worthy to con- 
 tend with him, the star of his glory set to rise 
 no more. 
 
 Whether the criticisms of Marshal Ney on Napo- 
 leon's generalship, in this his last fatal campaign, 
 be just or not, we are not competent to decide. It 
 is, however, we believe, the general opinion among 
 miHtary men, that had Ney been suffered to retain 
 the whole of the corps intrusted to his command
 
 331 
 
 on tlie morning of the 16th, while Napoleon, with 
 the remainder of the army, kept the Prussians 
 in check, the British vanguard would have been an- 
 nihilated at Quatre-Bras ; in which case, the outset 
 of the campaign would have been fatal to the allies ; 
 and no one can foretel what, in such an event, would 
 have been the issue of the contest. Napoleon, it 
 would appear, had, from the moment of his disas- 
 trous retreat from Russia, coinmitted errors which ex- 
 cited astonishment in the minds of all military men. 
 
 To enter into a detailed view of tlie character of 
 this wonderful man, with the particulars of liis event- 
 ful life before u.s, were useless. Ambition was his 
 great and governing passion, and to that, like other 
 great men who have been misled by it, he often sa- 
 crificed justice, humauit}^, good faith, and sound 
 polic3% — the prosperity of his own people, and the 
 happiness and repose of his neighbours. We can- 
 not, however, deny him the merit of having done 
 some good. He restored the throne and the altar ; 
 he crushed Jacobinism — that monster of modern 
 birth, that daring and licentious spirit of anarchy, 
 and contempt for religion and the laws, which de- 
 moralized the people of France, and threatened the 
 subversion of order, morals, and good government 
 throughout Europe. He encouraged and promot- 
 ed science, literature, and the arts ; he established 
 useful institutions, and extended and improved the 
 public seminaries. He put down the Inquisition in 
 the countries over which he had extended his sway
 
 332 
 
 — that horrible tribunal, since revived by his Holi- 
 ness the Pope, and his Most Catholic Majesty ; and 
 abolished many other privileged oppressions, the 
 vestiges of ancient bigotry and barbarism. 
 
 Whether all he has done that is useful or salutary 
 to mankind, can atone for the mischiefs he brought 
 on various States, the acts of violence and injustice 
 he frequently committed, and the oceans of blood he 
 spilt during the career of his insatiable ambition, is 
 a question on which there exists great diversity of 
 opinion. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 EDINBURGH, 
 PUIKTED BY OLIVER cSi BOYD, 
 TWEEDDALE-COURT.
 
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