f •" c-, ^jwnyso^ '%i3AiNfi3Wv > y #AavaaiH^ ^amiti^ ^•LIBRARY^ ^UIBRARYQr ^E-UMIVER%. >clOSANCELfj> > t I *~v/ >■ — Y i I F»3r ~*^ ~zl K inn r— u_l "'JiHDNV-SOl^ lOSANCflfj> > \ rri CO -I >. '■tfSMAINIHttv ^lOSANCElfj> JilJJIWMJl 4N5 =10 O u_ J Life \ =*3 *WE-UNtVER% > "%HAINfl-]lW IT UIFO/?^ 1 XT H8I1# LIBRARY^ ^HIBRARYQr ^ if >£ *-\ll tlt'(\ 'CDC/ . i nc Aiirc? rp t_r '/SMAINIHttV - ZJI VI 11 i-n J \ o vavaaiH^ tf-UNIVERS//, WGElffc. 3^ ^OFCAUFO^ Bfc ? £ l \ / <^* \ o iv' -n l-> ?% !fo FCAilFO/?^ " -£. 1 (\ -if i[fcii\/rnr/ &^ % NIVERS/^ U 1 ■■ in » fv \ f - \ \ THE INDICATOR, AND THE COMPANION; A MISCELLANY FOR THE FIELDS AND THE FIRE-SIDE. BY LEIGH HUNT. IN TWO VOLUMES. VOL. I. LONDON: PUBLISHED FOR HENRY COLBURN, BY H. BENTLEY, NEW BURLINGTON STREET. 1834. « . « t ' • » e e * LONDON: Printed by J. L. Cox and Son, 7o, Great Queen Stieet, Lincoln's-Inn Fields. *-* 31' CONTENTS. Page CHAPTER I. Difficulty of finding a Name for a Work of this kind . . 1 II. A Wc*d on Translation from the Poets 4 III. Autumnal commencement of Fires — Mantle-Pieces — Apartments for Study o IV. Acontius's Apple 9 '- V. Godiva \2 ^ VI. Pleasant Memories connected with various Parts of the Metropolis 17 VIL >4 Advice to the Melancholy 2S? VIII. Charles Brandon, and Mary Queen of France 32 IX. On the Household Gods of the Ancients 3f> X. Social Genealogy 43 VI CONTENTS. Page XI. Angling 49 XII. -> Ludicrous Exaggeration 55 XIII. Gilbert ! Gilbert ! 61 XIV. Fatal Mistake of Nervous Disorders for Madness 64 XV. Mists and Fogs 70 XVI. The Shoemaker of Veyros 77 XVII. More News of Ulysses 84 xvm. Far Countries 92 XIX. > A Tale for a Chimney Corner 99 XX. Thieves, Ancient and Modern 113 XXI. A few Thoughts on Sleep ■. , 1 60 XXII. The Fair Revenge 167 XXIII. Spirit of the Ancient Mythology 176 CONTENTS. Vll Page XXIV. Getting up on Cold Mornings 183 XXV. The old Gentleman L89 XXVII. Dolphins 195 XXVIII. Ronald of the Perfect Hand 197 , XXIX. J A Chapter on Hats 212 XXX. , Seamen on Shore 223 XXXI. On the Realities of Imagination 233 XXXII. Deaths of Little Children , 217 XXXIII. Poetical Anomalies of Shape 2.33 XXXIV. Spring and Daisies 25b' XXXV. May-Day 267 XXXVT. Shakspeare's Birth-Day 280 XXXVII. La Bdlle Dame sans Mercy 285 Vlll CONTENTS. Page \ XXXVIII. Of Sticks 288 XXXIX. Of the Sight of Shops 299 XL. A nearer View of some of the Shops 309 INTRODUCTION. The Indicator, a series of papers originally pub- lished in weekly numbers, having been long out of print, and repeated calls having been made for it among the booksellers, the author has here made a selection, com- prising the greater portion of the articles, and omitting such only as he unwillingly put forth in the hurry of periodical publication, or as seemed otherwise unsuited for present publication, either by the nature of their disquisitions, or from containing commendatory criticisms now rendered superfluous by the reputation of the works criticised. The Companion, a subsequent publication of the same sort, has been treated in the like manner. The author has little further to say, by way of adver- tisement to these volumes, except that both the works were written with the same view of inculcating a love of X INTRODUCTION. nature and imagination, and of furnishing a sample of the enjoyment which they afford ; and he cannot give a better proof of that enjoyment, as far as he was capable of it, than by stating, that both were written during times of great trouble with him, and both helped him to see much of that fair play between his own anxieties and his natural cheerfulness, of which an indestructible be- lief in the good and the beautiful has rendered him perhaps not undeserving. London, Dec. 6, 1833. THF INDICATOR. THE INDICATOR. There is a bird in the interior of Africa, whose habits would rather seem to belong to the interior of Fairy-land: but they have been well authenticated. It indicates to honey hunters, where the nests of wild bees are to be found. It calls them with a cheerful cry, which they answer; and on finding itself recognized, flies and hovers over a hollow tree containing the honey. While they are occupied in collecting it, the bird goes to a little distance, where he observes all that passes ; and the hunters, when they have helped themselves, take care to leave him his portion of the food.— This is the Cucuurs Indicator of Linnaeus, otherwise called the Moroc, Bee Cuckoo, or Honey Bird. There he, arriving, round about doth flie, And takes survey with busie, curious eye : Now this, now that, he tasteth tenderly.— Spenser. I.— DIFFICULTY OF FINDING A NAME FOR A WORK OF THIS KIND. Never did gossips, when assembled to determine the name of a new-born child, whose family was full of conflicting interests, experience a difficulty half so great, as that which an author undergoes in set- tling the title for a periodical work. In the former case, there is generally some paramount uncle, or prodigious third cousin, who is understood to have the chief claims, and to the golden lustre of whose face the clouds of hesitation and jealousy gradually give way. But these children of the brain have no vol. I. B 2 THE INDICATOR. godfather at hand : and yet their single appellation is bound to comprise as many public interests, as all the Christian names of a French or a German prince. It is to be modest : it is to be expressive : it is to be new : it is to be striking : it is to have something in it equally intelligible to the man of plain understand- ing, and surprising for the man of imagination : — in a word, it is to be impossible. How far we have succeeded in the attainment of this happy nonentity, we leave others to judge. There is one good thing however which the hunt after a title is sure to realize ; — a great deal of des- pairing mirth. We were visiting a friend the other night, who can do any thing for a book but give it a title ; and after many grave and ineffectual attempts to furnish one for the present, the company, after the fashion of Kabelais, and with a chair-shaking merri- ment which he himself might have joined in, fell to turning a hopeless thing into a jest. It was like that exquisite picture of a set of laughers in Shakspeare : — One rubbed his elbow, thus ; and fleered, and swore A better speech was never spoke before : Another, with his finger and his thumb, Cried " Via! We will do't, come what will come!" The third he capered, and cried "All goes well !" The fourth turned on the toe, and down he fell. With that they all did tumble on the ground, With such a zealous laughter, so profound, That in this spleen ridiculous, appears, To check their laughter, passion's solemn tears. Love's Labour Lost. CHRISTEXIXG A BOOK. 6 Some of the names had a meaning in their absurdity, such as the Adviser, or Helps for Composing ; — the Cheap Reflector, or Every Man His Own Looking- Glass ; — the Retailer, or Every Man His Own Other Man's Wit ; — Nonsense, To be continued. Others were laughable by the mere force of contrast, as the Crocodile, or Pleasing Companion ; — Chaos, or the Agreeable Miscellany; — the Fugitive Guide; — the Foot Soldier, or Flowers of Wit ; — Bigotry, or the Cheerful Instructor; — the Polite Repository of Abuse; — Blood, being a Collection of Light Essays. Others were sheer ludicrousness and extravagance, as the Pleasing Ancestor ; the Silent Companion ; the Tart ; the Leg of Beef, by a Layman ; the Ingenious Hat- band ; the Boots of Bliss ; the Occasional Diner ; the Tooth-ache ; Recollections of a Very Unpleasant Nature ; Thoughts on Taking up a Pair of Snuffers ; Thoughts on a Barouche-box ; Thoughts on a Hill of Considerable Eminence; Meditations on a Pleas- ing Idea; Materials for Drinking; the Knocker, No. 1 ; — the Hippopotamus entered at Stationers 1 Hall ; the Piano-forte of Paulus yEmilius; the Seven Sleepers at Cards; the Arabian Nights on Horse- back : — with an infinite number of other mortal mur- ders of common sense, which rose to " push us from our stools," and which none but the wise or good- natured would think of enjoying. n 2 THE INDICATOR. H._A WORD ON TRANSLATION FROM THE POETS. Intelligent men of no scholarship, on reading Horace, Theocritus, and other poets, through the me- dium of translation, have often wondered how those writers obtained their glory. And they well might. The translations are no more like the original, than a walking-stick is like a flowering bough.; It is the same with the versions of Euripides, of iEschylus, of Sophocles, of Petrarch, of Boileau, &c. &c, and in many respects of Homer. Perhaps we could not give the reader a more brief, yet complete specimen of the way in which bad translations are made, than by selecting a well-known passage from Shakspeare, and turning it into the common-place kind of poetry that flourished so widely among us till of late years. Take the passage, for instance, where the lovers in the Merchant of Venice seat themselves on a bank by moonlight : — How sweet the moonlight sleeps upon this bank! Here will we sit, and let the sounds of music Creep in our ears ; soft stillness, and the night, Become the touches of sweet harmony. Now a foreign translator, of the ordinary kind, would dilute and take all taste and freshness out of this draught of poetry, in a style somewhat like the following : — FIRE-SIDES. With what a charm, the moon, serene and bright, Lends on the bank its soft reflected light ! Sit we, I pray; and let us sweetly hear The strains melodious with a raptured ear ; For soft retreats, and night's impressive hour, To harmony impart di vinest power. III.— AUTUMNAL COMMENCEMENT OF FIRES— MANTLE-PIECES— APARTMENTS FOR STUDY. How pleasant it is to have fires again ! We have not time to regret summer, when the cold fogs begin to force us upon the necessity of a new kind of warmth ; — a warmth not so fine as sunshine, but, as manners go, more sociable. The English get together over their fires, as the Italians do in their summer-shade. We do not enjoy our sunshine as we ought ; our climate seems to render us almost unaware that the weather is fine, when it really becomes so : but for the same rea- son, we make as much of our winter, as the anti-social habits that have grown upon us from other causes will allow. And for a similar reason, the southern European is unprepared for a cold day. The houses in many parts of Italy are summer-houses, unprepared for winter; so that when a fit of cold weather comes, the dismayed inhabitant, walking and shivering about with a little brazier in his hands, presents an awkward image of insufficiency and perplexity. A few of our fogs, shutting up the sight of every thing out of THE INDICATOR. doors, and making the trees and the eaves of the houses drip like rain, would admonish him to get warm in good earnest. If " tlie web of our life" is always to be " of a mingled yarn,"" a good warm hearth-rug is not the worst part of the manufacture. Here we are then again, with our fire before us, and our books on each side. What shall we do ? Shall we take out a Life of somebody, or a Theo- critus, or Petrarch, or Ariosto, or Montaigne, or Mar- cus Aurelius, or Moliere, or Shakspeare who includes them all ? Or shall we read an engraving from Poussin or Raphael ? Or shall we sit with tilted chairs, planting our wrists upon our knees, and toast- ing the up-turned palms of our hands, while we dis- course of manners and of man's heart and hopes, with at least a sincerity, a good intention, and good- nature, that shall warrant what we say with the sin- cere, the good-intentioned, and the good-natured. Ah — take care. You see what that old-looking saucer is, with a handle to it ? It is a venerable piece of earthenware, which may have been worth to an Athenian, about two-pence ; but to an author, is worth a great deal more than ever he could — deny for it. And yet he would deny it too. It will fetch his imagination more than ever it fetched potter or penny-maker. Its little shallow circle overflows for him with the milk and honey of a thousand pleasant associations. This is one of the uses of having man- tle-pieces. You may often see on no very rich man- tle-piece a representative body of all the elements APART3IEXTS FOR STUDY. physical and intellectual — a shell for the sea, a stuffed bird or some feathers for the air, a curious piece of mineral for the earth, a glass of water with some flowers in it for the visible process of creation, — a cast from sculpture for the mind of man ; — and un- derneath all, is the bright and ever-springing fire, running up through them heavenwards, like hope tli rough materiality. We like to have any little curiosity of the mantle-piece kind within our reach and inspection. For the same reason, we like a small study, where we are almost in contact with our books. We like to feel them about us ; — to be in the arms of our mistress Philosophy, rather than see her at a dis_ tance. To have a huge apartment for a study is like lying in the great bed at Ware, or being snug on a mile-stone upon Hounslow Heath. It is space and physical activity, not repose and concentration. It is fit only for grandeur and ostentation, — for those who have secretaries, and are to be approached like gods in a temple. The Archbishop of Toledo, no doubt, wrote his homilies in a room ninety feet long. The Marquis Marialva must have been approached by (iil Bias through whole ranks of glittering authors, standing at due distance. But Ariosto, whose mind could fly out of its nest over all nature, wrote over the house he built, " jxiri'C i, seel apfa mihi " — small, but suited to me. However, it is to be observed, that he could not afford a larger. He was a Duode- narian, in that respect, like ourselves. We do not know how our ideas of a study might expand with our THE INDICATOR. walls. Montaigne, who was Montaigne " of that ilk" and lord of a great chateau, had a study " sixteen paces in diameter, with three noble and free pros- pects." He congratulates himself, at the same time, on its circular figure, evidently from a feeling allied to the one in favour of smallness. " The figure of my study," says he, " is round, and has no more flat (bare) wall, than what is taken up by my table and my chairs ; so that the remaining parts of the circle present me with a view of all my books at once, set upon five degrees of shelves round about me."" {Cot- ton's Montaigne, B. 3. ch. 3.) A great prospect we hold to be a very disputable advantage, upon the same reasoning as before ; but we like to have some green boughs about our windows, and to fancy ourselves as much as possible in the country, when we are not there. Milton expressed a wish with regard to his study, extremely suitable to our present purpose. He would have the lamp in it seen; thus letting others into a share of his enjoy- ments, by the imagination of them. And let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft outwatch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes ; or unsphere The Spirit of Plato, to unfold What world or what vast regions hold The immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook. There is a fine passionate burst of enthusiasm oil ACONTIUS'S APPLE. 9 the subject of a study, in Fletcher's play of the Elder Brother, Act 1, Scene 2 : Sordid and dunghill minds, composed of earth, In that gross element fix all their happiness : But purer spirits, purged and refined, Shake off" that clog of human frailty. Give me Leave to enjoy myself. / That place, that does Contain my hooks, the best companions, is To me a glorious court, where hourly I Converse with the old sages and philosophers ; And sometimes for variety I confer With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels ; Calling their victories, if unjustly got, Unto a strict account; and in my fancy, Deface their ill-placed statues. Can 1 then Part with such constant pleasures, to embrace Uncertain vanities? No, be it your care To augment a heap of wealth : it shall be mine To increase in knowledge. Lights there for my study. IV ACOxXTIUS'S APPLE. Acontius was a youth of the island of Cea (now Zia), who at the sacrifices in honour of Diana fell in love with the beautiful virgin, Cydippe. Unfortu- nately she was so much above him in rank, that he had no hope of obtaining her hand in the usual wa\ . but the wit of a lover helped him to an expedient. There was a law in Cea, that any oath, pronounced in the temple of Diana, was irrevocably binding. Acon- b3 10 THE INDICATOR. tius got an apple, and writing some words upon it, pitched it into Cydippe's bosom. The words were these : MA THN APTEMIN AKONTIfi TAMOTMAI. By Dian, I will marry Acontius. Or as a poet has Avritten them : Juro tibi saneta? per mystica sacra Diana?, Me tibi venturam comitem, sponsamque futuram. I swear by holy Dian, I will be Thy bride betrothed, and bear thee company. Cydippe read, and married herself. — It is said that she was repeatedly on the eve of being married to another person ; but her imagination, in the shape of the Goddess, as often threw her into a fever ; and the lover, whose ardour and ingenuity had made an im- pression upon her, was made happy. Aristaenetus in his Epistles calls the apple Huduvtov /xn^ov, a Cretan apple, which is supposed to mean a quince; or as others thinks an orange, or a citron. But the apple was, is, and must be, a true, unsophisticated apple. Nothing else would have suited. " The apples, me- thought, 11 says Sir Philip Sydney of his heroine in the Arcadia, " fell down from the trees to do homage to the apples of her breast. 11 The idea seems to have originated with Theocritus (Idyl. 27. v. 50, edit. Valckenaer), from whom it was copied by the Italian writers. It makes a lovely figure in one of the most famous passages of Ariosto, where he describes the beauty of Alcina, (Orlando Furioso, Canto 7. st. 14) — ACONTIUS'S APPLE. 11 Bianca neve e il bej collo, e'l petto latte : II collo e tondo, il petto colmo e largo : Due pome acerbe, e pur d'avorio fatte, Vengono e van come onda al primo margo, Quando piacevole aura il mar combatte. Her bosom is like milk, her neck like snow ; A rounded neck; a bosom, where you see Two crisp young ivory apples come and go, Like waves that on the shore beat tenderly, When a sweet air is ruffling to and fro. And after him, Tasso, in his fine ode on the Golden Age:— Allor tra fiori e linfe Traean dolci carole (ili Amoretti senz' archi e senza faci : Sedean pastori e ninfe Meschiando a le parole Vezzi e susurri, ed ai susurri i baci Strettamente tenaci. La verginella ignude Scopria sue fresche rose Ch' or tien nel velo ascose, E le pome del seno, acerbe e crude; E spesso o in flume o in lago Scherzar si vide con 1' am at a il vago. Then among streams and flowers, The little Winged Powers Went singing carols, without torch or bow; The nymphs and shepherds sat Mingling with innocent chat Sports and low whispers, and with whispers low Kisses that would not go. 12 THE INDICATOR. The maiden, budding o'er, Kept not her bloom uneyed, Which now a veil must hide, Nor the crisp apples which her bosom bore : And oftentimes in river or in lake, The lover and his love their merry bath would take. Honi soit qui mal y pense. V.— GODIVA. This is the lady who, under the title of Countess of Coventry, used to make such a figure in our childhood upon some old pocket-pieces of that city. We hope she is in request there still ; otherwise the inhabitants deserve to be sent from Coventry. That city was famous in saintly legends for the visit of the eleven thousand virgins, — an " incredible number," quoth Selden. But the eleven thousand virgins have vanished with their credibility, and a noble-hearted woman of flesh and blood is Coventry's true immor- tality. The story of Godiva is not a fiction, as many sup- pose it. At least it is to be found in Matthew of Westminster, and is not of a nature to have been a mere invention. Her name, and that of her husband, Leofric, are mentioned in an old charter recorded by another early historian. That the story is omitted by Hume and others, argues little against it; for the latter are accustomed to confound the most interest- GODIVA. 13 ing anecdotes of times and manners with something below the dignity of history (a very absurd mistake) ; and Hume, of whose philosphy better things might have been expected, is notoriously less philosophical in his history than in any other of his works. A certain coldness of temperament, not unmixed with aristocratical pride, or at least with a great aversion from every thing like vulgar credulity, rendered his scepticism so extreme, that it became a sort of super- stition in turn, and blinded him to the claims of every species of enthusiasm, civil as well as religious. Mil- ton, Avith his poetical eyesight, saw better, when he meditated the history of his native country. We do not remember whether he relates the present story ; but we remember well, that at the beginning of his fragment on that subject, he says he shall relate doubtful stories as well as authentic ones, for the be- nefit of those, if no others, who will know how to make use of them, namely, the poets.* We have faith, however, in the story ourselves. It has in- nate evidence enough for us, to give full weight to that of the old annalist. Imagination can invent a good deal ; affection more : but affection can some- times do things, such as the tenderest imagination is * When Dr. Johnson, among his other impatient accusa- tions of our great republican, charged him with telling unwar- rantable stories in his history, he must have overlooked this announcement; and yet, if Ave recollect, it is but in the second page of the fragment. So hasty, and blind, and liable to be put to shame, is prejudice. 14 THE INDICATOR. not in the habit of inventing ; and this piece of noble- heartedness we believe to have been one of them. Leofric, Earl of Leicester, was the lord of a large feudal territory in the middle of England, of which Coventry formed a part. He lived in the time of Edward the Confessor; and was so eminently a feudal lord, that the hereditary greatness of his do- minion appears to have been singular even at that time, and to have lasted with an uninterrupted suc- cession from Ethelbald to the Conquest, — a period of more than three hundred years. He was a great and useful opponent of the famous Earl Goodwin. Whether it was owing to Leofric or not, does not appear, but Coventry was subject to a very oppres- sive tollage, by which it would seem that the feudal despot enjoyed the greater part of the profit of all marketable commodities. The progress of know- ledge has shewn us how abominable, and even how unhappy for all parties, is an injustice of this des- cription ; yet it gives one an extraordinary idea of a mind in those times, to see it capable of piercing through the clouds of custom, of ignorance, and even of self-interest, and petitioning the petty tyrant to forego such a privilege. This mind was Godiva's. The other sex, always more slow to admit reason through the medium of feeling, were then occupied to the full in their warlike habits. It was reserved for a woman to anticipate ages of liberal opinion, and to surpass them in the daring virtue of setting a principle above a custom. GODIVA. 15 Godiva entreated her lord to give up his fan- cied right ; but in vain. At last, wishing to put an end to her importunities, he told her, either in a spirit of bitter jesting, or with a playful raillery that could not be bitter with so sweet an earnestness, that he would give up his tax, provided she rode through the city of Coventry, naked. She took him at his word. One may imagine the astonishment of a fierce unlettered chieftain, not untinged with chivalry, at hearing a woman, and that too of the greatest delicacy and rank, maintaining seriously her inten- tion of acting in a manner contrary to all that was supposed fitting for her sex, and at the same time forcing upon him a sense of the very beauty of her conduct by its principled excess. It is proba- ble, that as he could not prevail upon her to give up her design, he had sworn some religious oath when he made his promise : but be this as it may, he took every possible precaution to secure her modesty from hurt. The people of Coventry were ordered to keep within doors, to close up all their windows and outlets, and not to give a glance into the streets upon pain of death. The day came ; and Coventry, it may be imagined, was silent as death. The lady went out at the palace door, was set on horseback, and at the same time divested of her wrapping garment, as if she had been going into a bath ; then taking the fillet from her head, she let down her long and lovely tresses, which poured around her body like a veil ; and so, with only her white legs remain- 16 THE INDICATOR. ing conspicuous, took her gentle way through the streets.* What scene can be more touching to the imagination — beauty, modesty, feminine softness, a daring sym- pathy ; an extravagance, producing by the nobleness of its object and the strange gentleness of its means, the grave and profound effect of the most reverend cus- tom. We may suppose the scene taking place in the warm noon ; the doors all shut, the windows closed ; the Earl and his court serious and wondering ; the other inhabitants, many of them gushing with grate- ful tears, and all reverently listening to hear the foot- steps of the horse ; and lastly, the lady herself, with a downcast but not a shamefaced eye, looking towards the earth through her flowing locks, and riding through the dumb and deserted streets, like an angelic spirit. It was an honourable superstition in that part of the country, that a man who ventured to look at the fair saviour of his native town, was said to have been struck blind. But the vulgar use to which this superstition has been turned by some writers of late * " Nuda," says Matthew of Westminster, " equum ascen- dens, crines capitis et trieas dissolvens, corpus suum totura, praeter crura candidissima, inde velavit." See Selden's Notes to the Polyolbion of Drayton : Song 13. It is Selden from whom we learn, that Leofric was Earl of Leicester, and the other particulars of him mentioned above. The Earl was buried at Coventry, his Countess most probably in the same tomb. MEMORIES OF THE METROPOLIS. 17 times, is not so honourable. The whole story is as unvulgar and as sweetly serious, as can be con- ceived. Drayton has not made so much of this subject as might have been expected ; yet what he says is said well and earnestly : ' Coventry at length From her small mean regard, recovered state and strength ; Bv Leofric her lord, vet in base bondage held, The people from her marts by tollage were expelled ; Whose duchess which desired this tribute to release, Their freedom often begged. The duke, to make her cease, Told her, that if she would his loss so far enforce, His will was, she should ride stark naked upon a horse By daylight through the street : which certainly ho thought In her heroic breast so deeply would have wrought, That in her former suit she would have left to deal. But that most princely dame, as one devoured with zeal, Went on, and by that mean the city clearly freed. VI.— PLEASANT MEMORIES CONNECTED, WITH VARIOUS PARTS OF THE METROPOLIS. One of the best secrets of enjoyment is the art of cultivating pleasant associations. It is an art, that of necessity increases witli the stock of our knowledge; and though in acquiring our knowledge we must en- counter disagreeable associations also, yet if we secure a reasonable quantity of health by the way, these will be far less in number than the agreeable ones : 18 THE INDICATOR. for unless the circumstances which gave rise to the associations press upon us, it is only from want of health that the power of throwing off these burden- some images becomes suspended. And the beauty of this art is, that it does not insist upon pleasant materials to work on. Nor indeed does health. Health will give us a vague sense of delight, in the midst of objects that would tease and oppress us during sickness. But healthy association peoples this vague sense with agreeable images. It will comfort us, even when a painful sympathy with the distresses of others becomes a part of the very health of our minds. For instance, we can never go through St. Giles's, but the sense of the extravagant inequalities in human condition presses more forcibly upon us; and yet some pleasant images are at hand, even there, to refresh it. They do not displace the others, so as to injure the sense of public duty which they excite ; they only serve to keep our spirits fresh for their task, and hinder them from running into despe- ration or hopelessness. In St. Giles's church lie Chapman, the earliest and best translator of Homer; and Andrew Marvell, the wit and patriot, whose poverty Charles the Second could not bribe. We are as sure to think of these two men, and of all the good and pleasure they have done to the world, as of the less happy objects about us. The steeple of the church itself, too, is a handsome one ; and there is a flock of pigeons in that neighbourhood, which we have stood with great pleasure to see careering about it of a MEMORIES OF THE METROPOLIS. 19 fine afternoon, when a western wind had swept back the smoke towards the city, and showed the white of the stone steeple piercing up into a blue sky. So much for St. Giles's, whose very name is a nuisance with some. It is dangerous to speak disrespectfully of old districts. Who would suppose that the Borough was the most classical ground in the metropolis ! And yet it is undoubtedly so. The Globe theatre was there, of which Shakspeare himself was a proprietor, and for which he wrote some of his plays. Globe-lane, in which it stood, is still extant, we believe, under that name. It is probable that he lived near it: it is certain that he must have been much there. It is also certain, that on the Borough side of the river, then and still called the Bank side, in the same lodging, having the same wardrobe, and some say, with other participations more remarkable, lived Beaumont and Fletcher. In the Borough also, at St. Saviour's, lie Fletcher and Massinger, in one grave ; in the same church, under a monu- ment and effigy, lies Chaucer's contemporary, Gower ; and from an inn in the Borough, the existence of which is still boasted, and the site pointed out by a picture and inscription, Chaucer sets out his pil- grims and himself on their famous road to Canter- bury. To return over the water, who would expect any thing poetical from East Smithfield ? Yet there was born the most poetical even of poets, Spenser. Pope was born within the sound of Bow-bell, in a street no SO THE INDICATOK. less anti-poetical than Lombard-street. Gray was born in Cornhill ; and Milton in Bread-street, Cheap- side. The presence of the same great poet and patriot has given happy memories to many parts of the me- tropolis. He lived in St. Bride^s Church-yard, Fleet- street ; in Aldersgate-street, in Jewin-street, in Bar- bican, in Bartholomew-close ; in Holborn, looking back to LincolnVinn-Fields ; in Holborn, near Red Lion-square ; in Scotland-yard ; in a house looking to St. James^ Park, now belonging to an eminent writer on legislation,* and lately occupied by a cele- brated critic and metaphysician ;f and he died in the Artillery- walk, Bunhill-fields ; and was buried in St. Giles's, Cripplegate. Ben Jonson, who was born " in Hartshorne-lane, near Charing-cross," was at one time " master*" of a theatre in Barbican. He appears also to have visited a tavern called the Sun and Moon, in Aldersgate- street ; and is known to have frequented, with Beau- mont and others, the famous one called the Mermaid, which was in Cornhill. Beaumont, writing to him from the country, in an epistle full of jovial wit, says,— The sun, which doth the greatest comfort bring To absent friends, because the self-same thing They know they see, however absent, is Here our best haymaker : forgive me this : It is our country style : — In this warm shine I lie, and dream of your full Mermaid wine. ^F tF ifc t*F vP * Mr. Bentham. t Mr. Hazlitt- MEMORIES OF THE METROPOLIS. 2] Methinks the little wit I had, is lost, Since I saw you ; for wit is like a rest Held up at tennis, which men do the best With the best gamesters. What things have we seen Done at the Mermaid ! Hard words that have been So nimble, and so full of subtle flame, As if that every one from whom they came Had meant to put his whole wit in a jest, And had resolved to live a fool the rest Of his dull life. Then, when there hath been thrown Wit, able enough to justify the town For three days past, — wit, that might warrant be For the whole city to talk foolishly Till that were cancelled, and when that was gone, We left an air behind us, which alone Was able to make the two next companies Right witty ; — though but downright fools, mere wise. The other celebrated resort of the great wits of that time, was the Devil tavern, in Fleet-street, close to Temple-bar. Ben Jonson lived also in Bartholo- mew-close, where Milton afterwards lived. It is in the passage from the cloisters of Christ's Hospital into St. Bartholomew's. Aubrey gives it as a com- mon opinion, that at the time when Jonson's father- in-law made him help him in his business of brick- layer, he worked with his own hands upon the Lin- colnVinn garden wall, which looks towards Chancery- lane, and which seems old enough to have some of his illustrious brick and mortar remaining. Under the cloisters in Christ's Hospital (which stands in the heart of the city unknown to most per- sons, like a house kept invisible for young and learned ~~ THE INDICATOR. eyes)* lie buried a multitude of persons of all ranks ; for it was once a monastery of Grey Friars. Among them is John of Bourbon, one of the prisoners taken at the battle of Agincourt. Here also lies Thomas Burdett, ancestor of the present Sir Francis, who was put to death in the reign of Edward the Fourth, for wishing the horns of a favourite white stag which the king had killed, in the body of the person who advised him to do it. And here too (a sufficing contrast) lies Isabella, wife of Edward the Second, — She-wolf of France, with unrelenting- fangs, Who tore the bowels of her mangled mate. — Gray. Her " mate's"" heart was buried with her, and placed upon her bosom ! a thing that looks like the fantastic incoherence of a dream. It is well we did not know of her presence when at school ; otherwise, after read- ing one of Shakspeare's tragedies, we should have run twice as fast round the cloisters at night-time as we used. Camden, " thenourrice of antiquitfe," received part of his education in this school ; and here also, not to mention a variety of others known in the literary world, were bred two of the best and most deep-spirited writers of the present day,f whose visits to the cloisters we well remember. In a palace on the site of Hatton-garden, died * It has since been unveiled, by an opening in Newgate- street. t Coleridge and Lamb. MEMORIES OF THE METllorOLIS. 2'o John of Gaunt. Brook-house, at the corner of the street of that name in Holborn, was the residence of the celebrated Sir Fulke Greville, Lord Brook, the " friend of Sir Philip Sidney. 11 In the same street, died, by a voluntary death of poison, that extraor- dinary person, Thomas Chatterton, — The sleepless boy, who perished in his pride. Wordsworth. He was buried in the workhouse in Shoe-lane ; — a circumstance, at which one can hardly help feeling a movement of indignation. Yet what could beadles and parish officers know about such a being ? No more than Horace Walpole. In Gray's-inn lived, and in Gray's-inn garden meditated, Lord Bacon. In Southampton-row, Holborn, Cowper was fellow- clerk to an attorney with the future Lord Chancellor Thurlow. At one of the Fleet-street corners of Chancery-lane, Cowley, we believe, was born. In Salisburv-court, Fleet-street, was the house of Thomas Sackville, first Earl of Dorset, the precur- sor of Spenser, and one of the authors of the first regular English tragedy. On the demolition of this house, part of the ground was occupied by the celebrated theatre built after the Restoration, at which Betterton performed, and of which Sir William Davenant was manager. Lastly, here was the house and printing-office of Richardson. In Bolt-court, not far distant, lived Dr. Johnson, who resided also some time in the Temple. A list of 24 THE INDICATOR. his numerous other residences is to be found in Boswell.* Congreve died in Surrey-street, in the Strand, at his own house. At the corner of Beaufort-buildings, was Lilly's, the perfumer, at whose house the Tatler was published. In Maiden-lane, Covent-garden, Voltaire lodged while in London, at the sign of the White Peruke. Tavis- tock-street was then, we believe, the Bond-street of the fashionable world; as Bow-street was before. The change of Bow-street from fashion to the police, with the theatre still in attendance, reminds one of the spirit of the Beggar's Opera. Button's Coffee- house, the resort of the wits of Queen Anne's time, was in Russell-street, near where the Hummums now stand ; and in the same street, at the south- west corner of Bow-street, was the tavern where Dry- den held regal possession of the arm-chair. The whole of Covent-garden is classic ground, from its asso- ciation with the dramatic and other wits of the times of Dryden and Pope. Butler lived, perhaps died, in Rose-street, and was buried in Covent-garden church- yard ; where Peter Pindar the other day followed him. In Leicester-square, on the site of Miss Lin- wood's exhibition and other houses, was the town- mansion of the Sydneys, Earls of Leicester, the family of Sir Philip and Algernon Sydney. In the same • The Temple must have had many eminent inmates. Among them it is helieved was Chaucer, who is also said, upon the strength of an old record, to have been fined two shillings for beating a Franciscan friar in Fleet-street. MEMORIES OF THE METROPOLIS. 25 square lived Sir Joshua Reynolds and Hogarth. Dryden lived and died in Gerrard-street, in a house which looked backwards into the garden of Lei- cester-house. Newton lived in St. MartinVstreet, on the south side of the square. Steele lived in Bury-street, St. James's : he furnishes an illustrious precedent for the loungers in St. James's-street, where a scandal-monger of those times delighted to detect Isaac Bickerstaff in the person of Cap- tain Steele, idling before the coffee-houses, and jerking his leg and stick alternately against the pavement. We have mentioned the birth of Ben Jonson near Charing-cross. Spenser died at an inn, where he put up on his arrival from Ireland, in King- street, Westminster, — the same which runs at the back of Parliament-street to the Abbey. Sir Thomas More lived at Chelsea. Addison lived and died in Holland-house, Kensington, now the residence of the accomplished nobleman who takes his title from it. In Brook-street, Grosvenor-square, lived Handel ; and in Bentinck-street, Manchester-square, Gibbon. We have omitted to mention that De Foe kept a hosier's shop in Cornhill ; and that on the site of the present Southampton-buildings, Chancery-lane, stood the mansion of the Wriothesleys, Earls of Southampton, one of whom was the celebrated friend of Shakspeare. But what have we not omitted also ? No less an illustrious head than the Boar's, in East- cheap, — the BoarVhead tavern, the scene of FalstafTs revels. We believe the place is still marked out by vol. i. c 26 THE INDICATOR. the sign.* But who knows not Eastcheap and the Boar's head ? Have we not all been there, time out of mind ? And is it not a more real as well as notorious thing to us than the London tavern, or the Crown and Anchor, or the Hummums, or White's, or What's-his-name's, or any other of your contem- porary and fleeting taps ? But a line or two, a single sentence in an author of former times, Avill often give a value to the com- monest object. It not only gives us a sense of its duration, but we seem to be looking at it in company with its old observer; and we are reminded, at the same time, of all that was agreeable in him. We never saw, for instance, the gilt ball at the top of the College of Physicians,f without thinking of that pleasant mention of it in Garth's Dispensary, and of all the wit and generosity of that amiable man : — Not far from that most celebrated place,J Where angry Justice shews her awful face, Where little villains must submit to fate, That great ones may enjoy the world in state ; There stands a dome, majestic to the sight, And sumptuous arches bear its oval height ; A golden globe, placed high with artful skill, Seems, to the distant sight, a gilded pill. Gay, in describing the inconvenience of the late * It has lately disappeared, in the alterations occasioned by the new London Bridge. + In Warwick-lane, now a manufactory. J The Old Bailey. MEMORIES OF THE METROPOLIS. 27 narrow part of the Strand, by St. Clement's, took away a portion of its unpleasantness to the next generation, by associating his memory with the objects in it. We did not miss without regret even the " combs" that hung " dangling in your face"" at a shop which he describes, and which was standing till the late improvements took place. The rest of the pic- ture is still alive. {Trivia, b. III.) Where the fair columns of St. Clement stand, Whose straitened bounds encroach upon the Strand; Where the low pent-house bows the walker's head, And the rough pavement wounds the yielding tread ; Where not a post protects the narrow space, And strung in twines, combs dangle in thy face ; Summon at once thy courage, rouse thy care ; Stand firm, look back, be resolute, beware ! Forth issuing from steep lanes, the colliers' steeds Draff the black load ; another cart succeeds ; Team follows team, crowds heaped on crowds appear, And wait impatient till the road grow clear. There is a touch in the Winter Picture in the same poem, which every body will recognise : — At White's the harnessed chairman idly stands, And swings around his waist his tingling hands. The bewildered passenger in the Seven Dials is compared to Theseus in the Cretan labyrinth. And thus we come round to the point at which we began. Uefore we rest our wings, however, we must take another dart over the city, as far as Stratford at Bow, c 2 28 THE INDICATOR. where, with all due tenderness for boarding-school French, a joke of Chaucer's has existed as a piece of local humour for nearly four hundred and fifty years. Speaking of the Prioress, who makes such a delicate figure among his Canterbury Pilgrims, he tells us, in the list of her accomplishments, that — French she spake full faire and featously ; adding with great gravity — After the school of Stratforde atte Bowe ; For French of Paris was to her unknowe. VII.— ADVICE TO THE MELANCHOLY. If you are melancholy for the first time, you will find upon a little inquiry, that others have been melancholy many times, and yet are cheerful now. If you have been melancholy many times, recollect that you have got over all those times; and try if you cannot find out means of getting over them better. Do not imagine that mind alone is concerned in your bad spirits. The body has a great deal to do with these matters. The mind may undoubtedly affect the body ; but the body also affects the mind. There is a re-action between them ; and by lessening it on either side, you diminish the pain on both. If you are melancholy, and know not why, be assured it must arise entirely from some physical ADVICE TO THE MELAXCHOLY. 29 weakness ; and do your best to strengthen yourself. The blood of a melancholy man is thick and slow ; the blood of a lively man is clear and quick. En- deavour therefore to put your blood in motion. Exercise is the best way to do it ; but you may also help yourself, in moderation, with wine, or other excitements. Only you must take care so to propor- tion the use of any artificial stimulus, that it may not render the blood languid by over-exciting it at first ; and that you may be able to keep up, by the natural stimulus only, the help you have given yourself by the artificial. Regard the bad weather as somebody has advised us to handle the nettle. In proportion as you are delicate with it, it will make you feel ; but Grasp it like a man of mettle, And the rogue obeys you well. Do not the less however, on that account, take all reasonable precaution and arms against it, — your boots, &c. against wet feet, and your great coat or umbrella against the rain. It is timidity and flight, which are to be deprecated, not proper armour for the battle. The first will lay you open to defeat, on the least attack. A proper use of the latter will only keep you strong for it. Plato had such a high opinion of exercise, that he said it was a cure even for a wounded conscience. Nor is this opinion a dangerous one. For there is no system, even of su- perstition, however severe or cruel in other matters, 30 THE INDICATOR. that does not allow a wounded conscience to be curable by some means. Nature will work out its rights and its kindness some way or other, through the worst sophistications ; and this is one of the in- stances in which she seems to raise herself above all contingencies. The conscience may have been wound- ed by artificial or by real guilt ; but then she will tell it in those extremities, that even the real guilt may have been produced by circumstances. It is her kindness alone, which nothing can pull down from its predominance. See fair play between cares and pastimes. Dimi- nish your artificial wants as much as possible, whether you are rich or poor; for the rich man's, increas- ing by indulgence, are apt to outweigh even the abundance of his means ; and the poor man's dimi- nution of them renders his means the greater. On the other hand, increase all your natural and heal- thy enjoyments. Cultivate your afternoon fire-side, the society of your friends, the company of agree- able children, music, theatres, amusing books, an urbane and generous gallantry. He who thinks any innocent pastime foolish, has either to grow wiser or is past the ability to do so. In the one case, his notion of being childish is itself a childish notion. In the other, his importance is of so feeble and hollow a cast, that it dare not move for fear of tumbling to pieces. A friend of ours, who knows as well as any man how to unite industry with enjoyment, has set an ADVICE TO THE MELANCHOLY. 31 excellent example to those who can afford the leisure, by taking two Sabbaths every week instead of one, — not Methodistical Sabbaths, but days of rest which pay true homage to the Supreme Being by enjoying his creation. One of the best pieces of advice for an ailing spirit is to go to no sudden extremes — to adopt no great and extreme changes in diet or other habits. They may make a man look very great and philosophic to his own mind ; but they are not fit for a being, to whom custom has been truly said to be a second nature. Dr. Cheyne may tell us that a drowning man cannot too quickly get himself out of the water ; but the analogy is not good. If the water has be- come a second habit, he might almost as well say that a fish could not get too quickly out of it. Upon this point, Bacon says that we should dis- continue what we think hurtful by little and little. And he quotes with admiration the advice of Celsus : — that " a man do vary and interchange contraries, but rather with an inclination to the more benign ex- treme.'"/ " Use fasting," he says, " and full eating, but rather full eating; watching and sleep, but rather sleep ; sitting and exercise, but rather exercise, and the like ; so shall nature be cherished, and yet taught masteries." We cannot do better than conclude with one or two other passages out of the same Essay, full of his usual calm wisdom. " If you fly physic in health altogether, it will be too strange for your body when 32 THE INDICATOR. you need it." (He means that a general state of health should not make us over-confident and con- temptuous of physic ; but that we should use it moderately if required, that it may not be too strange to us when required most.) " If you make it too familiar, it will have no extraordinary effect when sickness cometh. I commend rather some diet for certain seasons, than frequent use of physic, except it be grown into a custom ; for those diets alter the body more, and trouble it less." " As for the passions and studies of the mind,' 1 says he, " avoid envy, anxious fears, anger fretting inwards, subtle and knotty inquisitions, joys and exhilarations in excess, sadness not communicated'" (for as he says finely, somewhere else, they who keep their griefs to themselves, are " cannibals of their own hearts' 11 ). " Entertain hopes ; mirth rather than joy ;" (that is to say, cheerfulness rather than boisterous merriment;) " variety of delights rather than surfeit of them ; wonder and admiration, and therefore novelties ; studies that fill the mind with splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and contemplations of nature." VIII.— CHARLES BRANDON, AND MARY QUEEN OF FRANCE. The fortune of Charles Brandon was remarkable. He was an honest man, yet the favourite of a despot. CHARLES BRANDON. 33 He was brave, handsome, accomplished, possessed even delicacy of sentiment ; yet he retained the des- pot's favour to the last. He even had the perilous honour of being beloved by his master's sister, with- out having the least claim to it by birth ; and yet in- stead of its destroying them both, he was allowed to be her husband. Charles Brandon was the son of Sir William Bran- don, whose skull was cleaved at Bos worth by Richard the Third, while bearing the standard of the Duke of Richmond. Richard dashed at the standard, and appears to have been thrown from his horse by Sir William, whose strength and courage however could not save him from the angry desperation of the king. But Time, whose wheeles with various motion runne, Repayes this service fully to his sonne, Who marries Richmond's daughter, born betweene Two royal parents, and endowed a queene. Sir John Beaumont" s Bosivorth Field. The father's fate must have had its effect in securing the fortunes of the son. Young Brandon grew up with Henry the Seventh's children, and was the playmate of his future king and bride. The prince, as he increased in years, seems to have carried the idea of Brandon with him like that of a second self; and the princess, whose affection was not hindered from becoming personal by any thing sisterly, nor on the other hand allowed to waste itself in too equal a familiarity, may have felt a double impulse given to it by the improbability of her ever being suffered to c 3 34 THE INDICATOR. become his wife. Royal females in most countries have certainly none of the advantages of their rank, whatever the males may have. Mary was destined to taste the usual bitterness of their lot ; but she was repaid. At the conclusion of the war with France, she was married to the old king Louis the Twelfth, who witnessed from a couch the exploits of her future husband at the tournaments. The doings of Charles Brandon that time were long remembered. The love between him and the young queen was suspected by the French court ; and he had just seen her enter Paris in the midst of a gorgeous procession, like Au- rora come to marry Tithonus. Brandon dealt his chivalry about him accordingly with such irresistible vigour, that the Dauphin, in a fit of jealousy, se- cretly introduced into the contest a huge German, who was thought to be of a strength incomparable. But Brandon grappled with him, and with seeming disdain and detection so pummelled him about the head with the hilt of his sword, that the blood burst through the vizor. Imagine the feelings of the queen, when he came and made her an offering- of the Ger- man's shield. Drayton, in his Heroical Epistles, we know not on what authority, tells us, that on one occasion during the combats, perhaps this particular one, she could not help crying out, " Hurt not my sweet Charles," or words to that effect. He then pleasantly represents her as doing away suspicion by falling to commendations of the Dauphin, and affecting not to know who the conquering knight CHARLES BRANDON. 35 was ; — an ignorance not very probable ; but the knights sometimes disguised themselves purposely. The old King did not long survive his festivities. He died in less than three months, on the first day of the year 1515; and Brandon, who had been created Duke of Suffolk the year before, re-appeared at the French court, with letters of condolence, and more persuasive looks. The royal widow was young, beautiful, and rich ; and it was likely that her hand would be sought by many princely lovers ; but she was now resolved to reward herself for her sacrifice, and in less than two months she privately married her first love. The queen, says a homely but not mean poet (Warner, in his Albion's England} thought that to cast too many doubts Were oft to erre no lesse Than to be rash : and thus no doubt The gentle queen did guesse, That seeing this or that, at first Or last, had likelyhood, A man so much a manly man Were dastardly withstood; Then kisses revelled on their lips, To either's equal good. Henry shewed great anger at first, real or pre- tended : but lie had not then been pampered into unbearable self-will by a long reign of tyranny. He forgave his sister and friend ; and they were publicly wedded at Greenwich on the 13th of May. It was during the festivities on this occasion (at 36 THE INDICATOR. least we believe so, for we have not the chivalrous Lord Herbert's life of Henry the Eighth by us, which is most probably the authority for the story ; and being a good thing, it is omitted, as usual, by the his- torians) that Charles Brandon gave a proof of the fineness of his nature, equally just towards himself, and conciliating towards the jealous. He appeared, at a tournament, on a saddle-cloth, made half of frize and half of cloth of gold, and with a motto on each half. One of the mottos ran thus : — Cloth of frize, be not too bold, Though thou art match' d with eloth of gold. The other : — Cloth of gold, do not despise, Though thou art matched with cloth of frize. It is this beautiful piece of sentiment which puts a heart into his history, and makes it worthy remem- bering. IX.— ON THE HOUSEHOLD GODS OF THE ANCIENTS. The Ancients had three kinds of Household Gods, — the Daimon (Daemon) or Genius, the Penates, and the Lares. The first was supposed to be a spirit allotted to every man from his birth, some say with a companion ; and that one of them was a suggester of HOUSEHOLD GODS. 37 good thoughts, and the other of evil. It seems, how- ever, that the Genius was a personification of the conscience, or rather of the prevailing impulses of the mind, or the other self of a man ; and it was in this sense most likely that Socrates condescended to speak of his well-known Daemon, Genius, or Familiar Spirit, who, as he was a good man, always advised him to a good end. The Genius was thought to paint ideas upon the mind in as lively a manner as if in a looking- glass ; upon which we chose which of them to adopt. Spenser, a deeply-learned as well as imaginative poet, describes it in one of his most comprehensive though not most poetical stanzas, as That celestial Powre, to whom the care Of life, and generation of all That lives, pertaine in charge particulare ; Who wondrous things concerning our welfare, And straunge phantomes doth lett us ofte foresee, And ofte of secret ills bids us beware : That is our Selfe, whom though we do not see, Yet each doth in himselfe it well perceive to bee. Therefore a God him sage antiquity Did wisely make. — Faerie Queetie, Book ii. st. 47. Of the belief in an Evil Genius, a celebrated ex- ample is furnished in Plutarch's account of Brutus's vision, of which Shakspeare has given so fine avers on (Julius Cces(i7', Act 4, Sc. J3). Beliefs of this kind seem traceable from one superstition to another, and in some instances are immediately so. But fear, and ignorance, and even the humility of knowledge are at 38 THE INDICATOR. hand to furnish them, where precedent is wanting. There is no doubt, however, that the Romans, who copied and in general vulgarized the Greek mytho- logy, took their Genius from the Greek Daimon : and as the Greek word has survived and taken shape in the common word Daemon, which by scornful refe- rence to the Heathen religion came at last to signify a Devil, so the Latin word Genius, not having been used by the translators of the Greek Testament, has survived with a better meaning, and is employed to express our most genial and intellectual faculties. Such and such a man is said to indulge his genius : — he has a genius for this and that art : — he has a noble genius, a fine genius, an original and peculiar genius. And as the Romans from attributing a genius to every man at his birth, came to attribute one to places and to soils, and other more comprehensive peculiarities, so we have adopted the same use of the term into our poetical phraseology. We speak also of the genius, or idiomatic peculiarity, of a language. One of the most curious and edifying uses of the word Genius took place in the English translation of the French Arabian Nights, which speaks of our old friends the Genie and the Genies. This is nothing: more than & the French word retained from the original translator, who applied the Roman word Genius to the Arabian Dive or Elf. One of the stories with which Pausanias has enli- vened his description of Greece, is relative to a Genius. He says, that one of the companions of Ulysses having HOUSEHOLD GODS. 39 been killed by the people of Temesa, they were fated to sacrifice a beautiful virgin every year to his manes. They were about to immolate one as usual, when Eu- thymus, a conqueror in the Olympic Games, touched with pity at her fate and admiration of her beauty, fell in love with her, and resolved to try if he could not put an end to so terrible a custom. He accord- ingly got permission from the state to marry her, pro- vided he could rescue her from her dreadful expectant. He armed himself, waited in the temple, and the Ge- nius appeared. It was said to have been of an ap- palling presence. Its shape was every way formidable, its colour of an intense black, and it was girded about with a wolf-skin. But Euthymus fought and con- quered it; upon which it fled madly, not only beyond the walls, but the utmost bounds of Temesa, and rushed into the sea. The Penates were Gods of the house and family. Collectively speaking, they also presided over cities, public roads, and at last over all places with which men were conversant. Their chief government how- ever was supposed to be over the most inner and secret part of the house, and the subsistence and welfare of its inmates. They were chosen at will out of the num- ber of the cods, as the Roman in modern times chose his favourite saint. In fact, they were only the higher gods themselves, descending into a kind of household familiarity. They were the personification of a parti- cular Providence. The most striking mention of the Penates which we can call to mind is in one of Virgil's 40 THE INDICATOR. most poetical passages. It is where they appear to iEneas, to warn him from Crete, and announce his destined empire in Italy. (Lib. in. \. 147.) Nox erat, et terris animalia somnus habebat. Effigies sacra? divi'.m, Phrygiique Penates, Quos mecum a Troja, mediisque ex ignibis urbis Extuleram, visi ante oculos adstare jacentis In somnis, multo manifesti lumine, qua se Plena per insertas fundebat luna fenestras. 'Twas night ; and sleep was on all living things. I lay, and saw before my very eyes Dread shapes of gods, and Phrygian deities, The great Penates ; whom with reverent joy I bore from out the heart of burning Troy. Plainly I saw them, standing in the light Which the moon poured into the room that night. And again, after they had addressed him, — Nee sopor illud erat ; sed coram agnoscere vultus, Velatasque comas, prsesentiaque ora videbar : Turn gelidus toto manabat corpore sudor. It was no dream : I saw them face to face, Their hooded hair; and felt them so before My being, that I burst at every pore. The Lares, or Lars, were the lesser and most fami- liar Household Gods ; and though their offices were afterwards extended a good deal, in the same way as those of the Penates, with whom they are often con- founded, their principal sphere was the fire-place. This was in the middle of the room ; and the statues of the Lares generally stood about it in little niches. HOUSEHOLD GODS. 41 They are said to have been in the shape of monkies ; more likely mannikins, or rude little human images. Some were made of wax, some of stone, and others doubtless of any material for sculpture. They were represented with good-natured grinning countenances, were clothed in skins, and had little dogs at their feet. Some writers make them the offspring of the goddess Mania, who presided over the spirits of the dead ; and suppose that originally they were the same as those spirits ; which is a very probable as well as agreeable superstition, the old nations of Italy having been ac- customed to bury their dead in their houses. Upon this supposition, the good or benevolent spirits were called Familiar Lares, and the evil or malignant ones Larvae and Lemures. Thus Milton, in his awful Hymn on the Nativity : — In consecrated earth, And on the holy hearth, The Lars and Lemures moan with midnight plaint. In urns and altars round, A drear and dying sound Affrights the Flamens at their service quaint; And the chill marble seems to sweat, While each peculiar Power foregoes his wonted seat. But Ovid tells a story of a gossiping nymph Lara, who having told Juno of her husband's amour with Juturna, was " sent to hell" by him, and courted by Mercury on the road ; the consequence of which was the birth of the Lares. This seems to have a natural reference enough to the gossiping over fire-places. 42 THE INDICATOR. It is impossible not to be struck with the resem- blance between these lesser Household Gods and some of the offices of our old English elves and fairies. Da- cier, in a note upon Horace (Lib. i., Od. 12) informs us, that in some parts of Languedoc, in his time, the fire-place was still called the Lar; and that the name was also given to houses. Herrick, a poet of the Anacreontic order in the time of Elizabeth, who was visited, perhaps more than any other, except Spenser, with a sense of the pleasantest parts of the ancient mythology, has written some of his lively little odes upon the Lares. We have not them by us at this moment, but we remember one beginning, — It was, and still my care is To worship you, the Lares. We take the opportunity of the Ear's being men- tioned in it, to indulge ourselves in a little poem of Martial's, very charming for its simplicity. It is an Epitaph on a child of the name of Erotion. Hie festinata requiescit Erotion umbra, Crimine quamfati sexta peremit hiems. Quisquis eris nostri post me regnator agelli, Manibus exiguis annua justa dato. Sic Lare perpetuo, sic turba sospite, solus Flebilis in terra sit lapis iste tua. THE EPITAPH OF EROTION. Underneath this greedy stone, Lies little sweet Erotion ; SOCIAL GENEALOGY. 48 Whom the fates, with hearts as cold, Nipt away at six years old. Thou, whoever thou may'st be, That hast this small field after me, Let the yearly rites he paid To her little slender shade; So shall no disease or jar Hurt thy house or chill thy Lar; But this tomb here be alone, The only melancholy stone. X.— SOCIAL GENEALOGY. It is a curious and pleasant thing to consider, that a link of personal acquaintance can be traced up from the authors of our own times to those of Shakspeare, and to Shakspeare himself. Ovid, in recording his intimacy with Propertius and Horace, regrets that he had only seen Virgil. (Trist. Lib. iv.,v. 51.) But still he thinks the sight of him worth remembering-. And Pope, when a child, prevailed on some friends to take him to a coffee-house which Dryden frequented, merely to look at him ; which he did, with great satis- faction. Now such of us as have shaken hands with a living poet, might be able to reckon up a series of connecting shakes, to the very hand that wrote of Hamlet, and of Falstaff, and of Desdemona. With some living poets, it is certain. There is Thomas Moore, for instance, who knew Sheridan. Sheridan knew Johnson, who was the friend of 44 THE INDICATOR. Savage, who knew Steele, who knew Pope. Pope was intimate with Congreve, and Congreve with Dryden. Dryden is said to have visited Milton. Milton is said to have known Davenant ; and to have been saved by him from the revenge of the restored court, in return for having saved Davenant from the revenge of the Commonwealth. But if the link between Dryden and Milton, and Milton and Dave- nant is somewhat apocryphal, or rather dependent on tradition (for Richardson the painter tells us the story from Pope, who had it from Betterton the actor, one of Davenant's company), it may be car- ried at once from Dryden to Davenant, with whom he was unquestionably intimate. Davenant then knew Hobbes, who knew Bacon, who knew Ben Jonson, who was intimate with Beaumont and Fletcher, Chapman, Donne, Drayton, Camden, Sei- dell, Clarendon, Sydney, Raleigh, and perhaps all the great men of Elizabeth's and James's time, the greatest of them all undoubtedly. Thus have we a link of " beamy hands" from our own times up to Shakspeare. In this friendly genealogy we have omitted the numerous side-branches or common friendships. It may be mentioned, however, in order not to omit Spenser, that Davenant resided some time in the family of Lord Brooke, the friend of Sir Philip Sydney. Spenser's intimacy with Sydney is men- tioned by himself in a letter, still extant, to Ga- briel Harvey. SOCIAL GENEALOGY. 45 We will now give the authorities for our intel- lectual pedigree. Sheridan is mentioned in Bosweil as being admitted to the celebrated club of which Johnson, Goldsmith, and others were members. He had just written the School for Scandal, which made him the more welcome. Of Johnson's friend- ship with Savage (we cannot help beginning the sen- tence with his favourite leading preposition), the well-known Life is an interesting record. It is said that in the commencement of their friendship, they sometimes wandered together about London for want of a lodging — more likely for Savage's want of it, and Johnson's fear of offending him by offering a share of his own. But we do not remember how this circumstance is related by Bosweil. Savage's intimacy with Steele is recorded in a pleasant anecdote, which he told Johnson. Sir Ri- chard once desired him, " with an air of the utmost importance,"" says his biographer, " to come very early to his house the next morning. Mr. Savage came as he had promised, found the chariot at the door, and Sir Richard waiting for him and ready to go out. What was intended, and whither they were to go, Savage could not conjecture, and was not willing to enquire, but immediately seated himself with Sir Richard. The coachman was ordered to drive, and they hurried with the utmost expedition to Hyde-park Corner, where they stopped at a petty tavern, and retired to a private room. Sir Richard then informed him that lie intended to publish a 46 THE INDICATOR. pamphlet, and that he had desired him to come thither that he might write for him. They soon sat down to the work. Sir Richard dictated, and Savage wrote, till the dinner that had been ordered was put upon the table. Savage was surprised at the mean- ness of the entertainment, and after some hesitation, ventured to ask for wine, which Sir Richard, not without reluctance, ordered to be brought. They then finished their dinner, and proceeded in their pamphlet, which they concluded in the afternoon. " Mr. Savage then imagined that his task was over, and expected that Sir Richard would call for the reckoning, and return home; but his expectations deceived him, for Sir Richard told him that he was without money, and that the pamphlet must be sold before the dinner could be paid for, and Savage was therefore obliged to go and offer their new production for sale for two guineas, which with some difficulty he obtained. Sir Richard then returned home, having retired that day only to avoid his creditors, and composed the pamphlet only to discharge his reck- oning." Steele's acquaintance with Pope, who wrote some papers for his Guardian, appears in the letters and other works of the wits of that time. Johnson sup- poses that it was his friendly interference, which attempted to bring Pope and Addison together after a jealous separation. Pope's friendship with Con- greve appears also in his letters. He also dedicated the Iliad to Congreve, over the heads of peers and SOCIAL GENEALOGY. 47 patrons. The dramatist, whose conversation most likely partook of the elegance and wit of his writings, and whose manners appear to have rendered him an universal favourite, had the honour, in his youth, of attracting the respect and regard of Dry den. He was publicly hailed by him as his successor, and affec- tionately bequeathed the care of his laurels. Dryden did not know who had been looking at him in the coffee-house. Already I am worn with cares and age, And just abandoning th' ungrateful stage ; Unprofitably kept at Heaven's expense, I live a rent-charge on his providence. But you, whom every Muse and Grace adorn, Whom I foresee to better fortune born, Be kind to my remains; and O defend, Against your judgment, your departed friend! Let not th' insulting foe my fame pursue, But shade those laurels which descend to you. Congreve did so with great tenderness. Dryden is reported to have asked Milton's permis- sion to turn his Paradise Lost into a rhyming tragedy, which he called the State of Innocence, or the Fall of Man ; a work, such as might be expected from such a mode of alteration. The venerable poet is said to have answered, " Aye, young man, you may tag my verses, if you will." lie the connection, however, of Dryden with Milton, or of Milton with Davenant, as it may, Dryden wrote the alteration of Shakspeare's Tempest, as it is now perpetrated, in conjunction with Davenant. They were great hands, 48 THE INDICATOR. but they should not have touched the pure grandeur of Shakspeare. The intimacy of Davenant with Hobbes is to be seen by their correspondence prefixed to Gondibert. Hobbes was at one time secretary to Lord Bacon, a singularly illustrious instance of ser- vant and master. Bacon also had Ben Jonson for a retainer in a similar capacity ; and Jonson's link with the preceding writers could be easily supplied through the medium of Greville and Sydney, and indeed of many others of his contemporaries. Here then we arrive at Shakspeare, and feel the electric virtue of his hand. Their intimacy, dashed a little, perhaps, with jealousy on the part of Jonson, but maintained to the last by dint of the nobler part of him, and of Shakspeare's irresistible fineness of nature, is a thing as notorious as their fame. Fuller says: " Many were the wit-combates betwixt (Shakspeare) and Ben Jonson, which two I behold like a Spanish great gal- leon and an English man of war: master Jonson (like the former) was built far higher in learning: solid, but slow in his performances. Shakspeare, with theEnglish man of war, lesser in bulk, but lighter in sailing, could turn with all tides, tack about, and take advantage of all winds, by the quickness of his wit and invention." This is a happy simile, with the exception of what is insinuated about Jonson^ greater solidity. But let Jonson shew for himself the affection with which he regarded one, who did not irritate or trample down rivalry, but rose above it like the sun, and turned emulation to worship. ANGLING. 49 Soul of the age ! Th' applause ! delight ! the wonder of our stage ! My Shakspeare, rise ! I will not lodge thee by Chaucer or Spenser, or bid Beaumont lie A little further, to make thee a room ; Thou art a monument without a tomb; And art alive still, while thy book doth live, And we have wits to read, and praise to give. • • • • • He was not of an age, but for all time. XI.— ANGLING. The anglers are a race of men who puzzle us. We do not mean for their patience, which is laud- able, nor for the infinite non-success of some of them, which is desirable. Neither do we agree with the good old joke attributed to Swift, that angling is always to be considered as " a stick and a string, with a fly at one end and a fool at the other." Nay, if he had books with him, and a pleasant day, we can account for the joyousness of that prince of punters, who, having been seen in the same spot one morning and evening, and asked whether he had had any success, said No, but in the course of the day he had had " a glorious nibble." But the anglers boast of the innocence of their pastime ; yet it puts fellow-creatures to the torture. They pique themselves on their meditative faculties ; and yet their only excuse is a want of thought. It VOL. I. 1) 50 THE INDICATOR. is this that puzzles us. Old Isaac Walton, their patriarch, speaking of his inquisitorial abstractions, on the banks of a river, says. Here we may Think and pray? Before death Stops our breath. Other joys Are but toys, And to be lamented. So saying, he " stops the breath" of a trout, by plucking him up into an element too thin to respire, with a hook and a tortured worm in his jaws — Other joys Are but toys. If you ride, walk, or skate, or play at cricket, or at rackets, or enjoy a ball or a concert, it is " to be lamented. 1 '' To put pleasure into the faces of half a dozen agreeable women, is a toy unworthy of the manliness of a worm-sticker. But to put a hook into the gills of a carp — there you attain the end of a reasonable being ; there you shew yourself truly a lord of the creation. To plant your feet occasionally in the mud, is also a pleasing step. So is cutting your ancles with weeds and stones — Other joys Are but toys. The book of Isaac Walton upon angling is a delightful performance in some respects. It smells ANGLING. 51 of the country air, and of the flowers in cottage windows. Its pictures of rural scenery, its sim- plicity, its snatches of old songs, are all good and refreshing ; and his prodigious relish of a dressed fish would not be grudged him, if he had killed it a little more decently. He really seems to have a respect for a piece of salmon ; to approach it, like the grace, with his hat off. But what are we to think of a man, who in the midst of his tortures of other animals, is always valuing himself on his harmlessness ; and who actually follows up one of his most complacent passages of this kind, with an injunction to impale a certain worm twice upon the hook, because it is lively, and might get off! All that can be said of such an extraordinary in- consistency is, that having been bred up in an opinion of the innocence of his amusement, and possessing a healthy power of exercising voluntary thoughts (as far as he had any), he must have dozed over the opposite side of the question, so as to become almost, perhaps quite, insensible to it. And ' angling does indeed seem the next thing to dreaming. It dispenses with locomotion, reconciles contradic- tions, and renders the very countenance null and void. A friend of ours, who is an admirer of Walton, was struck, just as we were, with the likeness of the old angler's face to a fish. It is hard, angular, and of no expression. It seems to have been " subdued to what it worked in ;" to have become native to the watery element. One might 52 THE INDICATOR. have said to Walton, " Oh flesh, how art thou fishi- fied !" He looks like a pike, dressed in broadcloth instead of butter. The face of his pupil and follower, or, as he fondly called himself, son, Charles Cotton, a poet and a man of wit, is more good-natured and uneasy.* Cotton's pleasures had not been confined to fishing. His sympathies indeed had been a little superabun- dant, and left him, perhaps, not so great a power of thinking as he pleased. Accordingly, we find in his writings more symptoms of scrupulousness upon the subject, than in those of his father. Walton says, that an angler does no hurt but to fish ; and this he counts as nothing. Cotton argues, that the slaughter of them is not to be " repented ;" and he says to his father (which looks as if the old gentleman sometimes thought upon the subject too) There whilst behind some bush we wait The scaly people to betray, We'll prove iCjust, with treacherous baif, To make the preying trout our prey. This argument, and another about fish's being made for " man's pleasure and diet," are all that anglers have to say for the innocence of their sport. But they are both as rank sophistications as can be ; sheer beggings of the question. To kill fish out- right is a different matter. Death is common to all; • The reader may see both the portraits in the late editions of Walton. ANGLING. 53 and a trout, speedily killed by a man, may suffer no worse fate than from the jaws of a pike. It is the mode, the lingering cat-like cruelty of the angler's sport, that renders it unworthy. If fish were made to be so treated, then men were also made to be racked and throttled by inquisitors. Indeed among other advantages of angling, Cotton reckons up a tame, fishlike acquiescence to whatever the powerful choose to inflict. We scratch not our pates, Nor repine at the rates Our superiors impose on our living ; But do frankly submit, Knowing they have more wit In demanding, than we have in giving. Whilst quiet we sir, We conclude all things fit, Acquiescing with hearty submission, &c. And this was no pastoral fiction. The anglers of those times, whose skill became famous from the celebrity of their names, chiefly in divinity, were great fallers-in with passive obedience. They seemed to think (whatever they found it necessary to say now and then upon that point) that the great had as much right to prey upon men, as the small had upon fishes ; only the men luckily had not hooks put into their jaws, and the sides of their cheeks torn to pieces. The two most famous anglers in history arc Antony and Cleopatra. These extremes of the an- gling character are very edifying. 54 THE INDICATOR. We should like to know what these grave divines would have said to the heavenly maxim of " Do as you would be done by." Let us imagine ourselves, for instance, a sort of human fish. Air is but a rarer fluid ; and at present, in this November wea- ther, a supernatural being who should look down upon us from a higher atmosphere, would have some reason to regard us as a kind of pedes- trian carp. Now fancy a Genius fishing for us. Fancy him baiting a great hook with pickled salmon, and twitching up old Isaac Walton from the banks of the river Lee, with the hook through his ear. How lie would go up, roaring and screaming, and thinking the devil had got him I Other joys Are but toys. We repeat, that if fish were made to be so treated, then we were just as much made to be racked and suffocated ; and a footpad might have argued that old Isaac was made to have his pocket picked, and be tumbled into the river. There is no end of these idle and selfish beggings of the question, which at last argue quite as much against us as for us. And granting them, for the sake of argument, it is still obvious, on the very same ground, that men were also made to be taught better. We do not say, that all anglers are of a cruel nature ; many of them, doubtless, are amiable men in other matters. They have only never thought perhaps on that side of the LUDICROUS EXAGGERATION. 55 question, or been accustomed from childhood to blink it. But once thinking, their amiableness and their practice become incompatible; and if they should wish, on that account, never to have thought upon the subject, they would only show, that they cared for their own exemption from suffering, and not for its diminution in general.* XII.— LUDICROUS EXAGGERATION. Men of wit sometimes like to pamper a joke into exaggeration; into a certain corpulence of facetious- ness. Their relish of the thing makes them wish it as large as possible; and the enjoyment of it is doubled by its becoming more visible to the eyes of others. It is for this reason that jests in company are sometimes built up by one hand after another, — " threepiled hyperboles," — till the over-done Babel topples and tumbles down amidst a merry confusion of tongues. Falstaff' was a great master of this art : he loved ;i joke as large as himself; witness bis famous account of the men in buckram. Thus he tells the Lord * Perhaps the best thing' to be said finally about angling is thatnot being able to determine whether fish feel it very Sensibly or otherwise, we ought to give them the benefit rather than the disadvantage of the doubt, where we can help it ; and our feel- ings the benefit, where we cannot. 56 THE INDICATOR. Chief Justice, that he had lost his voice " with sine- o ing of anthems ,-" and he calls Bardolph's red nose a perpetual triumph, an everlasting bonfire light;'" and says it has saved him " a thousand marks in links and torches," walking with it ** in the night, betwixt tavern and tavern."" See how he goes height- ening the account of his recruits at every step: — " You would think I had a hundred and fifty tattered prodigals, lately come from swine-keeping, from eat- ing draff and husks. — A mad fellow met me on the way, and told me, I had unloaded all the gibbets, and pressed the dead bodies — No eye hath seen such scarecrows. — I'll not march through Coventry with them, that's flat. — Nay, and the villains march wide betwixt the legs, as if they had gyves on ; for indeed I had most of them out of prison. — There's but a shirt and a-half in all my company ; — and the half shirt is two napkins, tacked together, and thrown over the shoulders like a herald's coat without sleeves." An old schoolfellow of ours (who, by the way, was more fond of quoting Falstaff than any other of Shakspeare's characters) used to be called upon for a story, with a view to a joke of this sort ; it being an understood thing, that he had a privilege of exaggera- tion, without committing his abstract love of truth. The reader knows the old blunder attributed to Gold- smith about a dish of green peas. Somebody had been applauded in company for advising his cook to take some ill-dressed pease to Hammersmith," because that was the way to TunVem Green ;" upon which LUDICROUS EXAGGERATION. -57 Goldsmith is said to have gone and repeated the pun at another table in this fashion : — " John should take those pease, I think, to Hammersmith.'" " Why so, Doctor ?'' " Because that is the way to make "em green."" Now our friend would give the blunder with this sort of additional dressing : " At sight of the dishes of vegetables, Goldsmith, who was at his own house, took off the covers, one after another, with great anxiety, till he found that pease were among them ; upon which he rubbed his hands with an air of infinite and prospective satisfaction. ' You are fond of pease, Sir P 1 said one of the company. ' Yes, Sir,' said Goldsmith, ' particularly so : — I eat them all the year round ; — I mean, Sir, every day in the season. I do not think there is any body so fond of pease as I am.' ' Is there any particular reason, Doc- tor, 1 asked a gentleman present, ' why you like pease so much, beyond the usual one of their agreeable taste '? — ' No, Sir, none whatsoever : — none I assure you 1 (here Goldsmith shewed a great wish to impress this fact on his guests) : ' I never heard any particu- lar encomium or speech about them from any one else : but they carry their own eloquence with them : they are things, Sir, of infinite taste. 1 (Here a laugh, which put Goldsmith in additional spirits.) But, bless me I 1 lie exclaimed, looking narrowly into the pease: — ' I fear they are very ill-done: they are ab- solutely yellow instead of green (here he put a strong emphasis on green) ; * and you know, pease should be emphatically green : — greenness in a pea is a qua- d 3 58 THE INDICATOR. lity as essential, as whiteness in a lily. The cook has quite spoilt them : — but 111 give the rogue a lec- ture, gentlemen, with your permission. 1 Goldsmith then rose and rang the bell violently for the cook, who came in, ready booted and spurred. ' Ha V ex- claimed Goldsmith, ' those boots and spurs are your salvation, you knave. Do you know, Sir, what you have done T — ' No, Sir.' — ' Why, you have made the pease yellow, Sir. Go instantly, and take 'em to Hammersmith. ' ' To Hammersmith, Sir ?' cried the man, all in astonishment, the guests being no less so : — ' please Sir, why am I to take 'em to Ham- mersmith P 1 — 'Because, Sir, 1 (and here Goldsmith looked round with triumphant anticipation) ' that is the way to render those pease green. 1 ' There is a very humorous piece of exaggeration in Butler's Remains, — a collection, by the bye, well worthy of Huclibras, and indeed of more interest to the general reader. Butler is defrauded of his fame with readers of taste avIio happen to be no politicians, when Hudibras is printed without this appendage. The piece we allude to is a short description of Holland : — A country that draws fifty foot of water, In which men live as in the hold of nature ; And when the sea does in upon them break, And drowns a province, does but spring a leak. That feed, like cannibals, on other fishes, And serve their cousin-germans up in dishes. A land that rides at anchor, and is moored, In which they do not live, but go aboard. LUDICROUS EXAGGERATION. 59 We do not know, and perhaps it would be impossi- ble to discover, whether Butler wrote his minor pieces before those of the great patriot Andrew Marvell, who rivalled him in wit and excelled him in poetry. Marvell, though born later, seems to have been known earlier as an author. He was certainly known pub- licly before him. But in the political poems of Mar- vell there is a ludicrous character of Holland, which might be pronounced to be either the copy or the original of Butler's, if in those anti-Batavian times the Hollander had not been baited by all the wits ; and were it not probable, that the unwieldy monotony of his character gave rise to much the same ludi- crous imagery in many of their fancies. Marvell's wit has the advantage of Butler's, not in learning or multiplicity of contrasts (for nobody ever beat him there), but in a greater variety of them, and in being able, from the more poetical turn of his mind, to bring graver and more imaginative things to wait upon his levity. He thus opens the battery upon our amphibious neighbour: — •&* Holland, that scarce deserves the name of land, As but the off-scouring- of the British Band ; And so much earth as was contributed By English pilots, when they heaved the lead ; Or what by tli" ocean's Blow alluvion till, < >f shipwrecked cockle and the muscle-shell. CO THE INDICATOR. Glad then, as miners who have found the ore, They, with mad labour,* fished the land to shore ; And dived as desperately for each piece Of earth, as if it had been of ambergreece ; Collecting anxiously small loads of clay, Less than what building swallows bear away ; Or than those pills which sordid beetles rowl, Transfusing into them their dunghill soul. He goes on in a strain of exquisite hyperbole • — How did they rivet with gigantic piles Thorough the centre their neiv-catched miles ; And to the stake a struggling country bounds Where barking waves still bait the forced ground ; Building their wat'ry Babel far more high To catch the waves, than those to scale the sky. Yet still his claim the injured ocean layed, And oft at leap-frog o'er their steeples played ; As if on purpose it on land had come To shew them what's their Mare Liberum ;t A dayly deluge over them does boil ; The earth and water play at level-coyl ; The fish oft-times the burgher dispossessed, And sat, not as at meat, but as a guest: And oft the Tritons, and the Sea-nymphs, saw Whole shoals of Dutch served up for cabillau. Or, as they over the new level ranged, For pickled herrings, pickled Heeren changed. * Dry den afterwards, of fighting for gain, in his song of " Come, if you dare/' The Gods from above the mad labour behold. t A Free Ocean. gilbert! gilbert! 61 Nature, it seemed, ashamed of her mistake, Would throw their land away at duck and drake : Therefore necessity, that first made kings, Something like government among them brings; For as with Pigmys, who best kills the crane. Among the hungry he that treasures grain, Among the blind the one-eyed blinkard reigns, So rules among the drowned he that drains. Not who first sees the rising sun, commands ; But who could first discern the rising lands ; Who best could know to pump an earth so leak, Him they their lord and country's father speak ; To make a bank was a great plot of state ; — Invent a shovel, and be a magistrate. We can never read these and some other ludicrous verses of Marvell, even when by ourselves, without laughter. XIII.— GILBERT! GILBERT! The sole idea generally conveyed to us by histo- rians of Thomas a Becket is that of a haughty priest, who tried to elevate the religious power above the civil. But in looking more narrowly into the ac- counts of him, it appears that for a considerable part of his life he was a merry layman, was a great fal- coner, fcaster, and patron, as well as man of busi- ness ; and he wore all characters with such unaffected pleasantness, that he was called the Delight of the Western World. 62 THE INDICATOR. On a sudden, to every body's surprise, his friend the king (Henry II.), from chancellor made him archbishop ; and with equal suddenness, though re- taining his affability, the new head of the English church put off all his worldly graces and pleasures (save and except a rich gown over his sackcloth), and in the midst of a gay court, became the most mortified of ascetics. Instead of hunting and hawk- ing, he paced a solitary cloister; instead of his wine, he drank fennel-water ; and in lieu of soft clothing, he indulged his back in stripes. This phenomenon has divided the opinions of the moral critics. Some insist, that Becket was religiously in earnest, and think the change natural to a man of the world, whose heart had been struck with reflec- tion. Others see in his conduct nothing but ambition. We suspect that three parts of the truth are with the latter ; and that Becket, suddenly enabled to dispute a kind of sovereignty with his prince and friend, gave way to the new temptation, just as he had done to his falconry and fine living. But the complete alteration of his way of life, — the enthusiasm which enabled him to set up so different a greatness against his former one — shews, that his character partook at least of as much sincerity, as would enable him to delude himself in good taste. In proportion as his very egotism was concerned, it was likely that such a man would exalt the gravity and importance of his new calling. He had flourished at an earthly court : he now wished to be as great a man in the eyes of another ; and worldly gilbert! gilbert! 63 power, which was at once to be enjoyed and despised by virtue of his office, had a zest given to its posses- sion, of which the incredulousness of mere insincerity could know nothing. Thomas a Becket may have inherited a romantic turn of mind from his mother, whose story is a sin- gular one. His father, Gilbert Becket, a flourishing citizen, had been in his youth a soldier in the cru- sades ; and being taken prisoner, became slave to an Emir, or Saracen prince. By degrees he obtained the confidence of his master, and was admitted to his company, where he met a personage who became more attached to him. This was the Emir's daughter. "Whether by her means or not does not appear, but after some time he contrived to escape. The lady with her loving heart followed him. She knew, they say, but two words of his language, — London and Gilbert ; and by repeating the former she obtained a passage in a vessel, arrived in England, and found her trusting way to the metropolis. She then took to her other talisman, and went from street to street pronouncing " Gilbert !" A crowd collected about her wherever she went, asking of course a thousand questions, and to all she had but one answer — Gil- bert! Gilbert ! — She found her faith in it sufficient. Chance* or her determination to go through every street, brought her at last to the one, in which he who had won her heart in slavery, was living in m>od con- dition. The crowd drew the family to the window ; his servant recognized her ; and Gilbert Becket took 6-i THE INDICATOR. to his arms and his bridal bed, his far-come princess, with her solitary fond word. XIV. FATAL MISTAKE OF NERVOUS DISORDERS FOR MADNESS. Some affecting catastrophes in the public papers induce us to say a few words on the mistaken notions which are so often, in our opinion, the cause of their appearance. It is much to be wished that some phy- sician, truly so called, and philosophically competent to the task, would write a work on this subject. We have plenty of books on symptoms and other alarming matters, very useful for increasing the harm already existing. We believe also there are some works of a different kind, if not written in direct counteraction ; but the learned authors are apt to be so grand and etymological in their title-pages, that they must frighten the general understanding with their very advertisements. There is this great difference between what is generally understood by the word madness, and the nervous or melancholy disorders, the excess of which is so often confounded with it. Madness is a conse- quence of malformation of the brain, and is by no means of necessity attended with melancholy or even ill-health. The patient, in the very midst of it, is often strong, healthy, and even cheerful. On the NERVOUS DISORDERS. 65 other hand, nervous disorders, or even melancholy in its most aggravated state, is nothing but the excess of a state of stomach and blood, extremely common. The mind no doubt will act upon that state and ex- asperate it ; but there is great re-action between mind and body : and as it is a common thing for a man in an ordinary fever, or fit of the bile, to be melancholy, and even to do or feel inclined to do an extravagant thing, so it is as common for him to get well and be quite cheerful again. Thus it is among witless people that the true madness will be found. It is the more intelligent that are subject to the other disorders ; and a proper use of their intelligence will shew them what the disorders are. But weak treatment may frighten the intelligent. A kind person, for instance, in a fit of melancholy, may confess that he feels an inclination to do some despe- rate or even cruel thing. This is often treated at onoe as madness, instead of an excess of the kind just men- tioned ; and the person seeing he is thought out of his wits, begins to think himself so, and at last acts as if he were. This is a lamentable evil ; but it does not stop here. The children or other relatives of the per- son may become victims to the mistake. They think there is madness, as the phrase is, " in the family ;" and so whenever they feel ill, or meet with a misfor- tune, the thought will prey upon their minds ; and this may lead to catastrophes, with which they have really no more to do than any other sick or unfortunate people. How many persons have committed an ex- 66 THE INDICATOR. travagance in a brain fever, or undergone hallucina- tions of mind in consequence of getting an ague, or taking opium, or fifty other causes; and yet the moment the least wandering of mind is observed in them, others become frightened ; their fright is mani- fested 'beyond all necessity ; and the patients and their family must suffer for it. They seem to think, that no disorder can properly be held a true Christian sickness, and fit for charitable interpretation, but where the patient has gone regularly to bed, and had curtains, and caudle-cups, and nurses about him, like a well-behaved respectable sick gentleman. But this state of things implies muscular weakness, or weak- ness of that sort which renders the bodily action fee- ble. Now, in nervous disorders, the muscular action may be as strong as ever ; and people may reasonably be allowed a world of illness, sitting in their chairs, or even walking or running. These mistaken pronouncers upon disease ought to be told, that when they are thus unwarrantably frightened, they are partaking of the very essence of what they misapprehend ; for it is fear, in all its various degrees and modifications, which is at the bottom of nervousness and melancholy ; not fear in its ordinary sensed as opposed to cowardice (for a man who would shudder at a bat or a vague idea, may behold as a lion against an enemy), but imagina- tive fear; — fear either of something known or of the patient knows not what ; — a vague sense of terror, — an impulse, — an apprehension of ill, — dwelling NERVOUS DISORDERS. 67 upon some painful and worrying thought. Now this suffering is invariably connected with a weak state of the body in some respects, particularly of the stomach. Hundreds will be found to have felt it, if patients inquire; but the mind is sometimes afraid of acknow- ledging its apprehensions, even to itself; and thus fear broods over and hatches fear. These disorders, generally speaking, are greater or less in their effects according to the exercise of reason. But do not let the word be misunderstood : we should rather say, according to the extent 6f the knowledge. A very imaginative man will indeed be likely to suffer more than others ; but if his knowledge is at all in proportion, lie will also get through his evil better than an uninformed man suf- fering great terrors. And the reason is, that he knows how much bodily unhealthiness has to do with it. The very words that frighten the unknowing might teach them better, if understood. Thus insanity itself properly means nothing but unhealthiness or unsound- ness. Derangement explains itself, and may surely mean very harmless things. Melancholy is com- pounded of two words which signify black bile. Hy- jxjchondria is the name of one of the regions of the stomach, a very instructive etymology. And lunacy refers to effects, real or imaginary, of particular states of the moon ; which if any thing after all, are nothing more than what ever\ r delicate constitution feels in its degree from particular states of the weather ; for weather, like the tides, is apt to be in such and such 68 THE INDICATOR. a condition, when the moon presents such and such a face. It has been said, Great wits to madness nearly are allied. It is curious that he who wrote the saying (Dryden) was a very sound wit to the end of his life ; while his wife, who was of a weak understanding, became in- sane. An excellent writer (Wordsworth) has written an idle couplet about the insanity of poets : > We poets enter on our path with gladness, But thereof comes in the end despondency and madness. If he did not mean madness in the ordinary sense, lie should not have written this line ; if he did, he ought not to have fallen, in the teeth of his better knowledge, into so vulgar an error. There are very few instances of insane poets, or of insane great understandings of any sort. Bacon, Milton, Newton, Shakspeare, Cervantes, &c. were all of minds as sound as they were great. So it has been with the infinite majority of literary men of all countries. If Tasso and a few others were exceptions, they were but exceptions ; and the de- rangement in these eminent men has very doubtful characters about it, and is sometimes made a ques- tion. It may be pretty safely affirmed, at least, upon an examination of it, that had they not been the clever men they were, it would have been much worse and less equivocal. Collins, whose case was after all one of inanition rather than insanity, had been a free XEKVOUS DISORDERS. 69 liver; and seems to have been hurt by having a for- tune left him. Cowper was weak-bodied, and beset by Methodists. Swift's body was full of bad hu- mours. He himself attributed his disordered system to the effects of a surfeit of fruit on his stomach ; and in his last illness he used to break out in enormous biles and blisters. This was a violent effort of nature to help and purify the current of his blood, — the main object in all such cases. Dr. Johnson, who was subject to mists of melancholy, used to fancy he should go mad ; but he never did. Exercise, conversation, cheerful society, amuse- ments of all sorts, or a kind, patient, and gradual helping of the bodily health, till the mind be capable of amusement (for it should never foolishly be told " not to think' 1 of melancholy things, without having something done for it to mend the bodily health), — these are the cures, the only cures, and in our opinion the almost infallible cures of nervous disorders, how- ever excessive. Above all, the patient should be told, that there has often been an end to that torment of one haunting idea, which is indeed a great and vene- rable suffering. Many persons have got over it in a week, a few weeks, or a month, some in a few months, some not for years, but they have got over it at last. There is a remarkable instance of this in the life of our great king Alfred. He was seized, says his contemporary biographer, with such a strange illness while sitting at table, in the twenty-fifth year (we think) of his age, that he shrieked aloud ; and for 70 THE INDICATOR. twenty years afterwards this illness so preyed upon him, that the relief of one hour was embittered by what he dreaded would come the next. His disorder is conjectured by some to have been an internal can- cer ; by others, with more probability, the black bile, or melancholy. The physicians of those times knew nothing about it ; and the people shewed at once their ignorance, and their admiration of the king, by saying that the devil had caused it out of jealousy. It was probably produced by anxiety for the state of his country ; but the same thing which wounded him may have helped to keep him up ; for he had plenty of business to attend to, and fought with his OAvn hand in fifty-six pitched battles. Now exactly twenty years after, in the forty-fifth year of his age (if our former recollection is right) this disorder totally left him ; and his great heart was where it ought to be, in a heaven of health and calmness. XV.- MISTS AND FOGS. Fogs and mists, being nothing but vapours which the cold air will not suffer to evaporate, must some- times present a gorgeous aspect next the sun. To the eye of an eagle, or whatever other eyes there may be to look down upon them, they may appear like masses of cloudy gold. In fact, they are but clouds unrisen. The city of London, at the time we are MISTS AND FOGS. 71 writing this article, is literally a city in the clouds. Its inhabitants walk through the same airy heaps which at other times float over their heads in the sky, or minister with glorious faces to the setting sun. AVe do not say, that any one can " hold a fire in his hand,''' by thinking on a fine sunset ; or that sheer imagination of any sort can make it a very agreeable thing to feel as if one's body were wrapped round with cold wet paper ; much less to flounder through gutters, or run against post*. But the mind can often help itself with agreeable images against dis- agreeable ones ; or pitch itself round to the best sides and aspects of them. The solid and fiery ball of the sun, stuck, as it were, in the thick foggy atmosphere; the moon just winning her way through it, into beams ; nay, the very candles and gas-lights in the shop windows of a misty evening, — all have, in our eves, their agreeable varieties of contrast to the sur- rounding haze. We have even halted, of a dreary autumnal evening, at that open part of the Strand by St. Clement's, and seen the church, which is a poor structure of itself, take an aspect of ghastly grandeur from the dark atmosphere; looking like a tall white mass, mounting up interminably into the night over- head. The poets, who are the common friends that keep up the intercourse between nature and humanity, have in numberless passages done justice to these our melancholy visitors, and shewn us what grand per- 72 THE INDICATOR. sonages they are. To mention only a few of the most striking. When Thetis, in the Iliad (Lib. I., v. 359) rises out of the sea to console Achilles, she issues forth in a mist; like the Genius in the Arabian Nights. The reader is to sup- jx)se that the mist, after ascending, comes gliding over the water ; and condensing itself into a human shape, lands the white-footed goddess on the shore. When Achilles, after his long and vindictive ab- sence from the Greek armies, re-appears in conse- quence of the death of his friend Patroclus, and stands before the appalled Trojan armies, who are thrown into confusion at the very sight, Minerva, to render his aspect the more astonishing and awful, puts about his head a halo of golden mist, streaming upwards with fire. (Lib. xviii, v. 205.) He shouts aloud under this preternatural diadem ; Minerva throws into his shout her own immortal voice with a strange unnatural cry; at which the horses of the Trojan warriors run round with their chariots, and twelve of their noblest captains perish in the crush. A mist was the usual clothing of the gods, when they descended to earth ; especially of Apollo, whose brightness had double need of mitigation. Homer, to heighten the dignity of Ulysses, has finely given him the same covering, when he passes through the court of Antinous, and suddenly appears before the throne. This has been turned to happy account by MISTS AND FOGS. 73 Virgil, and to a new and noble one by Milton. Virgil makes JEneas issue suddenly from a mist, at the mo- ment when his friends think him lost, and the beau- tiful queen of Carthage is wishing his presence. Milton, — but we will give one or two of his minor uses of mists, by way of making a climax of the one alluded to. If Satan, for instance, goes lurking about Paradise, it is '* like a black mist low creeping."' If the angels on guard glide about it, upon their gentler errand, it is like fairer vapours : On the ground Gliding meteorous, as evening- mist Risen from a river o'er the marisb glides, And gathers ground fast at the labourer's heel Homeward returning. — {Par. Lost. B. xn. v. G28.) Now behold one of his greatest imaginations. The fallen demi-gods are assembled in Pandaemonium, waiting the return of their " great adventurer 11 from his " search of worlds: 11 lie through the midst unmarked, In show plebeian angel militant Of lowest order, passed; and from the door Of that Plutonian hall, invisible, Ascended his high throne; which, under state Of richest texture spread, at the upper end \V;i^ placed in regal lustre. Down awhile IN -iii, and round about him saw unseen. At /".si — as from a cloud, his fulgent la-ad Ami shape star-bright appeared, or brighter ; clad With what permissive glory since his fall VOL. I. E 74 THE INDICATOR. Was left him, or false glitter. All amazed At that so sudden blaze, the Stygian throng Bent their aspect; and whom they wished, beheld, Their mighty chief returned. There is a piece of imagination in Apollonius Rho- dius worthy of Milton or Homer. The Argonauts, in broad daylight, are suddenly benighted at sea with a black fog. They pray to Apollo ; and he descends from heaven, and lighting on a rock, holds up his illustrious bow, which shoots a guiding light for them to an island. Spenser in a most romantic chapter of the Faery Queene (Book it.), seems to have taken the idea of a benighting from Apollonius, as well as to have had an eye to some passages of the Odyssey ; but like all great poets, what he borrows only brings worthy companionship to some fine invention of his own. It is a scene thickly beset with horror. Sir Guyon, in the course of his voyage through the perilous sea, wishes to stop and hear the Syrens : but the palmer his companion dissuades him : When suddeinly a grosse fog overspred With his dull vapour all that desert has, And heaven's chearefull face enveloped, That all things one, and one as nothing was, And this great universe seemed one confused mass. Thereat they greatly were dismayd, ne wist How to direct theyr way in darkness wide, But feared to wander in that wastefull mist For tombling into mischiefe unespyde : MISTS AND FOGS. 75 Worse is the daunger hidden then descride. Suddeinly an innumerable flight Of harmfull fowles about them fluttering cride, And with tbeyr wicked wings them oft did smight, And sore annoyed, groping in that griesly night. Even all the nation of unfortunate And fatall birds about them flocked were, Such as by nature men abhorre and hate ; The ill-faced owle, deaths dreadful messengere : The hoarse night-raven, trump of dolefull drere : The lether-winged batt, dayes enimy : The ruefull stritch, still waiting on the bere : The whistler shrill, that whoso heares doth dy: The hellish harpies, prophets of sad destiny: All these, and all that else does horror breed, About them flew, and fild their sayles with fear; Yet stayd they not, but forward did proceed, Whiles th' one did row, and th' other stifly steare. Ovid has turned a mist to his usual account. It is where Jupiter, to conceal his amour with Io, throws a cloud over the vale of Tempe. There is a pic- ture of Jupiter and Io, by Correggio, in which that great artist has finely availed himself of the circum- stance ; the head of the father of gods and men coming placidly out of the cloud, upon the young lips of Io, like the very benignity of creation. The poet who is the most conversant with mists is Ossian, who was a native of the north of Scotland or Ireland. The following are as many specimens of his uses of mist, as we have room for. The first is e2 76 THE INDICATOR. very grand ; the second as happy in its analogy ; the third is ghastly, but of more doubtful merit : Two Chiefs parted by their King. — They sunk from the king- on either side, like two columns of morning mist, when the sun rises between them on his glittering rocks. Dark is their rolling on either side, each towards its reedy pool. A great Enemy. — I love a foe like Cathmor: his soul is great; his arm is strong; his battles are full of fame. But the little soul is like a vapour, that hovers round the marshy lake. It never rises on the green hill, lest the winds meet it there. A terrible Omen. — A mist rose slowly from the lake. It came, in the figure of an aged man, along the silent plain. Its large limbs did not move in steps ; for a ghost supported it in mid air. It came towards Selma's hall, and dissolved in a shower of blood. We must mention another instance of the poetical use of a mist, if it is only to indulge ourselves in one of those masterly passages of Dante, in which he contrives to unite minuteness of detail with the most grand and sovereign effect. It is in a lofty com- parison of the planet Mars looking through morning vapours ; the reader will see with what (PurgatoriOy c. ii. v. 10). Dante and his guide Virgil have just left the infernal regions, and are lingering on a soli- tary sea-shore in purgatory ; which reminds us of that still and far-thoughted verse — Lone sitting by the shores of old romance. But to our English-like Italian. ISoi eravam lungh' esso '1 mare ancora, &e. THE SHOEMAKER OF VEYROS. 77 That solitary shore we still kept on, Like men, who musing- on their journey, stay At rest in body, yet in heart are gone ; When lo ! as at the early dawn of day, Red Mars looks deepening through the foggy heat, Down in the west, far o'er the watery way ; So did mine eyes behold (so may they yet) A light, which came so swiftly o'er the sea, That never wing with such a fervour beat. I did but turn to ask what it might be Of my sage leader, when its orb had got More large meanwhile, and came more gloriously: And by degrees, I saw I knew not what Of white about it ; and beneath the white Another. My great master uttered not One word, till those first issuing candours bright Fanned into wings; but soon as he had found Who was the mighty voyager now in sight, He cried aloud, " Down, down, upon the ground ■ It is God's Angel. - ' XVI.— THE SHOEMAKER OF VEYROv A PORTUGUESE TRADITION. In the time of the old kings of Portugal, Don John, a natural son of the reigning prince, was gover- nor of the town of Veyros, in the province of Alentejo. The town was situate (perhaps is there still) upon a mountain, at the foot of which runs a river ; and al at a little distance there was a ford over it, under 78 THE INDICATOR. another eminence. The bed of the river thereabouts was so high as to form a shallow sandy place ; and in that clear spot of water, the maidens of Veyros, both of high rank and humble, used to wash their clothes. It happened one day, that Don John, riding out with a company, came to the spot at the time the young women were so employed : and being, says our author, " a young and lusty gallant, 1 " he fell to jesting with his followers upon the bare legs of the busy girls, who had tucked up their clothes, as usual, to their work. He passed along the river ; and all his company had not yet gone by, when a lass in a red petticoat, while tucking it up, shewed her legs somewhat high ; and clapping her hand on her right calf, said loud enough to be heard by the riders, " Here's a white leg, girls, for the Master of Avis."* These words, spoken probably out of a little lively bravado, upon the strength of the governor's having gone by, were repeated to him when he got home, together with the action that accompanied them : upon which the young lord felt the eloquence of the speech so deeply, that he contrived to have the fair speaker brought to him in private ; and the conse- quence was, that our lively natural son, and his sprightly challenger, had another natural son. Ines (for that was the girl's name) was the daughter of a shoemaker in Veyros ; a man of very good ac- * An order of knighthood, of which Don John was Master. THE SHOEMAKER OF VEYROS. 79 count, and wealthy. Hearing how his daughter had been sent for to the young governor's house, and that it was her own light behaviour that subjected her to what he was assured she willingly consented to, he took it so to heart, that at her return home, she was driven by him from the house, with every species of contumely and spurning. After this, he never saw her more. And to prove to the world and to himself, that his severity was a matter of principle, and not a mere indulgence of his own passions, he never afterwards lay in a bed, nor eat at a table, nor changed his linen, nor cut his hair, nails, or beard ; which latter grew to such a length, reaching below his knees, that the people used to call him Barbadon, or old Beardy. In the meantime, his grandson, called Don Al- phonso, not only grew to be a man, but was created Duke of Braganza, his father Don John having been elected to the crown of Portugal; which he won after such noble fashion, to the great good of his country, as to be surnamed the Memorable. Now the town of Veyros stood in the middle of seven or eight others, all belonging to the young Duke, from whose palace at Villa Viciosa it was but four leagues distant. He therefore had good intelligence of the shoemaker his grandfather ; and being of a humane and truly generous spirit, the accounts he re- ceived of the old man's way of life made him extremely desirous of paying him a visit. He accord- ingly went witli a retinue to Veyros; and meeting 80 THE INDICATOR. Barbatlon in the streets, he alighted from his horse, bareheaded, and in the presence of that stately company and the people, asked the old man his blessing. The shoemaker, astonished at this sudden spectacle, and at the strange contrast wbich it fur- nished to his humble rank, stared in a bewildered manner upon the unknown personage, who thus knelt to him in the public way ; and said, " Sir, do you mock me ?" — " No," answered the Duke ; " may God so help me, as I do not : but in earnest I crave I may kiss your hand and receive your blessing, for I am your grandson, and son to Ines your daughter, conceived by the king, my lord and father. - " No sooner had the shoemaker heard these words, than he clapped his hands before his eyes, and said, " God bless me from ever beholding the son of so wicked a daughter as mine was ! And yet, forasmuch as you are not guilty of her offence, hold ; take my hand and my blessing, in the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost." So saying, he laid one of his old hands upon the young man's head, blessing him ; but neither the Duke nor his followers could persuade him to take the other away from his eyes ; neither would he talk with him a word more. In this spirit, shortly after, he died ; and just before his death he directed a tomb to be made for him, on which were sculptured the tools belonging to his trade, with this epitaph : — " This sepulchre Barbadon caused to be made, (Being of Veyros, a shoemaker by his trade) THE SHOEMAKER OF VEYROS. 81 For himself and the rest of his race, Excepting his daughter Ines in any case." The author says, that he has " heard it reported by the ancientest persons, that the fourth Duke of Braganza, Don James, son to Donna Isabel, sister to the King Don Emanuel, caused that tomb to be defaced, being the sepulchre of his fourth grand- father: 1 * As for the daughter, the conclusion of whose story comes lagging in like a penitent, " she continued ,"" says the writer, " after she was delivered of that son, a very chaste and virtuous woman ; and the king made her commandress of Santos, a most honourable place, and very plentiful ; to the which none but princesses were admitted, living, as it were, abbess* s and princesses of a monastery built without the walls of Lisbon, called Santos, that is Saints, founded by reason of some martyrs that were martyred there . And the religious women of that place have liberty to marry with the knights of their order, before they enter into that holy profession." The rest of our author's remarks are in too curious a spirit to be omitted. " In this monastery,"' 1 he says 3 " the same Donna Ines died, leaving behind her ;i glorious reputation for her virtue and holiness. Ob- serve, gentle reader, the constancy that this Portii- • It appears by this, that the Don John of the tradition is John the first, who was elected king of Portugal, and becami famous for his great qualities ; and thai his son by the alleged shoemaker's daughter was his successor, Alphonso the fifth E 3 82 THE INDICATOR. guese, a shoemaker, continued in, loathing to behold the honourable estate of his grandchild, nor would any more acknowledge his daughter, having been a lewd woman, for purchasing advancement with dis- honour. This considered, you will not wonder at the Count Julian, that plagued Spain, and executed the king Roderigo for forcing his daughter la Cava. The example of this shoemaker is especially worthy the noting, and deeply to be considered : for, besides that it makes good our assertion, it teaches the higher not to disdain the lower, as long as they be virtuous and lovers of honour. It may be that this old man, for his integrity, rising from a virtuous zeal, merited that a daughter coming by descent from his grand- child, should be made Queen of Castile, and the mother of great Isabel, grandmother to the Emperor Charles the Fifth, and Ferdinando." Alas ! a pretty posterity our shoemaker had, in Philip the 2d and his successors, — a race more suit- able to his severity against his child, than his blessing upon his grandchild. Old Barbadon was a fine fel- low too, after his fashion. We do not know how he reconciled his unforgiving conduct with his Chris- es o tianity ; but he had enough precedents on that point. What we admire in him is, his shewing that he acted out of principle, and did not mistake passion for it. His crepidarian sculptures indeed are not so well ; but a little vanity may be allowed to mingle with and soften such edge-tools of self-denial, as he chose to handle. His treatment of his daughter was ignorant. THE SHOEMAKER OF VEYUOS. 83 and in wiser times would have been brutal ; especially when it is considered how much the conduct of chil- dren is modified by education and other circum- stances : but then a brutal man would not have accompanied it with such voluntary suffering of his own. Neither did Barbadon leave his daughter to take her chance in the wide world, thinking of the evils she might be enduring, only to give a greater zest of fancied pity to the contentedness of his cruelty. He knew she was well taken care of; and if she was not to have the enjoyment of his society, he was de- termined that it should be a very uncomfortable one to himself. He knew* that she lay on a princely bed, while he would have none at all. He knew that she was served upon gold and silver, while he renounced his old chestnut table, — the table at which she used to sit. He knew while he sat looking at his old beard, and the wilful sordidness of his hands, that her locks and her fair limbs were objects of worship to the gallant and the great. And so he set off his desti- tutions against her over-possession ; and took out the punishment he gave her, in revenge upon himself. This was the instinct of a man who loved a prin- ciple, but hated nobody : — of a man who, in a wiser time, would have felt the wisdom of kindness. Thus his blessing upon his grandchild becomes consistent with his cruelty to his child: and his living stock was a fine one in spite of him. His daughter shewed a sense of the wound she had given such a father, by relinquishing the sympathies she loved, because they 84* THE INDICATOR. had hurt him : and her son, worthy of such a grand- father and such a daughter, and refined into a grace- fulness of knowledge by education, thought it no mean thing or vulgar to kneel to the grey-headed artisan in the street, and beg the blessing of his honest hand, XVIT.-MORE NEWS OF ULYSSES. Talking the other day with a friend* about Dante, he observed, that whenever so great a poet told us any thing in addition or continuation of an ancient story, he had a right to be regarded as classical au- thority. For instance, said he, when he tells us of that characteristic death of Ulysses in one of the books of his Inferno, we ought to receive the infor- mation as authentic, and be glad that we have more news of Ulysses than we looked for. We thought this a happy remark, and instantly turned with him to the passage in question. The last account of Ulysses in the ancient poets, is his sudden re-appearance before the suitors at Ithaca. There is something more told of him, it is true, be- fore the Odyssey concludes ; but with the exception of his visit to his aged father, our memory scarcely wishes to retain it ; nor does it controvert the general impression left upon us, that the wandering hero is * The late Mr. Keats. MORE XEW3 OF ULYSSES. 85 victorious over his domestic enemies ; and reposes at last, and for life, in the bosom of his family. The lesser poets, however, could not let him alone. Homer leaves the general impression upon one's mind, as to the close of his life ; but there are plenty of obscurer fables about it still. We have specimens in modern times of this propensity never to have done with a good story ; which is natural enough, though not very wise ; nor are the best writers likely to meddle with it. Thus Cervantes was plagued with a spurious Quixote ; and our circulating libra- ries have the adventures of Tom Jones in his Married State. The ancient writers on the present subject, availing themselves of an obscure prophecy of Tire- sias, who tells Ulysses on his visit to hell, that his old enemy the sea would be the death of him at last, bring over the sea Telegonus, his son by the goddess Circe, who gets into a scuffle with the Ithacans, and kills his father unknowingly. It is added, that Tele- gonus afterwards returned to his mother's island, taking Penelope and his half-brother Telemachus with him ; and here a singular arrangement takes place, more after the fashion of a modern Catholic dynasty, than an ancient heathen one : for while (Edipus was fated to undergo such dreadful misfor- tunes for marrying his mother without the knowledge of either party, Minerva herself comes down from heaven, on the present occasion, to order Telegonus, the son of Ulysses, to marry his father's wife ; the other son at the same time making a suitable match 86 THE INDICATOR. with his father's mistress, Circe. Telemachus seems to have had the best of this extraordinary bargain, for Circe was a goddess, consequently always young ; and yet to perplex these windings-up still more, Telemachus is represented by some as marrying Circe's daughter, and killing his immortal mother-in- law. Nor does the character of the chaste and en- during Penelope escape in the confusion. Instead of waiting her husband's return in that patient manner, she is reported to have been over-hospitable to all the suitors ; the consequence of which was a son called Pan, being no less a personage than the god Pan himself, or Nature ; a fiction, as Bacon says, " applied very absurdly and indiscreetly."" There are different stories respecting her lovers ; but it is reported that when Ulysses returned from Troy, he divorced her for incontinence ; and that she fled, and passed her latter days in Mantinea. Some even go so far as to say, that her father Icarius had attempted to destroy her when young, because the oracle had told him that she would be the most dissolute of the family. This was probably invented by the comic writers out of a buffoon malignity ; for there are men, so foolishly incredulous with regard to principle, that the reputation of it, even in a fiction, makes them impatient. Now it is impossible to say, whether Dante would have left Ulysses quietly with Penelope after all his sufferings, had he known them as described in Homer. The old Florentine, though wilful enough when he MORE NEWS OF ULYSSES. 87 wanted to dispose of a modern's fate, had great vene- ration for his predecessors. At all events, lie was not acquainted with Homer's works. They did not make their way back into Italy till a little later. But there were Latin writers extant, who might have informed him of the other stories relative to Ulysses; and he saw nothing in them, to hinder him from giving the great wanderer a death of his own. He has accordingly, with great attention to nature, made him impatient of staying at home, after a life of such adventure and excitement. But we will relate the story in his own order. He begins it with one of his most romantic pieces of wildness. The poet and his guide Virgil are making the best of their difficult path along a ridge of the craggy rock that overhangs the eighth gulph of hell ; when Dante, looking down, sees the abyss before him full of flick- ering lights, as numerous, he says, as the fire-flies which a peasant, reposing on a hill, sees filling the valley, of a hot evening. Every flame shot about separately ; and he knew that some terrible mystery or other accompanied it. As he leaned down from the rock, grasping one of the crags, in order to look closer, his guide, who perceived his earnestness, said, " Within those fires are spirits; every one swathed in what is burning him.' 1 Dante told him, that he had already guessed as much; and pointing to one of them in particular, asked who was in that fire which was divided at top, as though it had ascended from the funeral-pile of the hating Theban brothers. 88 < THE INDICATOR. " Within that,"" answered Virgil, " are Diomed and Ulysses, who speed together now to their own misery, as they used to do to that of others." They were suffering the penalty of the various frauds they had perpetrated in concert ; such as the contrivance of the Trojan horse, and the theft of the Palla- dium. Dante entreats, that if those who are within the sparkling horror can speak, it may be made to come near. Virgil says it shall ; but begs the Flo- rentine not to question it himself, as the spirits, being Greek, might be shy of holding discourse with him. When the flame has come near enough to be spoken to, Virgil addresses the " two within one fire ;"" and requests them, if he ever deserved any thing of them as a poet, great or little, that they would not go away, till one of them had told him how he came into that extremity. At this, says Dante, the greater horn of the old fire began to lap hither and thither, murmuring; like a flame struggling with the wind. The top then, yearning to and fro, like a tongue trying to speak, threw out a voice, and said : " When I de- parted from Circe, who withdrew me to her for more than a year in the neighbourhood of Gaieta, before iEneas had so named it, neither the sweet company of my son, nor pious affection of my old father, nor the long-owed love with which I ought to have glad- dened Penelope, could conquer the ardour that was in me to become wise in knowledge of the world, of man's vices and his virtue. I put forth into the great MORE NEWS OF ULYSSES, 89 open deep with only one bark, and the small remain- ing crew by whom I had not been left. I saw the two shores on either side, as far as Spain and Mo- rocco ; and the island of Sardinia, and the other isles which the sea there bathes round about. Slowly we went, my companions and I, for we were old ; till at last we came to that narrow outlet, where Hercules set up his pillars, that no man might go further. I left Seville on the right hand : on the other I had left Ceuta. O brothers, said I, who through a hun- dred thousand perils are at length arrived at the west, deny not to the short waking day that yet remains to our senses, an insight into the unpeopled world, setting your backs upon the sun. Consider the stock from which ye sprang : ye were not made to live like the brute beasts, but to follow virtue and knowledge. I so sharpened my companions with this little speech on our way, that it would have been dif- ficult for me to have withheld them, if I would. We left the morning right in our stern, and made wings of our oars for the idle flight, always gaining upon the left. The night now beheld all the stars of the other pole; while our own was so low, that it arose not out of the ocean-floor. Five times the light had risen underneath the moon, and five times fallen, since we put forth upon the great deep ; when we descried a dim mountain in the distance, which ap- peared higher to me than ever I had seen any before. We rejoiced, and as soon mourned : for there sprung a whirlwind from the new land, and struck the fore- 90 THE INDICATOR. most frame of our vessel. Three times, with all the waters, it whirled us round ; at the fourth it dashed the stern up in air, and the prow downwards ; till, as seemed tit to others, the ocean closed above our heads. 1 ' Tre volte il fe girar con tutte 1' acque : A la quarta levar la poppa in suso, E la prora ire in giu, come altrui piacque, Infin ch '1 mar fu sopra noi richiuso. Why poor Ulysses should find himself in hell after his immersion, and be condemned to a swathing of eternal fire, while St. Dominic, who deluged Christianity with fire and blood, is called a Cherubic Light, the Papist, not the poet, must explain. He puts all the Pagans in hell, because, however good some of them may have been, they lived before Christ, and could not worship God properly — (debi- tamente). But he laments their state, and represents them as suffering a mitigated punishment : they only live in a state of perpetual desire without hope (sol di tanto offesi) ! A sufficing misery, it must be allowed ; but compared with the horrors he fancies for heretics and others, undoubtedly a great relief. Dante, throughout his extraordinary work, gives many evidences of great natural sensibility ; and his countenance, as handed down to us, as well as the shade-struck gravity of his poetry, shews the cuts and disquietudes of heart he must have en- dured. But unless the occasional hell of his own troubles, and his consciousness of the mutability of MORE NEWS OF ULYSSES. 91 all things, helped him to discover the brevity of individual suffering as a particular, and the lasting- ness of nature's benevolence as an universal, and thus gave his poem an intention beyond what ap- pears upon the surface, Ave must conclude, that a bigoted education, and the fierce party politics in which he was a leader and sufferer, obscured the greatness of his spirit. It is always to be recol- lected however, as Mr. Coleridge has observed some- where in other words, that when men consign each other to eternal punishment and such-like horrors, their belief is rather a venting of present impatience and dislike, than any thing which they take it for. The fiercest Papist or Calvinist only flatters himself (a strange flattery, too !) that he could behold a fellow creature tumbling and shrieking about in eternal fire. He would begin shrieking himself in a few minutes; and think that he and all heaven ought to pass away, rather than that one such agony should continue. Tertullian him- self, when he longed to behold the enemies of his faith burning and liquefying, only meant, without knowing it, that he was in an excessive rage at not convincing every body that read him. 92 THE INDICATOR. XVIIL— FAR COUNTRIES. Imagination, though no mean thing, is not a proud one. If it looks down from its wings upon common-places, it only the more perceives the vast- ness of the region about it. The infinity into which its flight carries it, might indeed throw back upon it a too great sense of insignificance, did not Beauty or Moral Justice, with its equal eye, look through that blank aspect of power, and re-assure it ; shewing it that there is a power as much above power itself, as the thought that reaches to all, is to the hand that can touch only thus far But we do not wish to get into this tempting region of speculation just now. We only intend to shew the particular instance, in which imagination instinctively displays its natural humility : we mean, the fondness which imaginative times and people have shewn for what is personally remote from them ; for what is opposed to their own individual conscious- ness, even in range of space, in farness of situation. There is no surer mark of a vain people than their treating other nations with contempt, especially those of whom they know least. It is better to verify the proverb, and take every thing unknown for mag- nificent, than predetermine it to be worthless. The gain is greater. The instinct is more judicious. When we mention the French as an instance, we do not mean to be invidious.- Most nations have their FAR COUNTRIES. 93 good as well as bad features. In Vanity Fair there are many booths. The French, not long ago, praised one of their neighbours so highly, that the latter is suspected to have lost as much modesty, as the former gained by it. But they did this as a set-off against their own despots and bigots. When they again became the greatest power in Europe, they had a relapse of their old egotism. The French, though an amiable and intelligent people, are not an imaginative one. The greatest height they go is in a balloon. They get no farther than France, let them go where they will. They " run the great circle and are still at home, 1 '' like the squirrel in his rolling cage. Instead of going to Nature in their poetry, they would make her come to them, and dress herself at their last new toilet. In philosophy and metaphysics, they divest themselves of gross prejudices, and then think they are in as graceful a state of nakedness as Adam and Eve. At the time when the Freneh had this fit upon them of praising the English (which was nevertheless the-honester one of the two), they took to praising the Chinese for numberless unknown qualities. This seems a contradiction to the near-sightedness we speak of: but the reason they praised them was, that the Chinese had the merit of religious toleration : a great and extraordinary one certainly, and not the less so for having been, to all appearance, the work of one m. in. All the romance of China, such as it was, — 94 THE INDICATOR. any thing in which they differed from the French, — their dress, their porcelain towers, their Great Wall, — was nothing. It was the particular agreement with the philosophers. It happened curiously enough, that they could not have selected for their panegyric a nation apparently more contemptuous of others ; or at least more self- satisfied and unimaginative. The Chinese are cun- ning and ingenious ; and have a great talent at bow- ing out ambassadors who come to visit them. But it is somewhat inconsistent with what appears to be their general character, that they should pay strangers even this equivocal compliment ; for under a prodi- gious mask of politeness, they are not slow to evince their contempt of other nations, whenever any com- parison is insinuated with the subjects of the Brother of the Sun and Moon. The knowledge they respect in us most is that of gun-making, and of the East- Indian passage. When our countrymen shewed them a map of the earth, they enquired for China ; and on finding that it only made a little piece in a corner* could not contain their derision. They thought that it was the main territory in the middle, the apple of the world's eye. On the other hand, the most imaginative nations, in their highest times, have had a respect for remote countries. It is a mistake to suppose that the ancient term barbarian, applied to foreigners, suggested the meaning we are apt to give it. It gathered some FAR COUNTRIES. 95 such insolence with it in the course of time ; but the more intellectual Greeks venerated the countries from which they brought the elements of their mythology and philosophy. The philosopher travelled into Egypt, like a son to see his father. The merchant heard in Phoenicia the far-brought stories of other realms, which he told to his delighted countrymen. It is supposed, that the mortal part of Mentor in the Odyssey was drawn from one of these voyagers. When Anacharsis the Scythian was reproached with his native place by an unworthy Greek, he said, " My country may be a shame to me, but you are a shame to your country. 11 Greece had a lofty notion of the Persians and the Great King, till Xerxes came over to teach it better, and betrayed the softness of their skulls. It was the same with the Arabians, at the time when they had the accomplishments of the world to themselves; as we see by their delightful tales. Every thing shines with them in the distance, like a sunset. What an amiable people are their Persians ! What a wonderful place is the island of Serendib ! You would think nothing could be finer than the Caliph's city of Bagdat, till you hear of "Grand Cairo;' 1 and how has that epithet and that name towered in the imagination of all those, who have not had the misfortune to see the modern city ? Sindbad was respected, like riysses, because he had seen so many adventures and nations. So was Aboul- 96 THE INDICATOR. faouris the Great Voyager, in the Persian Tales. His very name sounds like a wonder. With many a tempest had his beard been shaken. It was one of the workings of the great Alfred's mind, to know about far-distant countries. There is a translation by him of a book of geography ; and he even employed people to travel : a great stretch of intellectual munificence for those times. About the same period, Haroun al Raschid (whom our manhood is startled to find almost a less real person than we thought him, for his very reality) wrote a letter to the Emperor of the West, Charlemagne. Here is Arabian and Italian romance, shaking hands in person. The Crusades pierced into a new world of remote- ness. We do not know whether those were much benefited, who took part in them ; but for the ima- ginative persons remaining at home, the idea of going to Palestine must have been like travelling into a supernatural world. When the campaign itself had a good effect, it must have been of a very fine and highly-tempered description. Chaucer's Knight had been Sometime with the lord of Palatie Agen another hethen in Turkie : And evermore he had a sovereign price ; And though that he was worthy, he was wise, And of his port as meek as is a mayde. How like a return from the moon must have been FAR COUNTRIES. 97 the re-appearance of such travellers as Sir John Mandevile, Marco Polo, and William de Rubruquis, with their news of Prester John, the Great Mogul, and the Great Cham of Tartary ! The long-lost voyager must have been like a person consecrated in all the quarters of heaven. His staff and his beard must have looked like relics of his former self. The Venetians, who were some of the earliest European travellers, have been remarked, among their other amiable qualities, for their great respect for strangers. The peculiarity of their position, and the absence of so many tilings which are common-places to other countries, such as streets, horses, and coaches, add, no doubt, to this feeling. But a foolish or vain peo- ple would only feel a contempt for what they did not possess. Milton, in one of those favourite passages of his, in which he turns a nomenclature into such grand meaning and music, shews us whose old footing he had delighted to follow. How he enjoys the dis- tance ; emphatically using the words far, farthest, and utmost! — Embassies from regions far remote, In various habits, on the Appian road, Or on the Emilian ; some from farthest south, Syene, and where the shadow both way falls, Meroe, Nilotick Isle ; and more to west, The realm of Bocchus to the Black-moor sea; From the Asian kings, and Parthian among these; From India and the golden Chersonese, And utmost Indian isle Taprobane — Farad. Rrg. b. it. VOL. I. F 98 THE INDICATOR. One of the main helps to our love of remoteness in general, is the associations we connect with it of peace and quietness. Whatever there may be at a distance, people feel as if they should escape from the worry of their local cares. " O that I had wings like a dove ! then would I fly away and be at rest/ The word far is often used wilfully in poetry, to render distance still more distant. An old English song begins — In Irelande farre over the sea There dwelt a bonny king. Thomson, a Scotchman, speaking of the western isles of his own country, has that delicious line, full of a dreary yet lulling pleasure : — As when a shepherd of the Hebrid isles, Placed far amid the melancholy main. In childhood, the total ignorance of the world, especially when we are brought up in some confined spot, renders every thing beyond the bounds of our dwelling- a distance and a romance. Mr. Lamb, in his Recollections of Christ's* Hospital, says that he remembers when some half-dozen of his schoolfellows set off, " without map, card, or compass, on a serious expedition to find out Philip Quarirs Island." We once encountered a set of boys as romantic. It was at no greater distance than at the foot of a hill near Hampstead ; yet the spot was so perfectly Cisalpine to them, that two of them came up to us with looks of hushing eagerness, and asked " whether, on the other A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 99 side of that hill, there were not robbers ;" to which, the minor adventurer of the two added, " and some say serpents." They had all got bows and arrows, and were evidently hovering about the place, betwixt daring and apprehension, as on the borders of some wild region. We smiled to think which it was that husbanded their suburb w r onders to more advantage, they or we : for while they peopled the place with robbers and serpents, we were peopling it with sylvans and fairies. " So was it when my life began ; So is it now I am a man ; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die ! The child is father to the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety." XTX.— A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. A man who does not contribute his quota of grim story now-a^days, seems hardly to be free of the republic of letters. He is bound to wear a death's head, as part of his insignia. If he does not frighten every body, he is nobody. If he does not shock the ladies, what can be expected of him ? We confess we think very cheaply of these stories in general. A story, merely horrible or even awful, f 2 100 THE INDICATOR. which contains no sentiment elevating to the human heart and its hopes, is a mere appeal to the least judi- cious, least healthy, and least masculine of our pas- sions, — fear. They whose attention can be gravely arrested by it, are in a fit state to receive any absurdity with respect ; and this is the reason, why less talents are required to enforce it, than in any other species of composition. With this opinion of such things, we may be allowed to say, that we would undertake to write a dozen horrible stories in a day, all of which should make the common wor- shippers of power, who were not in the very healthiest condition, turn pale. We would tell of Haunting Old W r omen, and Knocking Ghosts, and Solitary Lean Hands, and Empusas on One Leg, and Ladies growing Longer and Longer, and Horrid Eyes meet- ing us through Key-holes, and Plaintive Heads, and Shrieking Statues, and Shocking Anomalies of Shape, and Things which when seen drove people mad ; and Indigestion knows what besides. But who would measure talents with a leg of veal, or a German sausage ? Mere grimness is as easy as grinning ; but it re- quires something to put a handsome face on a story. Narratives become of suspicious merit in proportion as they lean to Newgate-like offences, particularly of blood and wounds. A child has a reasonable respect for a llaw-head-and-bloody-bones, because all images whatsoever of pain and terror are new and fearful to Iris inexperienced age : but sufferings merely physical A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 101 (unless sublimated like those of Philoctetes) are com- mon-places to a grown man. Images, to become awful to him, must be removed from the grossness of the shambles. A death's head was a respectable thing in the hands of a poring monk, or of a nun com- pelled to avoid the idea of life and society, or of a her- mit already buried in the desart. Holbein's Dance of Death, in which every grinning skeleton leads along a man of rank, from the pope to the gentleman, is a good Memento Mori ; but there the skeletons have an air of the ludicrous and satirical. If we were threatened with them in a grave way, as spectres, we should have a right to ask how they could walk about without muscles. Thus many of the tales written by sucli authors as the late Mr. Lewis, who wanted senti- ment to give him the heart of truth, are quite puerile. When his spectral nuns go about bleeding, we think they ought in decency to have applied to some ghost of a surgeon. His little Grey Men, who sit munching hearts, are of a piece with fellows that eat cats for a waijer. Stories that give mental pain to no purpose, or to very little purpose compared with the unpleasant ideas they excite of human nature, are as gross mis- takes, in their way, as these, and twenty rimes as pernicious : for the latter become ludicrous to grown people. They originate also in the same extremes, of callousness, or of morbid want of excitement, as the others. But more of these hereafter. Our 102 THE INDICATOR. business at present is with things ghastly and ghostly. A ghost story, to be a good one, should unite, as much as possible, objects such as they are in life, with a preternatural spirit. And to be a perfect one, — at least to add to the other utility of excitement a moral utility, — they should imply some great senti- ment, — something that comes out of the next world to remind us of our duties in this ; or something that helps to carry on the idea of our humanity into after- life, even when we least think we shall take it with us. When " the buried majesty of Denmark" revisits earth to speak to his son Hamlet, he comes armed, as he used to be, in his complete steel. His visor is raised ; and the same fine face is there ; only, in spite of his punishing errand and his own sufferings, with A countenance more in sorrow than in anger. When Donne the poet, in his thoughtful eagerness to reconcile life and death, had a figure of himself painted in a shroud, and laid by his bedside in a coffin, he did a higher thing than the monks and her- mits with their skulls. It was taking his humanity with him into the other world, not affecting to lower the sense of it by regarding it piecemeal or in the frame-work. Burns, in his Tarn > Shantei\ shews the dead in their coffins after the same fashion. He does not lay bare to us their skeletons or refuse, things A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 103 with which we can connect no sympathy or spiritual wonder. They still are flesh and body to retain the one ; yet so look and behave, inconsistent in their very consistency, as to excite the other. Coffins stood round like open presses, Which shewed the dead in their last dresses : And by some devilish cantrip sleight, Each, in his cauld hand, held a light. Re-animation is perhaps the most ghastly of all ghastly things, uniting as it does an appearance of natural interdiction from the next world, with a supernatural experience of it. Our human conscious- ness is jarred out of its self-possession. The extremes of habit and newness, of common-place and astonish- ment, meet suddenly, without the kindly introduction of death and change ; and the stranger appals us in proportion. When the account appeared the other day in the newspapers of the galvanized dead body, whose features as well as limbs underwent such con- tortions, that it seemed as if it were about to rise up, one almost expected to hear, for the first time, news of the other world. Perhaps the most appalling- figure in Spenser is that of Maleger: {Fairy Queen, b. ii. c. xi.) Upon a tygre swift and fierce he rode, That as the winde ran underneath his lode, Whiles his long legs nigh raught unto the ground : Full large he was of limbe, and shoulders brode, But of such subtile substance and unsound, That like a ghost he seemed, whose grave-clothes were unbound. 101 THE IXDICATOK. Mr. Coleridge, in that voyage of his to the brink of all unutterable things, the Ancient Mariner (which works out however a fine sentiment), does not set mere ghosts or hobgoblins to man the ship again, when its crew are dead ; but re-animates, for awhile, the crew themselves. There is a striking fiction of this sort in Sale's Notes upon the Koran. Solomon dies during the building of the temple, but his body remains leaning on a staff and overlooking the workmen, as if it were alive; till a worm gnawing through the prop, he falls down. — The contrast of the appearance of humanity with something mortal or supernatural, is always the more terrible in proportion as it is com- plete. In the pictures of the temptations of saints and hermits, where the holy person is surrounded, teazed, and enticed, with devils and fantastic shapes, the most shocking phantasm is that of the beautiful woman. To return also to the poem above-mentioned. The most appalling personage in Mr. Coleridge's Ancient Mariner is the Spectre-woman, who is called Life-in-Death. He renders the most hideous abstrac- tion more terrible than it could otherwise have been, by embodying it in its own reverse. " Death 1 ' not only " lives" in it ; but the " unutterable" becomes uttered. To see such an unearthly passage end in such earthliness, seems to turn common-place itself into a sort of spectral doubt. The Mariner, after describing the horrible calm, and the rotting sea in which the ship was stuck, is speaking of a strange sail which he descried in the distance : A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 10-5 The western wave was all a-flame, The day was well nigh done! Almost upon the western wave Rested the broad bright sun ; When that strange ship drove suddenly Betwixt us and the sun. And straight the sun was flecked with bars, (Heaven's Mother send us grace !) As if through a dungeon-grate he peer d, With broad and burning face. Alas ! (thought I, and my heart beat loud) How fast she neers and neers! Are those her sails that glance in the sun Like restless gossameres ? Are those her ribs, through which the sun Did peer as through a grate ? And is that Woman all her crew? Is that a death ? and are there two ? Is Death that Woman's mate ? Her lips were red, her looks were free, Her locks were yellow as gold, Her skin was as white as leprosy, The Night-Mare Life-in-Death was she, Who thicks man's blood with cold. But we must come to Mr. Coleridge's story with our subtlest imaginations upon us. Now let us put our knees a little nearer the fire, and tell a homelier one about Life in Death. The groundwork of it is in Sandys 1 Commentary upon Ovid, and quoted from Sabinus.* * The Saxon Latin poet, we presume, professor of belles-let- tres at Frankfort. We know nothing of him except from a biographical dictionary. F 3 106 THE INDICATOR. A gentleman of Bavaria, of a noble family, was so afflicted at the death of his wife, that unable to bear the company of any other person, he gave himself up to a solitary way of living. This was the more remarkable in him, as he had been a man of jovial habits, fond of his wine and visitors, and impatient of having his numerous indulgences contradicted. But in the same temper perhaps might be found the cause of his sorrow ; for though he would be impa- tient with his wife, as with others, yet his love for her was one of the gentlest wills he had ; and the sweet and unaffected face which she always turned upon his anger, might have been a thing more easy for him to trespass upon, while living, than to forget, when dead and gone. His very anger towards her, compared with that towards others, was a relief to him. It was rather a wish to refresh himself in the balmy feeling of her patience, than to make her unhappy her- self, or to punish her, as some would have done, for that virtuous contrast to his own vice. But whether he bethought himself, after her death, that this was a very selfish mode of loving; or whether, as some thought, he had wearied out her life with habits so contrary to her own ; or whether, as others reported, he had put it to a fatal risk by some lordly piece of self-will, in consequence of which she had caught a fever on the cold river during a night of festivity ; he surprised even those who thought .hat he loved her, by the extreme bitterness of his grief. The very mention of festivity, though A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 107 he was patient for the first day or two, afterwards threw him into a passion of rage ; but by degrees even his rage followed his other old habits. He was gentle, but ever silent. He eat and drank but sufficient to keep him alive ; and used to spend the greater part of the day in the spot where his wife was buried. He was going there one evening, in a very melancholy manner, with his eyes turned towards the earth, and had just entered the rails of the burial-ground, when he was accosted by the mild voice of somebody com- ing to meet him. " It is a blessed evening, Sir, 1 '' said the voice. The gentleman looked up. Nobody but himself was allowed to be in the place at that hour ; and yet he saw, with astonishment, a young chorister approaching him. He was going to express some wonder, when, he said, the modest though assured look of the boy, and the extreme beauty of his coun- tenance, which glowed in the setting sun before him, made an irresistible addition to the singular sweetness of his voice; and he asked him with an involuntary calm- ness, and a gesture of respect, not what he did there, but what he wished. " Only to wish you all good things," answered the stranger, who had now come up, " and to give you this letter" The gentleman took the letter, and saw upon it, with a beating yet scarcely bewildered heart, the handwriting of his wife. He raised his eyes again to speak to the boy, but lie was gone. He cast them far and near round the place, but there were no traces of a passenger. He 108 THE INDICATOR. then opened the letter ; and by the divine light of the setting sun, read these words : " To my dear husband, who sorrows for his wife : " Otto, my husband, the soul you regret so is re- turned. You will know the truth of this, and be prepared with calmness to see it, by the divineness of the messenger, who has passed you. You will find me sitting in the public walk, praying for you ; pray- ing, that you may never more give way to those gusts of passion, and those curses against others, which divided us. " This, with a warm hand, from the living Bertha. ,, Otto (for such, it seems, was the gentleman's name) went instantly, calmly, quickly, yet with a sort of benumbed being, to the public walk. He felt, but with only a half-consciousness, as if he glided without a body. But all his spirit was awake, eager, intensely conscious. It seemed to him as if there had been but two things in the world — Life and Death ; and that Death was dead. All else appeared to have been a dream. He had awaked from a waking state, and found himself all eye, and spirit, and locomotion. He said to himself, once, as he went : " This is not a dream. I will ask my great ancestors to-morrow to my new bridal feast, for they are alive. 11 Otto had been calm at first, but something of old and trium- phant feelings seemed again to come over him. Was he again too proud and confident ? Did his earthly A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. 109 humours prevail again, when he thought them least upon him ? We shall see. The Bavarian arrived at the public walk. It was full of people with their wives and children, enjoying the beauty of the evening. Something like common fear came over him, as he went in and out among them, looking at the benches on each side. It hap- pened that there was only one person, a lady, sitting upon them. She had her veil down ; and his being underwent a fierce but short convulsion as he went near her. Something had a little baffled the calmer inspiration of the angel that had accosted him ; for fear prevailed at the instant, and Otto passed on. lie returned before he had reached the end of the walk, and approached the lady again. She was still sitting in the same quiet posture, only he thought she looked at him. Again he passed her. On his second return, a grave and sweet courage came upon him, and in an under but firm tone of enquiry, he said " Bertha ?" — " I thought you had forgotten me," said that well-known and mellow voice, which he had seemed as 'far from ever hearing again as earth is from heaven. He took her hand, which grasped his in turn ; and they walked home in silence together, the arm, which was wound within his, giving warmth for warmth. The neighbours seemed to have a miraculous want of wonder at the lady's re-appearance. Something was said about a mock-funeral, and her having withdrawn from his company for awhile : but visitors came as before, 110 THE INDICATOR. and his wife returned to her household affairs. It was only remarked that she always looked pale and pensive. But she was more kind to all, even than before ; and her pensiveness seemed rather the result of some great internal thought, than of unhappiness. For a year or two, the Bavarian retained the better temper which he acquired. His fortunes nourished beyond his earliest ambition ; the most amiable as well as noble persons of the district were frequent visitors ; and people said, that to be at Otto's house, must be the next thing to being in heaven. But by degrees his self-will returned with his prosperity. He never vented impatience on his wife; but he again began to shew, that the disquietude it gave her to see it vented on others, was a secondary thing, in his mind, to the indulgence of it. Whether it was, that his grief for her loss had been rather remorse than affection, and so he held himself secure if he treated her well ; or whether he was at all times rather proud of her, than fond ; or whatever was the cause which again set his antipathies above his sympathies, certain it was, that his old habits returned upon him ; not so often indeed, but with greater violence and pride, when they did. These were the only times, at which his wife was observed to shew any ordinary symptoms of uneasiness. At length, one day, some strong rebuff which he had received from an alienated neighbour threw him into such a transport of rage, that he gave way to the most bitter imprecations, crying with a loud voice — A TALE FOR A CHIMNEY CORNER. Ill " This treatment to me too ! To me ! To me, Avho if the world knew alF At these words, his wife, who had in vain laid her hand upon his, and looked him with dreary earnestness in the face, suddenly glided from the room. He, and two or three who were present, were struck with a dumb horror. They said, she did not walk out, nor vanish suddenly ; but glided, as one who could dispense with the use of feet. After a moment's pause, the others proposed to him to follow her. He made a movement of despair ; but they went. There was a short passage, which turned to the right into her favourite room. They knocked at the door twice or three times, and received no answer. At last, one of them gently opened it ; and looking in, they saw her, as they thought, standing before a fire, which was the only light in the room. Yet she stood so far from it, as rather to be in the middle of the room ; only the face was towards the fire, and she seemed looking upon it. They addressed her, but received no answer. They stepped gently towards her, and still received none. The figure stood dumb and unmoved. At last, one of them went round in front, and instantly fell on the floor. The figure was without body. A hollow hood was left instead of a face. The clothes were standing upright by them- selves. That room was blocked up for ever, for the clothes, if it might be so, to moulder away. It was called the Room of the Lady's Figure. The house, after the gentleman's death, was long uninhabited, and at 112 THE INDICATOR. length burnt by the peasants in an insurrection. As for himself, he died about nine months after, a gentle and child-like penitent. He had never stirred from the house since ; and nobody would venture to go near him, but a man who had the reputation of being a reprobate. It was from this man that the particu- lars of the story came first. He would distribute the gentleman's alms in great abundance to any strange poor who would accept them ; for most of the neigh- bours held them in horror. He tried all he could to get the parents among them to let some of their little children, or a single one of them, go to see his em- ployer. They said he even asked it one day with tears in his eyes. But they shuddered to think of it ; and the matter was not mended, when this profane person, in a fit of impatience, said one day, that he would have a child of his own on purpose. His em- ployer, however, died in a day or two. They did not believe a word he told them of all the Bavarian's gentleness, looking upon the latter as a sort of ogre, and upon his agent as little better, though a good natured-looking earnest kind of person. It was said many years after, that this man had been a friend of the Bavarian's when young, and had been deserted by him. And the young believed it, whatever the old might do. ( H3 ) XX,— THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. Having met in the Harleian Miscellany with an account of a pet thief of ours, the famous Du Vail, who nourished in the time of Charles the Second, and wishing to introduce him worthily to the readers, it has brought to mind such a number of the light- fingered gentry, his predecessors, that we almost feel hustled by the thoughts of them. Our subject, we may truly fear, will run away with us. We feel beset, like poor Tasso in his dungeon ; and are not sure that our paper will not suddenly be conveyed away from under our pen. Already we miss some excellent remarks, which we should have made in this place. If the reader should meet with any of that kind hereafter, upon the like subject, in another man's writings, twenty to one they are stolen from us, and ought to have enriched this our plundered exordium. He that steals an author's purse, may emphatically be said to steal trash ; but he that filches from him his good things Alas, we thought our subject would be running away with us. We must keep firm. We must put something heavier in our remarks, as the little thin Grecian philosopher used to put lead in his pockets, lest the wind should steal him. The more ruffianly crowd of thieves should go first, as pioneers ; but they can hardly be looked upon as progenitors of our gentle Du Vail ; and be- 114 THE INDICATOR. sides, with all their ferocity, some of them assume a grandeur, from standing in the remote shadows of antiquity. There was the famous son, for instance, of Vulcan and Medusa, whom Virgil calls the dire aspect of half-human Cacus — Semihominis Caci fades dira. (iEneid, b. viii, v. 194.) He was the raw- head-and-bloody bones of ancient fable. He lived in a cave by Mount Aventine, breathing out fiery smoke, and haunting king Evander's highway like the Apollyon of Pilgrim's Progress. Semperque recenti Csede tepebat humus ; foribusque adfixa superbis Ora virum tristi pendebant pallida trabo. The place about was ever in a plash Of steaming- blood ; and o'er the insulting door Hung pallid human heads, defaced with dreary gore. He stole some of the cows of Hercules, and dragged them backwards into his cave to prevent discovery ; but the oxen happening to low, the cows answered them ; and the demigod, detecting the miscreant in his cave, strangled him after a hard encounter. This is one of the earliest sharping tricks upon record. Autolycus, the son of Mercury (after whom Shak- speare christened his merry rogue in the Winter's Tale) was a thief suitable to the greater airiness of his origin. He is said to have performed tricks which must awake the envy even of horse-dealers ; for in pretending to return a capital horse which he had stolen, he palmed upon the owners a sorry jade THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 115 of an ass ; which was gravely received by those flats of antiquity. Another time he went still farther ; for having conveyed away a handsome bride, he sent in exchange an old lady elaborately hideous; yet the husband did not find out the trick till he had got off. Autolycus himself, however, was outwitted by Sisyphus, the son of J^olus. Autolycus was in the habit of stealing his neighbours'' cattle, and altering the marks upon them. Among others he stole some from Sisyphus ; but notwithstanding his usual pre- cautions, he w r as astonished to find the latter come and pick out his oxen, as if nothing had happened. He had marked them under the hoof. Autolycus, it seems, had the usual generosity of genius ; and was so pleased with this evidence of superior cunning, that some say he gave him in marriage his daughter Anticlea, who was afterwards the wife of Laertes, the father of Ulysses. According to others, how- ever, he only favoured him with his daughter's com- pany for a time, a fashion not yet extinct in some primitive countries; and it was a reproach made against Ulysses, that Laertes was only his pretended, and Sisyphus his real, father. Sisyphus has the credit of being the greatest knave of antiquity. His famous punishment in hell, of being compelled to roll a stone up a hill to all eternity, and seeing it always go down again, is attributed by some to a characteristic trait, which he could not help playing off upon Pluto. It was supposed by the ancients, that a 116 THE INDICATOR. man's ghost wandered in a melancholy manner upon the banks of the Styx, as long as his corpse re- mained without burial. Sisyphus on his death-bed purposely charged his wife to leave him unburied; and then begged Pluto's permission to go back to earth, on his parole, merely to punish her for so scandalous a neglect. Like the lawyer, however, who contrived to let his hat fall inside the door of heaven, and got St. Peter's permission to step in for it, Sisy- phus would not return ; and so when Pluto had him again, he paid him for the trick with setting him upon this everlasting job. The exploits of Mercury himself, the god of cun- ning, may be easily imagined to surpass every thing achieved by profaner hands. Homer, in the hymn to his honour, has given a delightful account of his prematurity in swindling. He had not been born many hours before he stole Vulcan's tools, Mars's sword, and Jupiter's sceptre. He beat Cupid in a wrestling bout on the same day ; and Venus caressing him for his conquest, he returned the embrace by niching away her girdle. He would also have stolen Jupiter's thunderbolts, but was afraid of burning his fingers. On the evening of his birth-day, he drove off the cattle of Admetus, which Apollo was tending. The good-humoured god of wit endeavoured to frighten him into restoring them ; but could not help laughing when, in the midst of his threatenings, he found himself without his quiver. The history of thieves is to be found either in that THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 117 of romance, or in the details of the history of cities. The latter have not come down to us from the ancient world, with some exceptions in the comic writers, immaterial to our present purpose, and in the loath- some rhetoric of Petronius. The finest thief in old history is the pirate who made that famous answer to Alexander, in which he said that the conqueror was only the mightier thief of the two. The story of the thieving architect in Herodotus we will tell another time. We can call to mind no other thieves in the Greek and Latin writers (always excepting political ones) except some paltry fellows who stole napkins at dinner ; and the robbers in Apuleius, the precursors of those in Gil Bias. When we come, however, to the times of the Arabians and of chivalry, they abound in all their glory, both great and small. Who among us does not know by heart the story of the never-to-be-forgotten Forty Thieves, with their treasure in the green wood, their anxious observer, their magical opening of the door, their captain, their concealment in the jars, and the scalding oil, that, as it were, extinguished them groaning, one by one? Have we not all ridden backwards and for- wards with them to the wood a hundred times ? — watched them, with fear and trembling, from the tree ? — sewn up, blindfolded, the four quarters of the dead body ? — and said, " Open Sesame," to every door at school ? May we ride with them again and again ; or we shall lose our appetite for some of the best things in the world. 118 THE INDICATOR. We pass over those interlopers in our English family, the Danes ; as well as Rollo the Norman, and other freebooters, who only wanted less need of robbery, to become respectable conquerors. In fact, they did so, as they got on. We have also no particular worthy to select from among that host of petty chieftains, who availed themselves of their knightly castles and privileges, to commit all sorts of unchivalrous outrages. These are the giants of modern romance ; and the Veglios, Malengins, and Pinabellos, of Pulci, Spenser, and Ariosto. They survived in the petty states of Italy a long while ; gradually took a less solitary, though hardly less fero- cious shape, among the fierce political partisans re- corded by Dante ; and at length became represented by the men of desperate fortunes, who make such a figure, between the gloomy and the gallant, in Mrs. RadclifiVs Mysteries of Udolpho. The breaking up of the late kingdom of Italy, with its dependencies, has again revived them in some degree ; but not, we believe, in any shape above common robbery. The regular modern thief seems to make his appearance for the first time in the imaginary character of Bru- nello, as described by Boiardo and Ariosto. He is a fellow that steals every valuable that comes in his way. The way in which he robs Sacripant, king of Circassia, of his horse, has been ridiculed by Cer- vantes ; if indeed he did not rather repeat it with great zest: for his use of the theft is really not such a caricature as in Boiardo and his great follower. THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 119 While Sancho is sitting lumpishly asleep upon the back of his friend Dapple, Gines de Passamonte, the famous thief, comes and gently withdraws the donkey from under him, leaving the somniculous squire propped up on the saddle with four sticks. His con- sternation on waking may be guessed. But in the Italian poets, the Circassian prince has only fallen into a deep meditation, when Brunello draws away his steed. Ariosto appears to have thought this extravagance a hazardous one, though he could not deny himself the pleasure of repeating it ; for he has made Sacripant blush, when called upon to testify how the horse was stolen from him. (Orlando Furio. lib. xxvu. st. 84.) In the Italian Novels and the old French Tales, are a variety of extremely amusing stories of thieves, all most probably founded on fact. We will give a specimen as we go, by way of making this article the completer. A doctor of laws in Bologna had become rich enough, by scraping money together, to indulge himself in a grand silver cup, which he sent home one day to his wife from the goldsmith's. There were two sharping fellows prowling about that day for a particular object ; and getting scent of the cup, they laid their heads together, to contrive how they might indulge themselves in it instead. One of them accordingly goes to a fishmonger's, and buys a fine lamprey, which he takes to the doctor's wife, with her husband's compliments, and he would bring a company of his brother doctors with him to dinner, 120 THE INDICATOR. requesting in the mean time that she would send back the cup by the bearer, as he had forgotten to have his arms engraved upon it. The good lady, happy to obey all these pleasing impulses on the part of master doctor, takes in the fish, and sends out the cup, with equal satisfaction ; and sets about getting the dinner ready. The doctor comes home at his usual hour, and finding his dinner so much better than ordinary, asks with an air of wonder, where was the necessity of going to that expense: upon which the wife, putting on an air of wonder in her turn, and proud of possessing the new cup, asks him where are all those brother doctors, whom he said he should bring with him. " What does the fool mean ?"" said the testy old gentleman. " Mean !" rejoined the wife — " what does this mean ?" pointing to the fish. The doctor looked down with his old eyes at the lamprey. " God knows,"" said he, " what it means. I am sure I don't know what it means more than any other fish, except that I shall have to pay a pretty sum for every mouthful you eat of it. 11 — " Why, it was your own doing, husband, ,, said the wife ; " and you will remember it, perhaps, when you recollect that the same man that brought me the fish, was to take away the cup to have your name engraved upon it. - " At this the doctor started back, with his eyes as wide open as the fish's, exclaiming, " And you gave it him, did you ?" — " To be sure I did," returned the good housewife. The old doctor here began a passionate speech, which he suddenly broke off; and THIEVES, ANCIEXT AND MODERN. 121 after stamping up and down the room, and crying out that he was an undone advocate, ran quivering out into the street like one frantic, asking every body if he had seen a man with a lamprey. The two rogues were walking all this time in the neighbour- hood ; and seeing the doctor set off, in his frantic fit, to the goldsmith's, and knowing that he who brought the lamprey had been well disguised, they began to ask one another, in the jollity of their triumph, what need there was for losing a good lamprey, because they had gained a cup. The other therefore went to the doctor's house, and putting on a face of good news, told the wife that the cup was found. " Master doctor ," said he, " bade me come and tell you that it was but a joke of your old friend WhatVhis-name." — " Castellani, I warrant me, 1 ' said the wife, with a face broad with delight. " The same," returned he : — " master doctor says that Signor Castellani, and the other gentlemen he spoke of, are waiting for you at the Signor's house, where they purpose to laugh away the choler they so merrily raised, with a good dinner and wine, and to that end they have sent me for the lamprey. '" — " Take it in God's name," said the good woman ; " I am heartily glad to see it go out of the house, and shall follow it myself speedily." So saying, she gave him the fine hot fish, with some sauce, between two dishes; and the knave, who felt already round the corner with glee, slid it under his cloak, and made the best of his way to his VOL. i. g 122 THE INDICATOR. companion, who lifted up his hands and eyes at sight of him, and asked twenty questions in a breath, and chuckled, and slapped his thigh, and snapped his fingers for joy, to think what a pair of fools two rogues had to do with. Little did the poor despair- ing doctor, on his return home, guess what they were saying of him as he passed the wall of the house in which they were feasting. " Heyday !" cried the wife, smiling all abroad, as she saw him entering, " what, art thou come to fetch me then, bone of my bone ? Well ; if this isn't the gallantest day I have seen many a year ! It puts me in mind — it puts me in mind" Here the chirping old lady was about to remind the doctor of the days of his youth, hold- ing out her arms and raising her quivering voice, when (we shudder to relate) she received a consider- able cuff on the left cheek. " You make me mad, 1 ' cried the doctor, " with your eternal idiotical non- sense. What do you mean by coming to fetch you, and the gallantest day of your life ? May the devil fetch you, and me, and that invisible fiend that stole the cup." — " What !" exclaimed the wife, suddenly changing her tone from a vociferous complaint which she had unthinkingly set up, " did you send nobody then for the lamprey ?" Here the doctor cast his eyes upon the bereaved table ; and unable to bear the shame of this additional loss, however trivial, began tearing his hair and beard, and hopping about the room^ giving his wife a new and scandalous epithet THIEVES, ANCIENT AXD MODERN. 123 at every step, as if he was dancing to a catalogue of her imperfections. The story shook all the shoulders in Bologna for a month after. As we find, by the length to which this article has already reached, that we should otherwise be obliged to compress our recollections of Spanish, French, and English thieves, into a compass that would squeeze them into the merest dry notices, we will postpone them at once to our next number; and relate another story from the same Italian novelist that supplied our last.* Our author is Massuccio of Salerno, a novelist who disputes with Bandello the rank next in popularity to Boccaccio. We have not the original by us, and must be obliged to an English work for the groundwork of our story, as we have been to Paynter's Palace of Pleasure for the one just related. But we take the liberty usual with the repeaters of these stories ; we retain the inci- dents, but tell them in our own way, and imagine what might happen in the intervals. Two Neapolitan sharpers, having robbed a Ge- noese merchant of his purse, make the best of their way to Sienna, where they arrive during the preach- ing of St. Bernardin. One of them attends a sermon * Tn the original edition of the Indicator this article was divided into three numbers. Perhaps it would have been bet- ter had the division been retained; but perplexities occur in hastily correcting- a work for a new edition, which the reader will have the goodness to excuse. g2 124 THE INDICATOR. with an air of conspicuous modesty and devotion, and afterwards waits upon the preacher, and ad- dresses him thus : " Reverend father, you see before you a man, poor indeed, but honest. I do not mean to boast ; God knows, I have no reason. Who upon earth has reason, unless it be one who will be the last to boast, like yourself, holy father ?" Here the saintly orator shook his head. " I do not mean,' 1 resumed the stranger, " to speak even of the reverend and illustrious Bernardin, but as of a man among men. For my part, I am, as it were, a creeping thing among them ; and yet I am honest. If I have any virtue, it is that. I crawl right onward in my path, looking neither to the right nor to the left ; and yet I have my temptations. Reverend father, I have found this purse. I will not deny, that being often in want of the common necessaries of life, and having been obliged last night, in particular, to sit down faint at the city gates, for want of my ordinary crust and onion, which I had given to one (God help him) still worse off than myself, I did cast some looks — I did, I say, just open the purse, and cast a wistful eye at one of those shining pieces, that lay one over the other inside, with something like a wish that I could procure myself a meal with it, unknown to the lawful proprietor. But my conscience, thank heaven, prevailed. I have to make two requests to you, reverend father. First, that you will absolve me for this my offence ; and second, that you will be pleased to mention in one of your discourses, that a poor THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 125 sinner from Milan, on his road to hear them, has found a purse, and would willingly restore it to the right owner. I would fain give double the contents of it to find him out; but then, what can I do? All the wealth I have, consists in my honesty. Be pleased, most illustrious father, to mention this in your dis- course, as modestly as becomes my nothingness ; and to add especially, that the purse was found on the road from Milan, lying, miraculously, as it were, upon a sunny bank, open to the view of all, under an olive tree, not far from a little fountain, the pleasant noise of which peradventure had invited the owner to sleep. 1 ' The good father, at hearing this detail, smiled at the anxious sincerity of the poor pilgrim, and giving him the required absolution, promised to do his utmost to bring forth the proprietor. In his next sermon, he accordingly dwelt with such elo- quence on the opportunities thrown in the way ot' the rich who lose purses to behave nobly, that his con- gregation several times half rose from their seats out of enthusiasm, and longed for some convenient loss of property, that might enable them to shew their dis- interestedness. At the conclusion of it, however, a man stepped forward, and said, that anxious as he was to do justice to the finder of the purse, which he knew to be his the moment he saw it (onlv he was loth to interrupt the reverend father), he had claims upon him at home, in the person of his wife and thirteen children, — fourteen perhaps, he might ?iow 126 THE INDICATOR. say, — which, to his great sorrow, prevented him from giving the finder more than a quarter of a piece ; this however he offered him with the less scruple, since he saw the seraphic disposition of the reverend preacher and his congregation, who he had no doubt would make ample amends for this involuntary de- ficiency on the part of a poor family man, the whole portion of whose wife and children might be said to be wrapt up in that purse. His sleep under the olive tree had been his last for these six nights (here the other man said, with a tremulous joy of acknow- ledgment, that it was indeed just six nights since he had found it) ; and heaven only knew when he should have had another, if his children's bread, so to speak, had not been found again." With these words, the sharper (for such, of course, he was) presented the quarter of a piece to his companion, who made all but a prostration for it ; and hastened with the purse out of the church. The other man's circumstances were then enquired into, and as he was found to have almost as many children as the purse-owner, and no possessions at all, as he said, but his honesty, — all his children being equally poor and pious, — a consi- derable subscription was raised for him ; so large in- deed, that on the appearance of a new claimant next day, the pockets of the good people were found empty. This was no other than the Genoese mer- chant, who having turned back on his road when he missed his purse, did not stop till he came to Sienna, THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 127 and heard the news of the day before. Imagine th« feelings of the deceived people. Saint Bernardin was convinced that the two cheats were devils in disguise. The resident canon had thought pretty nearly as much all along, but had held his tongue, and now hoped it would be a lesson to people not to listen to every body who could talk, especially to the neglect of Saint Antonio's monastery. As to the people themselves, they thought variously. Most of them were mortified at having been cheated ; and some swore they never would be cheated again, let appearances be what they might. Others thought that this was a resolution somewhat equivocal, and more convenient than happy. For our parts, we think the last were right : and this reminds us of a true English story, more good than striking, which we heard a short while ago from a friend. lie knew a man of rugged manners, but good heart (not that the two things, as a lover of parenthesis will say, are at all bound to go together), who had a wife some- what given to debating with hackney-coachmen, and disputing acts of settlement respecting half miles, and quarter miles, and abominable additional sixpences. The good housewife was lingering at the door, and exclaiming against one of these monstrous charioteers, whose hoarse low voice was heard at intervals, full of lying protestations and bad weather, when the hus- band called out from a back-room, " Never mind there, never mind : — let her be cheated ; let her be cheated. 11 128 THE INDICATOR. This is a digression ; but it is as well to introduce it, in order to take away a certain bitterness out of the mouth of the other's moral. We now come to a very unromantic set of rogues ; the Spanish ones. In a poetical sense, at least, they are unromantic ; though doubtless the mountains of Spain have seen as picturesque vagabonds in their time as any. There are the robbers in Gil Bias, who have, at least, a respectable cavern, and loads of polite superfluities. Who can forget the lofty-named Captain Itolando, with his sturdy height and his whiskers, shewing with a lighted torch his treasure to the timid stripling, Gil Bias? The most illustrious theft in Spanish story is one recorded of no less a per- son than the fine old national hero, the Cid. As the sufferers were Jews, it might be thought that his conscience would not have hurt him in those days ; but " My Cid 1 ' was a kind of early soldier in behalf of sentiment ; and though he went to work roughly, he meant nobly and kindly. " God knows,' 1 '' said he, on the present occasion, " I do this thing more of necessity than of wilfulness ; but by God^ help I shall redeem all. 11 The case was this. The Cid, who was too good a subject to please his master, the king, had quarrelled with him, or rather, had been banished ; and nobody was to give him house-room or food. A number of friends, however, followed him ; and by the help of his nephew, Martin Antolinez, he pro- posed to rai.:>e some money. Martin accordingly ne- gociated the business with a couple of rich Jews, THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 129 who for a deposit of two chests full of spoil, which they were not to open for a year, on account of poli- tical circumstances, agreed to advance six hundred marks. " Well, then," said Martin Antolinez, " ye see that the night is advancing ; the Cid is in haste, give us the marks. " This is not the way of busi- ness, 11 said they ; " we must take first, and then give. 11 Martin accordingly goes with them to the Cid, who in the mean time has filled a couple of heavy chests with sand. The Cid smiled as they kissed his hand, and said, " Ye see I am going out of the land because of the king's displeasure ; but I shall leave something with ye. 1 ' The Jews made a suitable answer, and were then desired to take the chests; but, though strong men, they could not raise them from the ground. This put them in such spirits, that after tellino- out the six hundred marks (which Don Martin took without weighing), they offered the Cid a pre- sent of a fine red skin ; and upon Don Martin's sug- gesting that he thought his own services in the busi- ness merited a pair of hose, they consulted a minute with each other, in order to do every thing judiciously and then gave him money enough to buy, not only the hose, but a rich doublet and good cloak into the bargain.* # See Mr. Southey's excellent compilation entitled The Chronicles of the Cid, book iii. sec. 21. The version at the end of the hook, attributed to Mr. Hookhan Frere, of a pas- sage out of the Poema del Cid, is the most native and terse Lit of translation we ever met with. It rides along, like the Cid G 3 130 THE INDICATOR. The regular sharping rogues, however, that abound in Spanish books of adventure, have one species of romance about them of a very peculiar nature. It may be called, we fear, as far as Spain is concerned, a " romance of real life." We allude to the absolute want and hunger which is so often the original of their sin. A vein of this craving nature runs throughout most of the Spanish novels. In other countries theft is generally represented as the result of an abuse of plenty, or of some other kind of profligacy, or absolute ruin. But it seems to be an understood thing, that to be poor in Spain is to be in want of the commonest necessaries of life. If a poor man, here and there, happens not to be in so destitute a state as the rest, he thinks himself bound to maintain the popular cha- racter for an appetite, and manifests the most prodi- gious sense of punctuality and anticipation in all mat- ters relating to meals. Who ever thinks of Sancho, and does not think of ten minutes before luncheon ? Don Quixote, on the other hand, counts it ungenteel and undignified to be hungry. The cheat who flat- ters Gil Bias, reckons himself entitled to be insult- ingly triumphant, merely because he has got a dinner out of him. Of all these ingenious children of necessity, whose roguery has been sharpened by perpetual want, no wit himself on horseback, with an infinite mixture of ardour and self-possession ; bending-, when it chooses, with grace, or bearing- down every thing with mastery. THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. V,M was surely ever kept at so subtle and fierce an edge as that of the never-to-be-decently-treated Lazarillo de Tormes. If we ourselves had not been at a sort of monastic school, and known the beatitude of dry bread and a draught of spring-water, his history would seem to inform us, for the first time, what hunger was. His cunning so truly keeps pace with it, that he seems recompensed for the wants of his stomach by the abundant energies of his head. One-half of his imagination is made up of dry bread and scraps, and the other of meditating how to get at them. Every thought of his mind and every feeling of his affection coalesces and tends to one point with a ventripetal force. It was said of a contriving lady, that she took her very tea by stratagem. Lazarillo is not so lucky. It is enough for him, if by a train of the most ingeni- ous contrivances, he can lay successful siege to a crust. To rout some broken victuals; to circumvent an onion or so, extraordinary, is the utmost aim of his ambition. An ox-foot is his beau ideal. He has as intense and circuitous a sense of a piece of cheese, as a mouse at a trap. He swallows surreptitious crums with as much zest, as a young servant girl does a plate of preserves. But to his story. He first serves a blind beggar, with whom he lives miserably, except when he commits thefts, which subject him to mise- rable beatings. He next lives with a priest, and finds his condition worse. His third era of esuricncy takes place in the house of a Spanish gentleman ; and here he is worse off' than ever. The reader wonders, as he 132 THE INDICATOR. himself did, how he can possibly ascend to this climax of starvation. To overreach a blind beggar might be thought easy. The reader will judge by a speci- men or two. The old fellow used to keep his mug of liquor between his legs, that Lazarillo might not touch it without his knowledge. He did, however ; and thebeggar discovering it, took to holding the mug in future by the handle. Lazarillo then contrives to suck some of the liquor off with a reed, till the beggar defeats this contrivance by keeping one hand upon the vessel's mouth. His antagonist upon this makes a hole near the bottom of the mug, filling it up with wax, and so tapping the can with as much gentleness as possible, whenever his thirst makes him bold. This stratagem threw the blind man into despair. He " used to swear and domineer,"" and wisli both the pot and its contents at the devil. The following account of the result is a specimen of the English translation of the work, which is done with great tact and spirit, we know not by whom, but it is worthy of De Foe. Lazarillo is supposed to tell his adventures himself. " You won't accuse me any more, I hope," cried I, " of drinking your wine,* after all the fine precautions you have taken to prevent it." To that he said not a word ; but feeling all about the pot, he at last un- luckily discovered the hole, which dissembling at that time, he let me alone till next day at dinner. Not dreaming, my reader must know, of the old man's * The reader is to understand a common southern wine, very cheap. THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 133 malicious stratagem, but getting in between his legs, according to my wonted custom, and receiving into my mouth the distilling dew, and pleasing myself with the success of my own ingenuity, my eyes up- ward, but half shut, the furious tyrant, taking up the sweet, but hard pot, with both his hands, flung it down again with all his force upon my face ; with the violence of which blow, imagining the house had fallen upon my head, I lay sprawling without any sentiment or judgment; my forehead, nose, and mouth, gushing out of blood, and the latter full of broken teeth, and broken pieces of the can. From that time forward, I ever abominated the monstrous old churl, and in spite of all his flattering stories, could easily observe, how my punishment tickled the old rogue's fancy. He washed my sores with wine ; and with a smile, ' AY hat say'st thou,' quoth he, ' Lazarillo ; the thing that hurt thee, now restores thee to health. Courage, my boy.' But all his raillery could not make me change my mind." At another time, a countryman giving them a clus- ter of grapes, the old man, says Lazarillo, " would needs take that opportunity to shew me a little kind- ness, after he had been chiding and beating me the whole day before. So setting ourselves down by a hedge, ' Come hither, Lazarillo, 1 quoth he, ' and let us enjoy ourselves a little, and eat these raisins together; which that we may share like brothers, do you take but one at a time, and be sure not to cheat me, and I promise you for my part, I shall take no 134 THE INDICATOR. more.'' That I readily agreed to, and so we began our banquet ; but at the very second time he took a couple, believing, I suppose, that I would do the same. And finding he had shewn me the way, I made no scruple all the while to take two, three, or four at a time ; sometimes more and sometimes less, as con- veniently I could. When we had done, the old man shook his head, and holding the stalk in his hand, ' Thou hast cheated me, Lazarillo, 1 quoth he, ' for I could take my oath, that thou hast taken three at a time.'' — ' Who I ! I beg your pardon,' quoth I, ' my conscience is as dear to me as another. 1 — ' Pass that jest upon another,' answered the old fox ; ' you saw me take two at a time Avithout complaining of it, and therefore you took three. 1 At that I could hardly forbear laughing ; and at the same time admired the justness of his reasoning. 11 Lazarillo at length quit- ted the service of the old hard-hearted miser, and revenged himself upon him at the same time, in a very summary manner. They were returning home one day on account of bad weather, when they had to cross a kennel which the rain had swelled to a little torrent. The beggar was about to jump over it as well as he could, when Lazarillo persuaded him to go a little lower down the stream, because there was a better crossing ; that is, there was a stone pillar on the other side, against which he knew the blind old fellow would nearly dash his brains out. " He was mightily pleased with my advice. ' Thou art in the right on it, good boy, 1 quoth he, ' and I love thee THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 135 with all my heart, Lazarillo. Lead me to the place thou speakest of; the water is very dangerous in win- ter, and especially to have one's feet wet.' And again — ' Be sure to set me in the right place, Laza- rillo,' quoth he; ' and then do thou go over first.' I obeyed his orders, and set him exactly before the pillar, and so leaping over, posted myself behind it, looking upon him as a man would do upon a mad bull. c Now your jump, 1 quoth I, ' and you may get over to rights, without ever touching the water. 1 I had scarce done speaking, when the old man, like a ram that's fighting, ran three steps backwards, to take his start with the greater vigour, and so his head came with a vengeance against the stone-pillar, which made him fall back into the kennel half dead.'' 1 Laza- rillo stops a moment to triumph over him with in- sulting language ; and then, says he, " resigning my blind, bruised, wet, old, cross, cunning master to the care of the mob that was gathered about him, I made the best of my heels, without ever looking about, till I had got the town-gate upon my back ; and thence, marching on a merry pace, I arrived before night at Torrigo." At the house of the priest, poor Lazarillo gets worse off than before, and is obliged to resort to the most extraordinary shifts to arrive at a morsel of bread. At one time, he gets a key of a tinker, and opening the old trunk in which the miser kept his bread (a sight, he says, like the opening of heaven), he takes small pieces out of three or four, in iniita- 136 THE INDICATOR. tion of a mouse ; which so convinces the old hunks that the mice and rats have been at them, that he is more liberal of the bread than usual. He lets him have in particular " the parings above the parts where he thought the mice had been." Another of his contrivances is to palm off his pickings upon a ser- pent, with which animal a neighbour told the priest that his house had been once haunted. Lazarillo, who had been used when he lived with the beggar to husband pieces of money in his mouth (substituting some lesser coin in the blind man's hand, when people gave him any thing), now employs the same hiding- place for his key ; but whistling through it unfortu- nately, one night, as he lay breathing hard in his sleep, the priest concludes he has caught the serpent, and going to Lazarillo's bed with a broomstick, gives him at a venture such a tremendous blow on the head, as half murders him. The key is then discovered, and the poor fellow turned out of doors. He is now hired by a lofty-looking hidalgo ; and follows him home, eating a thousand good things by anticipation. They pass through the markets how- ever to no purpose. The squire first goes to church too, and spends an unconscionable time at mass. At length they arrive at a dreary, ominous looking house, and ascend into a decent apartment, where the squire, after shaking his cloak, and blowing off' the dust from a stone seat, lays it neatly down, and so makes a cushion of it to sit upon. There is no other furniture in the room, nor even in the neighbouring rooms, ex- THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 137 cept a bed " composed of the anatomy of an old hamper." The truth is, the squire is as poor as Lazarillo, only too proud to own it ; and so he starves both himself and his servant at home, and then issues gallantly forth of a morning, with his Toledo by his side, and a countenance of stately satisfaction; re- turning home every day about noon with " a starched body, reaching out his neck like a greyhound. 11 La- zarillo had not been a day in the house, before he found out how matters went. He was beginning, in his despair of a dinner, to eat some scraps of bread which had been given him in the morning, when the squire observing him, asked what he was about. " Come hither, boy, 11 said he, " what's that thou art eating ?" — " I went, 11 says Lazarillo, " and shew- ed him three pieces of bread, of which taking away the best, ' upon my faith,' quoth he, ' this bread seems to be very good.' — ' 'Tis too stale and hard, Sir, 1 said I, 'to be good.' — ' I swear 'tis very good,' said the squire ; ' Who gave it thee ? Were their hands clean that gave it thee? 1 — ' I took it without asking any questions, Sir, 1 answered I, ' and you see I eat it as freely.' — ' Pray God it may be so, 1 answered the miserable squire ; and so putting the bread to his mouth, he eat it with no less appetite than I did mine ; adding to every mouthful, ' Gad- zooks, this bread is excellent.' 11 Lazarillo in short here finds the bare table so com- pletely turned upon him, that he is forced to become provider for his master as well as himself; which he 138 THE INDICATOR. does by fairly going out every day and begging ; the poor squire Avinking at the indignity, though not without a hint at keeping the connexion secret. The following extract shall be our climax, which it may well be, the hunger having thus ascended into the ribs of Spanish aristocracy. Lazarillo, one lucky day, has an ox-foot and some tripe given him by a butcher- woman. On coming home with his treasure, he finds the hidalgo impatiently walking up and down, and fears he shall have a scolding for staying so long ; but the squire merely asks where he has been, and receives the account with an irrepressible air of delight. " I sate down," says Lazarillo, " upon the end of the stone seat, and began to eat that he might fancy I was feasting; and observed without seeming to take notice, that his eye was fixed upon my skirt, which was all the plate and table that I had. " May God pity me as I had compassion on that poor squire: daily experience made me sensible of his trouble. I did not know whether I should invite him, for since he had told me he had dined, I thought he would make a point of honour to refuse to eat ; but in short, being very desirous to supply his neces- sity, as I had done the day before, and which I was then much better in a condition to do, having already sufficiently stuffed my own guts, it was not long before an opportunity fairly offered itself; for he taking occasion to come near me in his walks, ' Lazarillo,' quoth he (as soon as he observed me begin to eat), ' I never saw any body eat so handsomely as thee ; THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 139 a body can scarce see thee fall to work without de- siring to bear thee company ; let their stomachs be never so full, or their mouth be never so much out of taste."' Faith, thought I to myself, with such an empty belly as your's, my own mouth would water at a great deal less. " But finding he was come where I wished him: * Sir, 1 said I, ' good stuff makes a good workman. This is admirable bread, and here's an ox-foot so nicely drest and so well-seasoned, that any body would delight to taste of it. 1 " ' How T cried the squire, interrupting me, ' an ox-foot ?' — ' Yes, sir, 1 said I, 'an ox-foot. 1 — ' Ah ! then? quoth he, ' thou hast in my opinion the deli- catest bit in Spain ; there being neither partridge, pheasant, nor any other thing that I like nearly a so well as that. 1 " ' Will you please to try, sir,' said I (putting the ox-foot in his hand, with two good morsels of bread) : ' when you have tasted it, you will be convinced that it is a treat for a king, 'tis so well dressed and sea- soned. 1 " Upon that, sitting down by my side, he began to eat, or rather to devour what I had given him, so that the bones could hardly escape. ' Oh ! the excel- lent bit,' did he cry, ' that this would be with a little garlic !' Ha ! thought I to myself, how hastily thou eatest it without sauce. ' Gad,' said the squire, ' I have eaten this as heartily as if I had not 140 THE INDICATOR. tasted a bit of victuals to-day :' which I did very readily believe. " He then called for the pitcher with the water, which was as full as I had brought it home ; so you may guess whether he had had any. When his squire- ship had drank, he civilly invited me to do the like ; and thus ended our feast. 11 We hope the reader is as much amused with this prolongation of the subject as ourselves, for we are led on insensibly by these amusing thieves, and find we have more to write upon them, before we have done. We must give another specimen or two of the sharping Spaniard, out of Quevedo. The Adven- tures, by the way, of Lazarillo de Tonnes, were written in the sixteenth century by a Spanish gentle- man, apparently of illustrious family, Don Diego de Mendoza, who was sometime ambassador at Venice. This renders the story of the hidalgo still more cu- rious. Not that the author perhaps ever felt the proud but condescending pangs which he describes ; this is not necessary for a man of imagination. He merely meant to give a hint to the poorer gentry not to overdo the matter on the side of loftiness, for their own sakes; and hunger, whether among the proud or the humble, was too national a thing, not to be en- tered into by his statistic apprehension. The most popular work connected with sharping adventures is Gil Bias, which though known to us as a French production, seems unquestionably to have THIEVES, ANCIEXT AND MODERN. 141 originated in the country where the scene is laid. It is a work exquisitely easy and true ; but somehow we have no fancy for the knaves in it. They are of too smooth, sneaking, and safe a cast. They neither bespeak one's sympathy by necessity, nor one's admi- ration by daring. We except, of course, the robbers before-mentioned, who are a picturesque patch in the world, like a piece of rough poetry. Of the illustrious Guzman d'Alfarache, the most popular book of the kind, we believe, in Spain, and admired, we know, in this country by some excellent judges, we cannot with propriety speak, for we have only read a few pages at the beginning ; though we read those twice over, at two different times, and each time with the same intention of going on. In truth, as Guzman is called by way of eminence the Spanish Rogue, we must say for him, as far as our slight acquaintance warrants it, that he is also " as tedious as a king." They say, however, he has excellent stuff* in him. We can speak as little of Marcos de Obregon, of which a translation appeared a little while ago. We have read it, and, if we remember rightly, were pleased ; but want of memory on these occasions is not a good symptom. Quevedo, no ordinary person, is very amusing. His Visions of Hell in particular, though of a very different kind from Dante's, are more edifying. Hut our business at present is with his " History of Paul the Spanish Sharper, the Pattern of Rogues and Mirror of Vagabonds? We 142 THE INDICATOR. do not know that he deserves these appellations so much as some others ; but they are to be looked upon as titular ornaments, common to the Spanish Klep- tocracy. He is extremely pleasant, especially in his younger days. His mother, who is no better than the progenitor of such a personage ought to be, happens to have the misfortune one day of being carted. Paul, who was then a school-boy, was elected king on some boyish holiday ; and riding out upon a half- starved horse, it picked up a small cabbage as they went through the market. The market-women began pelting the king with rotten oranges and turnip-tops ; upon which, having feathers in his cap, and getting a notion in his head that they mistook him for his mother, who agreeably to a Spanish custom was tricked out in the same manner when she was carted, he halloo'd out, " Good women, though I wear fea- thers in my cap, I am none of Alonza Saturuo de Rebillo. She is my mother.'" Paul used to be set upon unlucky tricks by the son of a man of rank, who preferred enjoying a joke to getting punished for it. Among others, one Christ- mas, a counsellor, happening to go by of the name of Pontio de Auguirre, the little Don told his companion to call Pontius Pilate, and then to run away. He did so, and the angry counsellor followed after him with a knife in his hand, so that he was forced to take refuc-e in the house of the schoolmaster. The lawyer laid his indictment, and Paul got a hearty flogging, during which he was enjoined never to call Pontius THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 143 Pilate again ; to which he heartily agreed. The con- sequence was, that next day, when the boys were at prayers, Paul, coming to the Belief, and thinking that he was never again to name Pontius Pilate, gravely said, " Suffered under Pontio de Auguirre;" which evidence of his horror of the scourge so inte- rested the pedagogue, that by a Catholic mode of dispensation, he absolved him from the next two whippings he should incur. But we forget that our little picaro was a thief. One specimen of his talents this way, and we have done with the Spaniards. He went with young Don Diego to the university ; and here getting applause for some tricks he played upon people, and dandling, as it were, his growing propensity to theft, he invited his companions one evening to see him steal a box of comfits from a confectioner's. He accordingly draws his rapier, which was stiff and well pointed ; runs violently into the shop; and exclaiming, " You re a dead man," makes a fierce lunge at the confectioner between the body and arm. Down drops the man, half dead with fear; the others rush out. But what of the box of comfits ? " Where are the box of comfits, Paul?" said the rogues: " we do not see what you have done after all, except frighten the fel- low." — " Look here, my boys," answered Paul. They looked, and at the end of his rapier beheld, with shouts of laughter, the vanquished box. He had marked it out on the shelf; and under pretence 144 THE 1XDICAT0R. of lunging at the confectioner, pinked it away like a muffin. Upon turning to Quevedo, we find that the story has grown a little upon our memory, as to detail ; but this is the spirit of it. The prize here, it is to be observed, is something eatable ; and the same yearn- ing is a predominant property of QueveckTs sharpers, as well as the others. Adieu, ye pleasant rogues of Spain! ye sur- mounters of bad government, hunger, and misery, by the mere force of a light climate and fingers ! The dinner calls ; — and to talk about you before it, is as good as taking a ride on horseback. We must return a moment to the Italian thieves, to relate a couple of stories related of Ariosto and Tasso. The former was for a short period governor of Grafagnana, a disturbed district in the Apennines, which his prudent and gentle policy brought back from its disaffection. Among its other troubles were numerous bands of robbers, two of the names of whose leaders, Domenico Maroco, and Filippo Pac- chione, have come down to posterity. Ariosto, dur- ing the first days of his government, was riding out with a small retinue, when he had to pass through a number of suspicious-looking armed men. The two parties had scarcely cleared each other, when the chief of the strangers asked a servant who happened to be at some distance behind the others, who that person was. " It is the captain of the citadel here, 11 THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 145 said the man, " Lodovico Ariosto.' 1 The stranger no sooner heard the name, than he went running back to overtake the governor, who, stopping his horse, waited with some anxiety for the event. " I beg your pardon, Sir," said lie, " but I was not aware that so great a person as the Signor Lodovico Ariosto was passing near me. My name is Filippo Pacchione ; and when I knew who it was, I could not go on without returning to pay the respect due to so illustrious a name." A doubt is thrown on this story, or rather on the particular person who gave occasion to it, by the simi- larity of an adventure related of Tasso. lioth of them however are very probable, let the similarity be what it may ; for both the poets had occasion to go through disturbed districts ; robbers abounded in both their times; and the leaders being most probably men rather of desperate fortunes than want of knowledge, were likely enough to seize such opportunities of vin- dicating their better habits, and shewing a romantic politeness. The enthusiasm too is quite in keeping with the national character; and it is to be observed that the particulars of Tasso" s adventure are different, though the spirit of it is the same. He was journey- ing, it is said, in company with others, for better se- curity against the banditti who infested the borders of the papal territory, when they were told that Sciarra, a famous robber, was at hand in considerable force. Tasso was for pushing on, and defending themselves if attacked; but his opinion was overruled; and the VOL. I. ][ 146 THE INDICATOR. company threw themselves, for safety, into the city of Mola. Here Sciarra kept them in a manner blocked up ; but hearing that Tasso was among the travellers, he sent him word that he should not only be allowed to pass, but should have safe conduct whithersoever he pleased. The lofty poet, making it a matter of delicacy perhaps to waive an advantage of which his company could not partake, declined the offer, upon which Sciarra sent another message, saying, that upon the sole account of Tasso, the ways should be left open. And they were so. We can call to mind no particular German thieves, except those who figure in romances, and in the Rob- bers of Schiller. To say the truth, we are writing- just now with but few books to refer to; and the better informed reader must pardon any deficiency he meets with in these egregious and furtive memo- randums. Of the Robbers of Schiller, an extraordi- nary effect is related. It is said to have driven a number of wild-headed young Germans upon playing at banditti, not in the bounds of a school or univer- sity, but seriously in a forest. The matter-of-fact spirit in which a German sets about being enthusi- astic, is a metaphysical curiosity which modern events render doubly interesting. It is extremely worthy of the attention of those rare personages, entitled reflect- ing politicians. But we must take care of that kind of digression. It is very inhuman of these politics, that the habit of attending to them, though with the great- est good-will and sincerity, will always be driving a THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 147 man upon thinking how his fellow-creatures are going on. There is a pleasant well-known story of a Prussian thief and Frederick the Second. We forget what was the precise valuable found upon the Prussian soldier, and missed from an image of the Virgin Mary ; but we believe it was a ring. He was tried for sacrilege, and the case seemed clear against him, when he puzzled his Catholic judges by informing them, that the fact was, the Virgin Mary had given him that ring. Here was a terrible di- lemma. To dispute the possibility or even probability of a gift from the Virgin Mary, was to deny their re- ligion : while, on the other hand, to let the fellow escape on the pretence, was to canonize impudence itself. The worthy judges, in their perplexity, ap- plied to the king, who under the guise of behaving delicately to their faith, was not sorry to have such an opportunity of joking it. His majesty therefore pronounced, with becoming gravity, that the allega- tion of the soldier could not but have its due weight with all Catholic believers; but that in future, it was forbidden any Prussian subject, military or civil, to accept a present from the Virgin Mary. The district, formerly rendered famous by the ex- ploits of Scanderbeg, Prince of Epirus, and since be- come infamous by the tyranny of All Bey, has been very fertile in robbers. And no wonder: for a semi- barbarous people so governed become thieves by ne- ii 2 148 THE INDICATOR. cessity. The name indeed, as well as profession, is in such good receipt with an Albanian, that according to late travellers, it is a common thing for him to begin history by saying, " When I was a robber *' We remember reading of some Albanian or Sclavonian leader of banditti, who made his enemies suppose he had a numerous force with him, by distributing mili- tary caps upon the hedges. There are some other nations who are all thieves, more or less ; or comprise such numbers of them as very much militate against the national character. Such are the piratical Malays ; the still more infamous- Algerines ; and the mongrel tribes between Arabia and Abyssinia. As to the Arabs, they have a pre- scriptive right, from tradition as well as local circum- stances, to plunder every body. The sanguinary ruf- fians of Ashantee and other black empires on the coast of Guinea are more like a government of mur- derers and ogres, than thieves. They are the next ruffians perhaps in existence, to slave-dealers. The gentlest nation of pilferers are the Otaheitans ; and something is to be said for their irresistible love of hatchets and old nails. Let the European trader, that is without sin, cast the first paragraph at them. Let him think what he should feel inclined to do, were a ship of some unknown nation to come upon his coast, with gold and jewels lying scattered about the deck. For no less precious is iron to the South Sea Islander. A Paradisaical state of existence would be, to him, THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 149 not the Golden, but the Iron Age. An Otaheitan Jupiter would visit hisDanae in a shower of tenpenny nails. We are now come to a very multitudinous set of candidates for the halter, the thieves of our own be- loved countrv. For what we know of the French thieves is connected with them, excepting Cartouche ; and we remember nothing of him, but that he was a great ruffian, and died upon that worse ruffian, the rack. There is, to be sure, an eminent instance of a single theft in the Confessions of Rousseau ; and it is the second greatest blot in his book ; for he suffered a girl to be charged with and punished for the theft, and maintained the lie to her face, though she was his friend, and appealed to him with tears. But it may be said for him, at any rate, that the world would not have known the story but for himself: and if such a disclosure be regarded by some as an additional offence (which it may be thought to be by some very delicate as well as dishonest people) we must recollect, that it was the object of his book to give a plain unsophisti- cated account of a human being's experiences; and that many persons of excellent repute would have been found to have committed actions as bad, had they given accounts of themselves as candid. Dr. Johnson was of opinion that all children Mere thieves and liars: and somebody, we believe a Scotchman, answered a fond speech about human nature, by exclaiming, that " human nature was a rogue and a vagabond, or so 350 THE INDICATOR. many laws would not have been necessary to restrain it. 1 " We venture to differ, on this occasion, with both Englishman and Scotchman. Laws in particular, taking the bad with the good, are quite as likely to have made rogues, as restrained them. But we see, at any rate, what has been suspected of more orthodox persons than Rousseau ; to say nothing of less cha- ritable advantages which might be taken of such opi- nions. Kousseau committed a petty theft ; and mise- rably did his false shame, the parent of so many crimes, make him act. But he won back to their in- fants 1 lips the bosoms of thousands of mothers. He re- stored to their bereaved and helpless owners thousands of those fountains of health and joy : and before he is abused, even for worse things than the theft, let those whose virtue consists in custom, think of this. As we have mixed fictitious with real thieves in this article, in a manner, we fear, somewhat uncritical (and yet the fictions are most likely founded on fact ; and the life of a real thief is a kind of dream and romance), we will dispatch our fictitious English thieves before we come to the others. And we must make shorter work of them than we intended, or we shall never come to our friend Da Vail. The length to which this article has stretched out, will be a warning to us how we render our paper liable to be run away with in future. There is a very fine story of Three Thieves in Chaucer, which we must tell at large another time. The most prominent of the fabulous thieves in Eng- THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 151 land is that bellipotent and immeasurable wag, Fal- staff. If for a momentary freak, he thought it vil- lainous to steal, at the next moment he thought it villainous not to steal. " Hal, I pr'ythee, trouble me no more with vanity. I would to God thou and I knew where a commodity of good names were to be bought. An old lord of the council rated me the other day in the street, about you, Sir ; but I marked him not. And yet he talked very wisely ; but I regarded him not. And yet he talked wisely ; and in the streets, too. " P. Henry. Thou didst well ; for ' Wisdom cries out in the streets, and no man regards it.' " Falstaff. O, thou hast damnable iteration ; and art, indeed, able to corrupt a saint. Thou hast done much harm upon me, Hal ; God forgive thee for it ! Before I knew thee, Hal, I knew nothing; and now am I, if a man should speak truly, little better than one of the wicked. I must give over this life, and I will give it over : by the Lord, an I do not, I am a villain : Til be damned for never a king's son in Christendom. " P. Henry. Where shall we take a purse to-mor- row, Jack ? " Falstaff. Where thou wilt, lad; I'll make one: an I do not, call me villain, and baffle me." i We must take care how we speak of Macheath, or we shall be getting political again. Fielding's Jonathan Wild the Great is also, in this sense, "ca- viare to the multitude." But we would say more i) 152 THE INDICATOR. we had room. Count Fathom, a deliberate scoun- drel, compounded of the Jonathan Wilds and the more equivocal Cagliostros and other adventurers, is a thief not at all to our taste, We are continually obliged to call his mother to our recollection, in order to bear him. The only instance in which the charac- ter of an absolute profligate pickpocket was ever made comparatively welcome to our graver feelings, is in the extraordinary story of " Manon VEscant^ by the Abbe Prevost. It is the story of a young man, so passionately in love with a profligate female, that he follows her through every species of vice and misery, even when she is sent as a convict to New Orleans. His love, indeed, is returned. He is obliged to subsist upon her vices, and, in return, is induced to help her with his own, becoming a cheat and a swindler to sup- ply her outrageous extravagances. On board the convict ship (if we recollect) he waits on her through every species of squalidness, the convict-dress and her shaved head only redoubling his love by the help of pity. This seems a shocking and very immoral book ; yet multitudes of very reputable people have found a charm in it. The fact is, not only that Manon is beautiful, sprightly, really fond of her lover, and, after all, becomes reformed ; but that it is delightful, and ought to be so, to the human heart, to see a vein of sentiment and real goodness looking out through all this callous surface of guilt. It is like meeting with a tree in a squalid hole of a city ; a flower, or a frank face in a reprobate purlieu. The capa- THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 153 bilities of human nature are not compromised. The virtue alone seems natural ; the guilt, as it so often is, seems artificial, and the result of some bad educa- tion or other circumstance. Nor is any body injured. It is one of the shallowest of all shallow notions to talk of the harm of such works. Do we think nobody is to be harmed but the virtuous ; or that there are not privileged harms and vices to be got rid of, as well as unprivileged ? No good-hearted person will be injured by reading " Man on rEscaut." There is the belief in goodness in it ; a faith, the want of which does so much harm, both to the vicious and the over-righteous. The prince of all robbers, English or foreign, is undoubtedly Robin Hood. There is a worthy Scot- tish namesake of his, Hob Roy, who has lately had justice done to all his injuries by a countryman ; and the author, it seems, has now come down from the borders to see the Rob of the elder times well treated. We were obliged to tear ourselves away, from his first volume,* to go to this ill-repaying article. But Robin Hood will still remain the chief and "gen- tlest of thieves." He acted upon a larger scale, or in opposition to a larger injustice, to a whole political system. He " shook the supernux"' to the poor, and " shewed the heavens more just." However, what we have to say of him, we must keep till the trees are in leaf again, and the greenwood shade delightful. We dismiss, in one rabble-like heap, the real Jona- than Wilds, Avershaws, and other heroes of the Xeir- * Of Ivanhoe. n 3 154) THE INDICATOR. gate Calendar, who have no redemption in their ras- cality ; and after them, for gentlemen-valets, may go the Barringtons, Major Semples, and other sneaking rogues, who held on a tremulous career of iniquity, betwixt pilfering and repenting. Yet Jack Shepherd must not be forgotten, with his ingenious and daring breaks-out of prison ; norTurpin, who is said to have ridden his horse with such swiftness from York to London, that he was enabled to set up an alibi. We have omitted to notice the celebrated Bucaniers of America ; but these are fellows, with regard to whom we are willing to take Dogberry's advice, and " steal out of their company ." Their history disappoints us with its dryness. All hail ! thou most attractive of scape-graces ! thou most accomplished of gentlemen of the road ! thou, worthy to be called one of " the minions of the moon," Monsieur Claude Du Vail, whom we have come such a long and dangerous journey to see ! Claude Du Vail, according to a pleasant account of him in the Harleian Miscellany, was born at Dom- front, in Normandy, in the year 1643, of Pierre Du Vail, miller, and Marguerite de la Roche, the fair daughter of a tailor. Being a sprightly boy, he did not remain in the country, but became servant to a person of quality at Paris, and with this gentleman he came over to England at the time of the Restora- tion. It is difficult to say, which came over to pick the most pockets and hearts, Charles the Second or Claude du Vail. Be this as it may, his " courses" of life (" for," says the contemporary historian, " I dare THIEVES, ANCIEXT AXD MODERN. 155 not call them vices,") soon reduced him to the neces- sity of going upon the road ; and here " he quickly became so famous, that in a proclamation for the taking several notorious highwaymen, he had the honour to be named first." " He took, 11 says his biographer, " the generous way of padding ;" that is to say, he behaved with exemplary politeness to all coaches, especially those in which there were ladies, making a point of frightening them as amiably as pos- sible, and insisting upon returning any favourite trin- kets or keepsakes, for which they chose to appeal to him with " their most sweet voices. 11 It was in this character that he performed an exploit, which is the eternal feather in the cap of highway gen- tility- We will relate it in the words of our informer. Riding out with some of his confederates, "he overtakes a coach, which they had set over night, having intelli- gence of a booty of four hundred pounds in it. In the coach was a knight, his lady, and only one serving- maid, who, perceiving five horsemen making up to them, presently imagined that they were beset ; and they were confirmed in this apprehension by seeing them whisper to one another and ride backwards and forwards. The lady, to shew she was not afraid, take^ a flageolet out of her pocket, and plays ; Du Vail takes the hint, plays also, and excellently well, upon a flageolet of his own, and in this posture he rides up to the coach side. ' Sir, 1 says he to the person in the coach, ' your lady plays excellently, and I doubt not but that she dances as well ; will you please to walk 156 THE INDICATOR. out of the coach, and let me have the honour to dance one currant with her upon the heath ?' ' Sir,' said the person in the coach, ' I dare not deny any thing to one of your quality and good mind ; you seem a gentleman, and your request is very reasonable :' which said, the lacquey opens the boot, out comes the knight, Du Vail leaps lightly off his horse, and hands the lady out of the coach. They danced, and here it was that Du Vail performed marvels ; the best master in London, except those that are French, not being able to shew such footing as he did in his great riding French boots. The dancing being over, he waits on the lady to her coach. As the knight was going in, says Du Vail to him, ' Sir, you have forgot to pay the music.' « No, I have not, 1 replies the knight, and putting his hand under the seat of the coach, pulls out a hundred pounds in a bag, and delivers it to him, which Du Vail took with a very good grace, and courteously answered, ' Sir, you are liberal, and shall have no cause to repent your being so; this liberality of yours shall excuse you the other three hundred pounds ;' and giving him the word that if he met with any more of the crew, he might pass undisturbed, he civilly takes his leave of him. " This story, I confess, justifies the great kindness the ladies had for Du Vail ; for in this, as in an epitome, are contained all things that set a man off advantageously, and make him appear, as the phrase is, much a gentleman. First, here was valour, that he and but four more durst assault a knight, a lady, THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 157 a waiting-gentlewoman, a lacquey, a groom that rid by to open the gates, and the coachman, they being six to five, odds at football ; and besides, Du Vail had much the worst cause, and reason to believe, that whoever should arrive, would range themselves on the enemy's party. Then he shewed his invention and sagacity, that he could, sur le champ, and, without studying, make that advantage on the lady's playing on the flao-eolet. He evinced his skill in instrumental music, by playing on his flageolet; in vocal, by his singing ; for (as I should have told you before) there being no violins, Du Vail sung the currant himself. He manifested his agility of body, by lightly dis- mounting off his horse, and with ease and freedom erettinff up again, when he took his leave; his excel- lent deportment, by his incomparable dancing, and his graceful manner of taking the hundred pounds; his generosity, in taking no more ; his wit and elo- quence, and readiness at repartees, in the whole dis- course with the knight and lady, the greatest part of which I have been forced to omit."" The noise of the proclamation made Du Vail return to Paris ; but he came back in a short time for want of money. His reign however did not last long after his restoration. He made an unlucky attack, not upon some ill-bred passengers, but upon several bot- tles of wine, and was taken in consequence at the Ilole-in-the-Wall in Chandos-street. His life was interceded for in vain : he was arraigned and com- mitted to Newgate; and executed at Tyburn in the 158 THE INDICATOR. 27th year of his age ; showers of tears from fair eyes bedewing his fate, both while alive in prison, and when dead at the fatal tree. Du ValPs success with the ladies of those days, whose amatory taste was of a turn more extensive than delicate, seems to have made some well- dressed English gentlemen jealous. The writer of Du Vall's life, Avho is a man of wit, evidently has something of bitterness in his railleries upon this point ; but he manages them very pleasantly. He pretends that he is an old bachelor, and has never been able to make his way with his fair country- women, on account of the French valets that have stood in his way. He says he had two objects in writing the book. " One is, that the next French- man that is hanged may not cause an uproar in this imperial city ; which I doubt not but 1 have effect- ed. The other is a much harder task: to set my countrymen on even terms with the French, as to the English ladies' affections. If I should bring this about, I should esteem myself to have contributed much to the good of this kingdom. " One remedy there is, which, possibly, may con- duce something towards it. " I have heard, that there is a new invention of transfusing the blood of one animal into another, and that it has been experimented by putting the blood of a sheep into an Englishman. I am against that way of experiments ; for, should we make all Englishmen sheep, we should soon be a prey to the lonre. THIEVES, ANCIENT AND MODERN. 159 " I think I can propose the making that experi- ment a more advantageous way. I would have all gentlemen, who have been a full year or more out of France, be let blood weekly, or oftener, if they can bear it. Mark how much they bleed ; transfuse so much French lacquey's blood into them ; replenish these last out of the English footmen, for it is no matter what becomes of them. Repeat this operation toties quoties, and in process of time you will find this event : either the English gentlemen will be as much beloved as the French lacqueys, or the French lacqueys as little esteemed as the English gentlemen.'" Butler has left an Ode, sprinkled with his usual wit, " To the Happy Memory of the Most Renowned Du Vail" who — Like a pious man, some years before Th' arrival of his fatal hour, Made every clay he had to live To his last minute a preparative; Taught the wild Arabs on the road To act in a more gentle mode ; Take prizes more obligingly from those, Who never had been bred Jilous ; And how to hang in a more graceful fashion Than ere was known before to the dull English nation. As it may be thought proper that we should end this lawless article with a good moral, we will give it two or three sentences from Shakspearc worth a whole volume of sermons against thieving. The boy who belongs to FalstafPs companions, and who begins to 160 THE INDICATOR. see through the shallowness of their cunning and way of life, says that Bardolph stole a lute-case, carried it twelve miles, and sold it for three halfpence. XXI.— A FEW THOUGHTS OX SLEEP. This is an article for the reader to think of, when he or she is warm in bed, a little before he goes to sleep, the clothes at his ear, and the Mind moaning in some distant crevice. " Blessings," exclaimed Sancho, " on him that first invented sleep ! It wraps a man all round like a cloak."" It is a delicious moment certainly, — that of being well nestled in bed, and feeling that you shall drop gently to sleep. The good is to come, not past : the limbs have been just tired enough, to render the remaining in one posture delightful: the labour of the day is done. A gentle failure of the perceptions comes creeping over one : — the spirit of consciousness disengages itself more and more, with slow and hushing degrees, like a mother detaching her hand from that of her sleeping child ; — the mind seems to have a balmy lid closing over it, like the eye ; — 'tis closing ; — 'tis more closing; — 'tis closed. The mysterious spirit has gone to take its airy rounds. It is said that sleep is best before midnight : and Nature herself, with her darkness and chilling- dews, informs us so. There is another reason for going to THOUGHTS ON SLEEP. 161 bed betimes : for it is universally acknowledged that lying late in the morning is a great shortener of life. At least, it is never found in company with longevity. It also tends to make people corpulent. But these matters belong rather to the subject of early rising, than of sleep. Sleep at a late hour in the morning, is not half so pleasant as the more timely one. It is sometimes however excusable, especially to a watchful or over- worked head ; neither can we deny the seducing merits of " t' other doze, 11 — the pleasing wilfulness of nestling in a new posture, when you know you ought to be up, like the rest of the house. But then you cut up the day, and your sleep the next night. In the course of the day, few people think of sleeping, except after dinner; and then it is often rather a hovering and nodding on the borders of sleep, than sleep itself. This is a privilege allowable, we think, to none but the old, or the sickly, or the very tired and care-worn ; and it should be well understood, before it is exercised in company. To escape into slumber from an argument ; or to take it as an affair of course, only between you and your biliary duct; or to assent with involuntary nods to all that you have just been disputing, is not so well: much less, to sit nodding and tottering beside a lady ; or to be in danger of dropping your head into the fruit-plate or your host's face ; or of waking up, and saying, " Just so," to the bark of a dog ; or " Yes, Madam, 11 to the black at your elbow. 162 THE INDICATOR. Care-worn people however might refresh themselves oftener with day-sleep than they do ; if their bodily state is such as to dispose them to it. It is a mistake to suppose that all care is wakeful. People sometimes sleep, as well as wake, by reason of their sorrow. The difference seems to depend upon the nature of their temperament; though in the most excessive cases, sleep is perhaps Nature's never-failing relief, as swooning is upon the rack. A person with jaun- dice in his blood shall lie down and go to sleep at noon-day, when another of a different complexion shall find his eyes as uncloseable as a statue's, though he has had no sleep for nights together. Without meaning to lessen the dignity of suffering, which has quite enough to do with its waking hours, it is this that may often account for the profound sleeps enjoyed the night before hazardous battles, executions, and other demands upon an over-excited spirit. The most complete and healthy sleep that can be taken in the day, is in summer-time, out in a field. There is perhaps no solitary sensation so exquisite as that of slumbering on the grass or hay, shaded from the hot sun by a tree, with the consciousness of a fresh but light air running through the wide atmos- phere, and the sky stretching far overhead upon all sides. Earth, and heaven, and a placid humanity, seem to have the creation to themselves. There is nothing between the slumberer, and the naked and triad innocence of nature. Next to this, but at a long interval, the most THOUGHTS ON SLEEP. 163 relishing snatch of slumber out of bed, is the one which a tired person takes, before he retires for the night, while lingering in his sitting-room. The con- sciousness of being very sleepy and of having the power to go to bed immediately, gives great zest to the unwillingness to move. Sometimes he sits nod- ding in his chair ; but the sudden and leaden jerks of the head to which a state of great sleepiness renders him liable, are generally too painful for so luxurious a moment; and he gets into a more legitimate posture, sitting sideways with his head on the chair-back, or throwing his legs up at once on another chair, and half reclining. It is curious, however, to find, how long an inconvenient posture will be borne for the sake of this foretaste of repose. The worst of it is, that on ffoinsr to bed, the charm sometimes vanishes ; perhaps from the colder temperature of the chamber ; for a fireside is a great opiate. Speaking of the painful positions into which a sleepy lounger will get himself, it is amusing to think of the more fantastic attitudes that so often take place in bed. If we could add any thing to the numberless things that have been said about sleep by the poets, it would be upon this point. Sleep never shews him- self a greater leveller. A man in his waking moments may look as proud and self-possessed as he pleases. He may walk proudly, he may sit proudly, he may eat his dinner proudly; he may shave himself with an air of infinite superiority; in a word, he may shew himself grand and absurd upon the most trilling occa- 164 THE INDICATOR. sions. But Sleep plays the petrifying magician. He arrests the proudest lord as well as the humblest clown in the most ridiculous postures: so that if you could draw a grandee from his bed without waking him, no limb-twisting fool in a pantomime should create wilder laughter. The toy with the string be- tween its legs, is hardly a posture-master more extra- vagant. Imagine a despot lifted up to the gaze of his valets, with his eyes shut, his mouth open, his left hand under his right ear, his other twisted and hanging helplessly before him like an ideot's, one knee lifted up, and the other leg stretched out, or both knees huddled up together; — what a scarecrow to lodge majestic power in ! m But Sleep is kindly, even in his tricks; and the poets have treated him with proper reverence* Ac- cording to the ancient mythologists, he had even one of the Graces to wife. He had a thousand sons, of whom the chief were Morpheus, or the Shaper ; Icelos, or the Likely ; Phantasus, the Fancy ; and Phobetor, the Terror. His dwelling some writers place in a dull and darkling part of the earth ; others, with greater compliment, in heaven ; and others, with ano- ther kind of propriety, by the sea-shore. There is a good description of it in Ovid ; but in these abstract- ed tasks of poetry, the moderns outvie the ancients ; and there is nobody who has built his bower for him so finely as Spenser. Archimago in the first book of the Faerie Queene (Canto 1. st. 39), sends a little spirit down to Morpheus to fetch him a Dream : THOUGHTS ON SLEEP. IGo He, making- speech" way through spersed ayre, And through the world of waters, wide and deepe, To Morpheus' house doth hastily repaire. Amid the bowels of the earth full steepe And low, where dawning; day doth never peepe, His dwelling is. There, Tethys his wet bed Doth ever wash ; and Cynthia still cloth steepe In silver clew his ever-drouping head, W biles sad Night over him her mantle black doth spred. And more to lull him in his slumber soft A trickling streame from high rocke tumbling downe, And ever-drizzling rain upon the loft, Mixed with a murmuring winde, much like the soune Of swarming - bees, did cast him in a swoune. No other noise, nor people's troublous cryes, As still are wont to annoy the walled towne, Might there be heard; but carelesse Quiet lyes, w Wrapt in eternall silence, far from enimyes. Chaucer has drawn the cave of the same god with greater simplicity ; but nothing can have a more deep and sullen effect than his cliffs and cold running waters. It seems as real as an actual solitude, or some quaint old picture in a book of travels in Tartarv. lie is telling the story of Ceyx and Alcyone in the poem called his Dream. Juno tells a messenger to go to Morpheus and " bid him creep into the body 1 ' of the drowned king, to let bis wife know the fatal event by his apparition. This messenger tooke leave, and went Upon his way ; and never he stent Till he came to the dark valley, That stant betweene rockes twey. 166 THE INDICATOR. There never yet grew corne, ne gras, Ne tree, ne nought that aught was, Beast, ne man, ne naug-ht else ; Save that there were a few wells Came running fro the cliffs adowne, That made a deadly sleeping soune, And runnen doMme right by a cave, That was under a rocky grave, Amid the valley, Avonder-deepe. There these goddis lay asleepe, Morpheus and Eclympasteire, That was the god of Sleepis heire, That slept and did none other worke. Where the credentials of this new son and heir, Eclympasteire, are to be found, we know not ; but he acts very much, it must be allowed, like an heir presumptive, in sleeping, and doing " none other work." We dare not trust ourselves with many quotations upon sleep from the poets ; they are so numerous as well as beautiful. We must content ourselves with mentioning that our two most favourite passages are one in the Philoctetes of Sophocles, admirable for its contrast to a scene of terrible agony, which it closes : and the other the following address in Beaumont and Fletcher's tragedy of Vale?itinian, the hero of which is also a sufferer under bodily torment. He is in a chair, slumbering ; and these most exquisite lines are gently sung with music. Care-charming Sleep, thou easer of all woes, Brother to Death, sweetly thyself dispose THE FAIR KEVENGE. 167 On this afflicted prince. Fall like a cloud In gentle showers : give nothing that is loud Or painful to his slumbers : easy, sweet, And as a purling stream, thou son of Night, Pass by his troubled senses ; sing his pain Like hollow murmuring wind, or silver rain: Into this prince, gently, oh gently slide, And kiss him into slumbers, like a bride. How earnest and prayer-like are these pauses t How lightly sprinkled, and yet how deeply settling, like rain, the fancy! How quiet, affectionate, and perfect the conclusion ! Sleep is most graceful in an infant ; soundest, in one who has been tired in the open air ; completest, to the seaman after a hard voyage ; most welcome, to the mind haunted with one idea ; most touching to look at, in the parent that has wept ; lightest, in the playful child; proudest, in the bride adored. XXII— THE FAIR REVENGE. The elements of this story are to be found in the old poem called Albums England, to which we re- ferred in the article on Charles Brandon and Mary Queen of France. Aganippus, king of Argos, dying without heirs male, bequeathed his throne to his only daughter, the beautiful and beloved Daphles. This female 168 THE INDICATOR. succession was displeasing to a nobleman who held large possessions on the frontiers ; and he came for the first time towards the court, not to pay his respects to the new queen, but to give her battle. Doracles (for that was his name) was riot much known by the people. He had distinguished himself for as jealous an independence as a subject could well assume; and though he had been of use in repelling invasion during the latter years of the king, he had never made his appearance to receive his master's thanks person- ally. A correspondence however was understood to have cone on between him and several noblemen about the court ; and there were those who, in spite of his inattention to popularity, suspected that it would go hard with the young queen, when the two armies came face to face. But neither these subtle statesmen, nor the ambi- tious young soldier Doracles, were aware of the effects to be produced by a strong personal attach- ment. The young queen, amiable as she was beautiful, had involuntarily baffled his expectations from her courtiers, by exciting in the minds of some a real disinterested regard, while others nourished a hope of sharing her throne instead. At least they speculated upon becoming each the favourite minister, and held it a better thing to reign under that title and a charming mistress, than be the servants of a mas- ter, wilful and domineering. By the people she was adored ; and when she came riding out of her palace on the morning of the fight, with an unaccustomed spear THE FAIR REVENGE. 169 standing up in its rest by her side, her diademed hair flowing a little off into the wind, her face paler than usual, but still tinted with its roses, and a look in which confidence in the love of her subjects, and ten- derness for the wounds they were going to encounter, seemed to contend for the expression, the shout which they sent up would have told a stouter heart than a traitor's, that the royal charmer was secure. The queen, during the conflict, remained in a tent upon an eminence, to which the younger leaders vied who should best spur up their smoking horses, to bring her good news from time to time. The battle was short and bloody. Doracles soon found that he had miscalculated his point, and all skill and resolu- tion could not set the error to rights. It was allowed, that if either courage or military talent could entitle him to the throne, he would have a right to it ; but the popularity of Daphles supplied her cause with all the ardour which a lax state of subjection on the part of the more powerful nobles might have denied it. When her troops charged, or made any other volun- tary movement, they put all their hearts into their blows ; and when they were compelled to await the enemy, they stood as inflexible as walls of iron. It was like hammering upon metal statuary ; or stak- ing the fated horses upon spears rivetted in stone. Doracles was taken prisoner. The queen, re-issuing from her tent, crowned with laurel, came riding down the eminence, and remained at the foot with her gene- rals, while the prisoners were taken by. Her pale VOL. I. i 170 THE INDICATOR. face kept as royal a countenance of composed pity as she could manage, while the commoner rebels passed along, aching with their wounded arms fastened be- hind, and shaking back their bloody and blinding locks for want of a hand to part them. But the blood mounted to her cheeks, when the proud and handsome Doracles, whom she now saw for the first time, blushed deeply as he cast a glance at his female conqueror, and then stepped haughtily along, hand- ling his gilded chains as if they were an indifferent ornament. " I have conquered him,' 1 thought she ; " it is a heavy blow to so proud a head ; and as he looks not unamiable, it might be politic, as well as courteous and kind in me, to turn his submission into a more willing one.'" Alas ! pity was helping admi- ration to a kinder set of offices than the generous- hearted queen suspected. The captive went to his prison a conqueror after all, for Daphles loved him. The second night, after having exhibited in her manners a strange mixture of joy and seriousness, and signified to her counsellors her intention of setting the prisoner free, she released him with her own hands. Many a step did she hesitate as she went down the stairs; and when she came to the door, she shed a full, but soft, and, as it seemed to her, a wilful and refreshing flood of tears, humbling herself for her approaching task. When she had entered, she blushed deeply, and then turning as pale, stood for a minute silent and without motion. She then said, " Thy queen, Doracles, has come to shew thee how THE FAIR REVENGE. 171 kindly she can treat a great and gallant subject, who did not know her ;" and with these words, and almost before she was aware, the prisoner was released, and preparing to go. He appeared surprised, but not off his guard, nor in any temper to be over grateful. " Name, 1 "' said he, " O queen, the conditions on which I depart, and they will be faithfully kept." Daphles moved her lips, but they spoke not. She waved her head and hand with a deadly smile, as if freeing him from all conditions, and he was turning to go, when she fell senseless on the floor. The haughty warrior raised her with more impatience than good-will. He could guess at love in a woman ; but he had but a mean opinion both of it and her sex ; and the deadly struggle in the heart of Daphles did not help him to distinguish the romantic passion which had induced her to put all her past and virgin notions of love into his person, from the commonest liking that might flat- ter his soldierly vanity. The queen, on awaking from her swoon, found her- self compelled, in very justice to the intensity of a true passion, to explain how pity had brought it upon her. " I might ask it," said she, " Doracles, in re- turn," and here she resumed something of her queen- like dignity ; " but I feel that my modesty will be sufficiently saved by the name of your wife ; and a substantial throne, with a return that shall nothing perplex or interfere with thee, I do now accordingly offer thee, not as the condition of thy freedom, but as a diversion of men's eyes and thoughts from what they i2 172 THE INDICATOR. will think ill in me, if they find me rejected.' 1 And in getting out that hard word, her voice faltered a little, and her eyes filled with tears. Doracles, with the best grace his lately-defeated spirit could assume, spoke in willing terms of accept- ing her offer. They left the prison, and his full par- don having been proclaimed, the courtiers, with feasts and entertainments, vied who should seem best to approve their mistress's choice, for so they were quick to understand it. The late captive, who was really as graceful and accomplished as a proud spi- rit would let him be, received and returned all their attention in princely sort, and Daphles was beginning to hope that he might turn a glad eye upon her some day, when news was brought her that he had gone from court, nobody knew whither. The next intel- ligence was too certain. He had passed the frontiers, and was leaguing with her enemies for another struggle. From that day gladness, though not kindness, went out of the face of Daphles. She wrote him a letter, without a word of reproach in it, enough to bring back the remotest heart that had the least spark of sympathy ; but he only answered it in a spirit which shewed that he regarded the deepest love but as a wanton trifle. That letter touched her kind wits. She had had a paper drawn up, leaving him her throne in ease she should die ; but some of her minis- ters, availing themselves of her enfeebled spirit, had summoned a meeting of the nobles, at which she was to preside in the dress she wore on die day of victory, THE FAIR REVENGE. 173 the sight of which, it was thought, with the arguments which they meant to use, would prevail upon the assembly to urge her to a revocation of the bequest. Her women dressed her whilst she was almost uncon- scious of what they were doing, for she had now begun to fade quickly, body as well as mind. They put on her the white garments edged with silver waves, in remembrance of the stream of Inachus, the founder of the Argive monarchy ; the spear was brought out, to be stuck by the side of the throne, instead of the scep- tre ; and their hands prepared to put the same laurel on her head which bound its healthy white temples when she sat on horseback and saw the prisoner go by. But at sight of its twisted and withered green, she took it in her hand, and looking about her in her chair with an air of momentary recollection, began picking it, and letting the leaves fall upon the floor. She went on thus, leaf after leaf, looking vacantly downwards, and when she had stripped the circle half round, she leaned her cheek against the side of her sick chair, and shutting her eyes quietly, so died. The envoys from Argos went to the court of Calv- don, where Doracles then was, and bringing him the dia- dem upon a black cushion, informed him at once of the death of the queen, and her nomination of him to the throne. He shewed little more than a ceremonious gra- vity at the former news ; but could ill contain his joy at the latter, and set off instantly to take possession. Among the other nobles who feasted him, was one who, having been the companion of the late king, had become 174 THE INDICATOR. like a second father to his unhappy daughter. The new prince observing the melancholy which he scarcely affected to repress, and seeing him look up occasion- ally at a picture which had a veil over it, asked him what the picture was that seemed to disturb him so, and why it was veiled. " If it be the portrait of the late king, 11 said Doracles, " pray think me worthy of doing honour to it, for he was a noble prince. Unveil it, pray. I insist upon it. What ! am I not worthy to look upon my predecessors, Phorbas P 11 And at these words he frowned impatiently. Phorbas, with a trembling hand, but not for want of courage, with- drew the black covering, and the portrait of Daphles, in all her youth and beauty, flashed upon the eyes of Doracles. It was not a melancholy face. It was drawn before misfortune had touched it, and sparkled with a blooming beauty, in which animal spirits and good-nature contended for predominance. Doracles paused and seemed struck. " The possessor of that face, 11 said he, inquiringly, " could never have been so sorrowful as I have heard ?" " Pardon me, Sir, 11 an- swered Phorbas, " I was as another father to her, and knew all." " It cannot be, 11 returned the prince. The old man begged his other guests to withdraw a while, and then told Doracles how many fond and despairing things the queen had said of him, both before her wits began to fail and after. " Her wits to fail !" murmured the king ; " I have known what it is to feel almost a mad impatience of the will ; but I knew not that these gentle creatures women, could so THE FAJU REVENGE. 175 feel for such a trifle. 11 Phorbas brought out the laurel- crown, and told him how the half of it became bare. The impatient blood of Doracles mounted, but not in anger, to his face ; and, breaking up the party, he requested that the picture might be removed to his own chamber, promising to return it. A whole year, however, did he keep it ; and as he had no foreign enemies to occupy his time, nor was disposed to enter into the common sports of peace, it was understood that he spent the greatest part of his time, when he was not in council, in the room where the picture hung. In truth, the image of the once smiling Daphles haunted him wherever he went ; and to ease himself of the yearning of wishing her alive again and seeing her face, he was in the habit of being with it as much as possible. His self-will turned upon him, even in that gentle shape. Millions of times did he wish back the loving author of his for- tunes, whom he had treated with so clownish an ingra- titude ; and millions of times did the sense of the impotence of his wish run up in red hurry to his cheeks, and help to pull them into a gaunt melan- choly. But this is not a repaying sorrow to dwell upon. He was one day, after being in vain expected at council, found lying madly on the floor of the room, dead. He had torn the portrait from the wall. His dagger was in his heart, and his cheek lay upon that blooming and smiling face, which had it been living, would never have looked so at being revenged. 176 THE INDICATOR, XXIII.— SPIRIT OF THE ANCIENT MYTHOLOGY. From having a different creed of our own, and always encountering the heathen mythology in a poetical and fabulous shape, we are apt to have a false idea of the religious feeling of the ancients. We are in the habit of supposing, whatever we allow when we come to reason upon the point, that they regarded their fables in the same poetical light as ourselves ; that they could not possibly put faith in Jupiter, Neptune, and Pluto ; in the sacrifice of innocent turtle doves, the libation of wine, and the notions about Tartarus and Ixion. Undoubtedly there were multitudes of free thinkers in the ancient world. Most of the Greek poets and philosophers appear to have differed with the literal notions of the many.* A system of refined theism is understood to have been taught to the initiated in the celebrated Mysteries. The doctrines of Epicurus were so prevalent in the most intellectual age of Rome, that Lucretius wrote a poem upon them, in * It is remarkable that JEsehylus and Euripides, the two dramatists whose faith in the national religion was most doubted, are said to have met with strange and violent deaths. The lat- ter was torn to pieces by dogs, and the former killed by a tor- toise which an eagle let fall upon his bald head, in mistake for a stone. These exits from the scene look very like the retri- butive death-beds, which the bigots of all religions are so fond of ascribing to one another .. ANClEST MYTHOLOGY. 177 which he treats their founder as a divinity ; and Vir- gil, in a well-known passage of the Georgics : " Fe- lix qui potuit,"" fee, exalts either Epicurus or Lucre- tius as a blessed being, who put hell and terror under his feet. A sickly temperament appears to have made him wish, rather than be able, to carry his own scepti- cism so far ; yet he insinuates his disbelief in Tai'tarus, in the sixth book of his epic poem, where iEneas and the Sybil, after the description of the lower world, go out through the ivory gate, which was the passage of false visions.* Caesar, according to a speech of his in Sallust, derided the same notions in open senate ; and Cicero, in other parts of his writings, as well as in a public pleading, speaks of them as fables and impertinence, — " ineptiis ac fabulist But however this plain dealing may look on the part of the men of letters, there is reason to believe, that even in those times, the people, in general, were strong upon points of faith. The extension of the Greek philosophy may have insensibly rendered them familiar with latitudes of interpretation on the part of others. They would not think it impious in Cicero and Cato to have notions of the Supreme Being more consistent with the elevation of their minds. But for themselves, they adhered, from habit, to the literal creed of their ancestors, as the Greek populace had done before them. The jealous enemies of Socrates contrived to have him put to death on a charge of * Did Dante forget tin*, when he took Virgil for his guide through the Inferno? i 3 178 THE INDICATOR. irreverence for the gods, A frolic of the libertine Alcibiades, which to say the least of it was in bad taste — the defacing the statutes of Mercury — was followed with important consequences. The his- tory of Socrates had the effect, in after times, at least in the ancient world, of saving philosophical specula- tors from the vindictive egotism of opinion. But even in the days of Augustus, Ovid wrote a popular work full of mythological fables ; and Virgil himself, whose creed perhaps only rejected what was unkindly, gave the hero of his ifttended popular epic, the particular appellation of pious. That Augustus should pique himself on the same attribute, proves little; for he was a cold-blooded man of the world, and could play the hypocrite for the worst and most despotic purposes. Did he now and then lecture his poetical friends upon this point, respecting their own appearances with the world ? There is a curious ode of Horace (Book i. Od. xxxiv.), in which he says, that he finds himself compelled to give up his sceptical notions, and to at- tend more to public worship, because it had thundered one day when the sky was cloudless. The critics are divided in their opinion of his object in this ode. Some think him in earnest, others in jest. It is the only thing of the sort in his works, and is, at all events, of an equivocal character, that would serve his purpose on either side of the question. The opinions of the ancients upon religion may be divided into three general classes. The great multi- tude believed any thing ; the very few disbelieved ANCIENT MYTHOLOGY. 179 every thing; the philosophers and poets entertained a refined natural religion, which, while it pronounced upon nothing, rejected what was evidently unworthy of the spirit of the creation, and regarded the popular deities as personifications of its various workings. All these classes had their extravagances, in proportion to their ignorance, or viciousness, or metaphysical per- plexity. The multitude, whose notions were founded on ignorance, habit, and fear, admitted many absurd, and some cruel imaginations. The mere man of the world measured every thing by his own vain and petty standard, and thought the whole goods of the universe a scramble for the cunning and hypocritical. The over-refining followers of Plato, endeavouring to pierce into the nature of things by the mere effort of the will, arrived at conclusions visible to none but their own yearning and impatient eyes, and lost them- selves in the ethereal dogmatisms of Plotinus and Porphyry. The greatest pleasure arising to a modern imagi- nation from the ancient mythology, is in a mingled sense of the old popular belief and of the philosophical refinements upon it. We take Apollo, and Mercury, and V r enus, as shapes that existed in popular credu- lity, as the greater fairies of the ancient world ; and we regard them, at the same time, as personifications of all that is beautiful and genial in the forms and tendencies of creation. But the result, coming as it does, too, through avenues of beautiful poetry, both ancient and modern, is so entirely cheerful, that we 180 THE INDlCATCtit. are apt to think it must have wanted gravity to fflofe believing eyes. We fancy that the old world saw nothing in religion but lively and graceful shapes, as remote from the more obscure and awful huntings of the world unknown, as physics appear to be from the metaphysical ; as the eye of a beautiful woman is from the inward speculations of a Brahmin ; or a lily at noon-day from the wide obscurity of night-time. This supposition appears to be carried a great deal too far. We will not enquire in this place, how far the mass of mankind, when these shapes were done away, did or did not escape from a despotic anthro- pomorphitism ; nor how far they were driven by the vaguer fears, and the opening of a more visible eter- nity, into avoiding the whole subject, rather than courting it ; nor how it is, that the nobler practical religion which was afforded them, has been unable to bring back their frightened theology from the angry and avaricious pursuits into which they fled for re- fuge. But setting aside the portion of terror, of which heathenism partook in common with all faiths originating in uncultivated times, the ordinary run of pagans were perhaps more impressed with a sense of the invisible world, in consequence of the very visions presented to their imagination, than the same descrip- tion of men under a more shadowy system. There is the same difference between the two things, as between a populace believing in fairies, and a populace not believing. The latter is in the high road to some- thing better, if not drawn aside into new terrors on AX'CfEXT MYTHOLOGY. 181 the one hand, or mere worldliness on the other. But the former is led to look out of the mere worldly com- mon-places about it, twenty times to the other's once. It has a sense of a supernatural state of things, how- ever gross. It has a link with another world, from which something like gravity is sure to strike into the most cheerful heart. Every forest, to the mind's eye of a Greek, was haunted with superior intelligences. Every stream had its presiding nymph, who was thanked for the draught of water. Every house had its protecting gods, which had blessed the inmate's ancestors, and which would bless him also, if he cul- tivated the social affections : for the same world which expressed piety towards the Gods, expressed love to- Avards relations and friends. If in all this there was nothing but the worship of a more graceful humanity, there may be worships much worse as well as much better. And the divinest spirit that ever appeared on earth has told us that the extension of human sym- pathy embraces all that is required of us, either to do or to foresee. Imagine the feelings with which an ancient be- liever must have gone by the oracular oaks of Dodona ; or the calm groves of the Eumenides ; or the fountain where Proserpine vanished under ground with Pluto; or the Great Temple of the mysteries at Eleusis ; or the laurelled mountain Parnassus, on the side of which was the temple of Delphi, where Apollo was suppost fancy had been made wild and wilful by strange ha- bits and sickened blood ; and he thought impatiently, that if he were up there like the lark, he might sec his friends and his love in Inistore. Being naturally however of a gentle as well as courageous disposition, the Perfect Hand found the advantage as well as the necessity of turning his vio- lent impulses into noble matter for patience. He had heard of the dreadful bodily sufferings which the Scandinavian heroes underwent from their enemies 208 THE INDICATOR. with triumphant songs. He knew that no such suf- ferings, which were fugitive, could equal the agonies of a daily martyrdom of mind ; and he cultivated a certain humane pride of patience, in order to bear them. His only hope of being delivered from the island now depended on the Scandinavian priests; but it was a moot point whether they would respect him for surviving, or kill him on that very account, out of a mixture of personal and superstitious resentment. He thought his death the more likely ; but this, at least, was a termination to the dreary prospect of a solitude for life ; and partly out of that hope, and partly from a courageous patience, he cultivated as many pleasant thoughts and objects about him as he could. He adorned his cavern with shells and feathers ; he made himself a cap and cloak of the latter, and boots and a vest of seal-skin, girding it about with the glossy sea- weed ; he cleared away a circle before the cavern, planted it with the best grass, and heaped about it the mossiest stones : he strung some bones of a fish with sinews, and fitting a shell beneath it, the Perfect Hand drew forth the first gentle music that had been heard in that wild island. He touched it one day in the midst of a flock of seals, who were basking in the sun ; they turned their heads towards the sound ; he thought he saw in their mild faces a human expres- sion ; and from that day forth no seal was ever slain by the Perfect Hand. He spared even the huge and cloud v-visaged walrusses, in whose societies he beheld *£>" THE PERFECT HAND. 209 a dull resemblance to the gentler affections ; and his new intimacy with these possessors of the place was completed by one of the former animals, who having been rescued by him from a contest with a larger one, followed him about, as well as its half-formed and dragging legs would allow, with the officious attach" ment of a dog. But the summer was gone, and no one had ap- peared. The new thoughts and deeper insight into things, which solitude and sorrowful necessity had produced, together with a diminution of his activity, had not tended to strengthen him against the approach of winter ; and autumn came upon him like the melan- choly twilight of the year. He had now no hope of see- ing even the finishers of his existence before the spring. The rising winds among the rocks, and the noise of the whales blowing up their spouts of water, till the caverns thundered with their echoes, seemed to be like heralds of the stern season which was to close him in against approach. He had tried one day to move the stone at the mouth of his habitation a little further in, and found his strength fail him. He laid himself half reclining on the ground, full of such melancholy thoughts as half bewildered him. Things, by turns, appeared a fierce dream, and a fiercer reality. He was leaning and looking on the ground, and idly twisting his long hair, when his eyes fell upon the hand that held it. It was livid and emaciated. He opened and shut it, opened and shut it again, turned it round, and looked at its ribbed 210 THfi INDICATOR. thinness and laid-open machinery ; many thoughts came upon him, some which he understood not, and some which he recognized but too well ; and a turbid violence seemed rising at his heart, when the seal, his companion, drew nigh, and began licking that weak memorial of the Perfect Hand. A shower of self-pitying tears fell upon the seal's face and the hand together. On a sudden he heard a voice. It was a deep and loud one, and distinctly called out " Ronald V He looked up, gasping with wonder. Three times it called out, as if with peremptory command, and three times the rocks and caverns echoed the word with a dim sullenness. Recollecting himself, he would have risen and an- swered ; but the sudden change of sensations had done what all his sufferings had not been able to do, and he found himself unable either to rise or to speak. The voice called again and again ; but it was now more distant, and Ronald's heart sickened as he heard it retreating. His strength seemed to fail him in pro- portion as it became necessary. Suddenly the voice came back again. It advances. Other voices are heard, all advancing. In a short time, figures come hastily down the slope by the side of his cavern, look- ing over into the area before it as they descend. They enter. They are before him and about him. Some of them, in a Scandinavian habit, prostrate themselves at his feet, and address him in an unknown lano-uaa-e. But these are sent away by another, who remains THE PERFECT HAND. 21 1 with none but two youths. Ronald has risen a little, and leans his back against the rock. One of the youths puts his arm between his neck and the rock, and half kneels beside him, turning his face away and weeping. " I am no god, nor a favourite of gods, as these people supposed me,' 1 said Ronald, looking up at the chief who was speaking to the other youth : " if thou wilt dispatch me then, do so. I only pray thee to let the death be fit for a warrior, such as I once was.' 1 The chief appeared agitated. " Speak not ill of the gods, Ronald," said he, " although thou wert blindly brought up. A warrior like thee must be a favourite of heaven. I come to prove it to thee. Dost thou not know me ? I come to give thee life for life.'" Ronald looked more steadfastly. It was the Scandinavian prince whom he had spared, because of his bride, in battle. He smiled, and lifted up his hand to him, which was intercepted and kissed by the youth who held his arm round his neck. " Who are these fair youths ?" said Ronald, half turning his head to look in his supporter's face. " This is the bride I spoke of,"" answered the prince, " who insisted on sharing this voyage with me, and put on this dress to be the bolder in it. - ' 1 " And who is the other ?*" The other, with dried eyes, looked smiling into his, and intercepted the answer also. " Who, - " said the sweetest voice in the world, " can it be, but one ?" With a quick and almost tierce tone, Ronald cried out aloud, " I know the voice ;" and he would have fallen 212 THE INDICATOR. flat on the earth, if they had not all three supported him. It was a mild return to Inistore, Ronald gathering strength all the way, at the eyes and voice of Moilena, and the hands of all three. Their discovery of him was easily explained. The crews of the vessels, who had been afraid to come nearer, had repeatedly seen a figure on the island making signs. The Scandina- vian priests related how they had left Ronald there ; but insisted that no human being could live upon it, and that some god wished to manifest himself to his faithful worshippers. The heart of Moilena was quick to guess the truth. The prince proposed to accompany the priests. His bride, and the destined bride of his saviour went with him, and returned as you heard ; and from that clay forth many were the songs in Inistore, upon the fortunes of the Perfect Hand and the kindness of the Perfect Voice. Nor were those forgotten who forgot not others. XXIX.— A CHAPTER ON HATS. We know not what will be thought of our taste in so important a matter, but we must confess we are not fond of a new hat. There is a certain insolence about it : it seems to value itself upon its finished appearance, and to presume upon our liking before we are acquainted with it. In the first place, it comes A CHAPTER ON HATS. 213 home more like a marmot or some other living crea- ture, than a manufacture. It is boxed up, and wrapt in silver paper, and brought delicately. It is as sleek as a lap-dog. Then we are to take it out as nicely, and people are to wonder how we shall look in it. Maria twitches one this way, and Sophia that, and Caroline that, and Catharine t'other. We have the difficult task, all the while, of looking easy, till the approving votes are pronounced; our only resource (which is also difficult) being to say good things to all four ; or to clap the hat upon each of their heads, and see what pretty milk-women they make. At last the approving votes are pronounced ; and (provided it is fine) we may go forth. But how uneasy the sensation about the head ! How unlike the old hat, to which we had become used, and which must now make way for this fop of a stranger ! We might do what we liked with the former. Dust, rain, a gale of wind, a fall, a squeeze, — nothing affected it. It was a true friend, a friend for all weathers. Its appearance only was against it : in every thing else it was the better for wear. But if the roads or the streets are too dry, the new hat is afraid of getting dusty : if there is wind, and it is not tight, it may be blown off into the dirt : we may have to scramble after it through dust or mud; just reaching it with our fingers, only to see it blown away again. And if rain comes on ! Oh ye gallant apprentices, who have issued forth on a Sunday morning, with Jane or Susan, careless either of storms at nightfall, or toils and scoldings next day ! Ye, 214 THE INDICATOR. who have received your new hat and boots but an hour before ye set out ; and then issue forth triumph- antly, the charmer by your side ! She, with arm in yours, and handkerchief in hand, blushing, or eating gingerbread, trips on : ye, admiring, trudge: we ask ye, whether love itself has prevented ye from feeling a certain fearful consciousness of that crowning glory, the new and glossy hat, when the first drops of rain announce the coming of a shower? Ah, hasten, while yet it is of use to haste; ere yet the spotty horror fixes on the nap ! Out with the protecting hand- kerchief, which, tied round the hat, and flowing off in a corner behind, shall gleam through the thickening night like a suburb comet ! Trust not the tempting yawn of stable-yard or gate-way, or the impossible notion of a coach ! The rain will continue ; and alas ! ye are not so rich as in the morning. Hasten ! or think of a new hat's becoming a rain-spout ! Think of its well-built crown, its graceful and well-measured fit, the curved-up elegance of its rim, its shadowing gentility when seen in front, its arching grace over the ear when beheld sideways ! Think of it also the next day ! How altered, how dejected ! How changed from him, That life of measure, and that soul of rim ! Think of the paper-like change of its consistence ; of its limp sadness — its confused and flattened nap, and of that polished and perfect circle, which neither brush nor hot iron shall restore ! A CHAPTER OK HATS. 215 We have here spoken of the beauties of a new hat; but abstractedly considered, they are very problema- tical. Fashion makes beauty for a time. Our an- cestors found a grace in the cocked hats now confined to beadles, Chelsea pensioners, and coachmen. They would have laughed at our chimney-tops with a bor- der : though upon the whole we do think them the more graceful of the two. The best modern covering for the head was the imitation of the broad Spanish hat in use about thirty years back, when Mr. Stothard made his designs for the Novelisfs Magazine. But in proportion as society has been put into a bustle, our hats seem to have narrowed their dimensions : the flaps were clipped off more and more till they became a rim ; and now the rim has contracted to a mere no- thing ; so that what with our close heads and our tight succinct mode of dress, we look as if we were intended for nothing but to dart backwards and for- wards on matters of business, with as little hindrance to each other as possible. This may give us a greater distaste to the hat than it deserves ; but good-looking or not, we know of no situation in which a new one can be said to be useful. We have seen how the case is during bad weather : but if the weather is in the finest condition possible, with neither rain nor dust, there may be a hot sun- shine ; and then the hat is too narrow to shade us : no great evil, it is true ! but we must have our pique out against the knave, and turn him to the only ac- count m our power: — we must write upon him. For 216 THE INDICATOR. every other purpose, we hold him as naught. The only place a new hat can be carried into with safety, is a church ; for there is plenty of room there. There also takes place its only union of the ornamental with the useful, if so it is to be called : — we allude to the preparatory ejaculation whispered into it by the gen- teel worshipper, before he turns round and makes a bow to Mr. and Mrs. Jones and the Miss Thompsons. There is a formula for this occasion ; and doubtless it is often used, to say nothing of extempore effusions : but there are wicked imaginations, who suspect that instead of devouter whisperings, the communer with his lining sometimes ejaculates no more than Swallow, St. JamesVstreet ; or, Augarde and Spain, Hatters, No. 51, Oxford-street, London: — after which he draws up his head with infinite gravity and preparation, and makes the gentle recognitions aforesaid. But wherever there is a crowd, the new hat is worse than useless. It is a pity that the general retrench- ment of people's finances did away with the flat opera hat, which was a very sensible thing. The round one is only in the way. The matting over the floor of the Opera does not hinder it from getting dusty ; not to mention its chance of a kick from the inconsiderate. But from the pit of the other theatres, you may bring it away covered with saw-dust, or rubbed up all the wrong way of the nap, or monstrously squeezed into a shapeless lump. The least thing to be ex- pected in a pressure, is a great poke in its side like a sunken cheek. A CHAPTER ON HATS. 217 Boating is a mortal enemy to new hats. A shower has you fast in a common boat ; or a sail-line, or an inexperienced oar, may knock the hat off; and then fancy it tilting over the water with the tide, soaked all the while beyond redemption, and escaping from the tips of your outstretched fingers, while you ought all to be pulling the contrary way home. Bat of all wrong boxes for a new hat, avoid a mail- coach. If you keep it on, you will begin nodding perhaps at midnight, and then it goes jamming against the side of the coach, to the equal misery of its nap and your own. If you take it off, where is its refuge ? Will the clergyman take the least heed of it, who is snoring comfortably in one corner in his nightcap ? Or will the farmer, jolting about inexorably ? Or the regular traveller, who in his fur-cap and infinite knowledge of highway conveniences, has already be- held it with contempt ? Or the old market-woman, whom it is in vain to request to be tender ? Or the young damsel, who wonders how you can think of sleeping in such a thing ? In the morning you sud- denly miss your hat, and ask after it with trepidation. The traveller smiles. They all move their legs, but know nothing of it ; till the market-woman exclaims, " Deary me ! Well — lord, only think ! A hat is it, Sir ? Why I do believe, — but I'm sure I never thought o' such a thing more than the child unborn, — that it must be a hat then which I took for a pan I've been a buying ; and so I've had my warm foot VOL. i. l 218 THE INDICATOR. in it, Lord help us, ever since five o'clock this blessed morning V It is but fair to add, that we happen to have an educated antipathy to the hat. At our school no hats were worn, and the cap is too small to be a substi- tute. Its only use is to astonish the old ladies in the street, who wonder how so small a thing can be kept on ; and to this end, we used to rub it into the back or side of the head, where it hung like a worsted wonder. It is after the fashion of Catha- rine's cap in the play : it seems as if Moulded on a porringer; Why, 'tis a cockle, or a walnut-shell, A knack, a toy, a trick, a baby's cap ; A custard coffin, a bauble. But we may not add I love thee well, in that thou lik'st it not ; 111 befall us, if we ever dislike any thing about thee, old nurse of our childhood ! How independent of the weather used we to feel in our old friar's dress, — our thick shoes, yellow worsted stockings, and coarse long coat or gown ! Our cap was oftener in our hand than on our head, let the weather be what it would. We felt a pride as well as pleasure, when every body else was hurrying through the streets, in receiving the full summer showers with uncovered poll, sleeking our slad hair like the feathers of a bird. It must be said for hats in general, that they are A CHAPTER, ON HATS. 219 a very ancient part of dress, perhaps the most an- cient ; for a negro who has nothing else upon him, sometimes finds it necessary to guard off the sun with a hat of leaves or straw. The Chinese, who carry their records farther back than any other people, are a hatted race, both narrow-brimmed and broad. We are apt to think of the Greeks as a bare-headed peo- ple ; and they liked to be so ; but they had hats for journeying in, such as may be seen on the statues of Mercury, who was the god of travellers. They were large and flapped, and were sometimes fastened round under the chin like a lady's bonnet. The Eastern nations generally wore turbans, and do still, with the exception of the Persians, who have exchanged them for large conical caps of felt. The Romans copied the Greeks in their dress, as in every thing else ; but the poorer orders wore a cap like their boasted Phrygian ancestors, resembling the one which the reader may see about the streets upon the bust of Canova's Paris. The others would put their robes about their heads upon occasion, — after the fashion of the hoods of the middle ages, and of the cloth head-dresses which we see in the portraits of Dante and Petrarch. Of a similar mode are the draperies on the heads of our old Plantagenet kings and of Chaucer. The velvet cap which succeeded, appears to have come from Italy, as seen in the portraits of Raphael and Titian ; and it would probably have con- tinued till the French times of Charles the Second, for our ancestors up to that period were great L 2 220 THE INDICATOR. admirers of Italy, had not Phillip the Second of Spain come over to marry our Queen Mary. The extreme heats of Spain had forced the natives upon taking to that ingenious compound of the hat and umbrella, still known by the name of the Spanish hat. We know not whether Philip himself wore it. His father, Charles the Fifth, who was at the top of the world, is represented as delighting in a little humble-looking cap. But we conceive it was either from Philip, or some gentleman in his train, that the hat and feather succeeded among us to the cap and jewels of Henry the Eighth. The ascendancy of Spain in those times carried it into other parts of Europe. The French, not requiring so much shade from the sun, and always playing with and altering their dress, as a child does his toy, first covered the brim with feathers, then gave them a pinch in front ; then came pinches up at the side ; and at last appeared the fierce and triple- daring cocked hat. This disappeared in our child- hood, or only survived among the military, the old, and the reverend, who could not willingly part with their habitual dignity. An old beau or so would also retain it, in memory of its victories when young. We remember its going away from the heads of the foot-guards. The heavy dragoons retained it till lately. It is now almost sunk into the mock-heroic, and confined, as we before observed, to beadles and coachmen, &c. The modern clerical beaver, agree- ably to the deliberation with which our establishments depart from all custom, is a cocked hat with the front A CHAPTER ON HATS. 221 flap let clown, and only a slight pinch remaining behind. This is worn also by the judges, the lawyers being of clerical extraction. Still however the true cocked-hat lingers here and there with a soli- tary old gentleman ; and wherever it appears in such company, begets a certain retrospective reverence. There was a something in its connexion with the high- bred drawing-room times of the seventeenth century ; in the gallant though quaint ardour of its look ; and in its being lifted up in salutations with that deliberate loftiness, the arm arching up in front and the hand slowly raising it by the front angle with finger and thumb, — that could not easily die. We remember, when our steward at school, remarkable for his inflexi- ble air of precision and dignity, left offhis cocked-hat for a round one ; there was, undoubtedly, though we dared only half confess it to our minds, a sort of dimi- nished majesty about him. His infinite self-possession began to look remotely finite. His Crown Imperial was a little blighted. It was like divesting a column of its capital. But the native stateliness was there, inform- ing the new hat. He Had not yet lost jfll his original beaver; nor appeared Less than arcb-steward ruined, and the excess Of glory obscured. The late Emperor Paul had conceived such a sense of the dignity of the cocked hat, aggravated by its having been deposed by the round one of the French republicans, that he ordered all persons in his domi- 222 THE INDICATOR. nions never to dare be seen in public with round hats, upon pain of being knouted and sent to Siberia. Hats being the easiest part of the European dress to be taken off, are doffed among us out of reverence. The Orientals, on the same account, put off their slippers instead of turbans, which is the reason why the Jews still keep their heads covered during wor- ship. The Spanish grandees have the privilege of wearing their hats in the royal presence, probably in commemoration of the free spirit in which the Cortes used to crown the sovereign ; telling him (we suppose in their corporate capacity) that they were better men than he, but chose him of their own free will for their master. The grandees only claim to be as good men, unless their families are older. There is a well known story of a picture, in which the Virgin Mary is represented with a label coming out of her mouth, saying to a Spanish gentleman Avho has politely taken off his hat, " Cousin, be covered.'" But the most interesting anecdote connected with a hat belongs to the family of the De Courcys, Lord Kinsale. One of their ancestors, at an old period of our history, having overthrown a huge and insolent champion, who had challenged the whole court, was desired by the king to ask him some favour. He requested that his descendants should have the privilege of keeping their heads covered in the royal presence, and they do so to this day. The new lord, we believe, always comes to court on purpose to vindicate his right. We have heard, that on the last occasion, SEAMEN ON SHORE. 223 probably after a long interval, some of the courtiers thought it might as well have been dispensed with ; which was a foolish as well as a jealous thing, for these exceptions only prove the royal rule. The Spa- nish grandees originally took their privilege instead of receiving it ; but when the spirit of it had gone, their covered heads were only so many intense recog- nitions of the king's dignity, which it was thought such a mighty thing to resemble. A Quaker's hat is a more formidable thing than a grandee's. XXX.— SEAMEN ON SHORE. The sole business of a seaman on shore, who has to go to sea again, is to take as much pleasure as he can. The moment he sets his foot on dry ground, he turns his back on all salt beef and other salt-water restric- tions. His long absence, and the impossibility of get- ting land pleasures at sea, put him upon a sort of desperate appetite. He lands, like a conqueror tak- ing possession. He has been debarred so long, that he is resolved to have that matter out with the inha- bitants. Thev must render an account to him of their treasures, their women, their victualling-stores, their entertainments, their everything ; and in return he will behave like a gentleman, and scatter his gold. His first sensation, on landing, is the strange firm- ness of the earth, which he goes treading in a sort of 224 THE INDICATOK. heavy light way, half waggoner and half dancing- master, his shoulders rolling, and his feet touching and going ; the same way, in short, in which he keeps himself prepared for all the chances of the vessel, when on deck. There is always this appearance of lightness of foot and heavy strength of upper works, in a sailor. And he feels it himself. He lets his jacket fly open, and his shoulders slouch, and his hair grow long, to be gathered into a heavy pigtail ; but when full dressed, he prides himself on a certain gen- tility of toe, on a white stocking and a natty shoe, issuing lightly out of the flowing blue trowser. His arms are neutral, hanging and swinging in a curve aloof; his hands, half open, as if they had just been handling ropes, and had no object in life but to handle them again. He is proud of appearing in a new hat and slops, with a Belcher handkerchief flow- ing loosely round his neck, and the corner of another out of his pocket. Thus equipped, with pinchbeck buckles in his shoes (which he bought for gold), he puts some tobacco in his mouth, not as if he were going to use it directly, but as if he stuffed it in a pouch on one side, as a pelican does fish, to employ it hereafter ; and so, with Bet Monson at his side, and perhaps a cane or whanghee twisted under his other arm, sallies forth to take possession of all Lubberland. He buys every thing that he comes athwart — nuts, gingerbread, apples, shoe-strings, beer, brandy, gin, buckles, knives, a watch (two, if he has money enough), gowns and handkerchiefs for Bet and his. SEAMEN ON SHORE. 225 mother and sisters, dozens of " Superfine Best Men's Cotton Stockings," dozens of " Superfine Best Wo- men's Cotton Ditto," best good Check for Shirts (though he has too much already), infinite needles and thread (to sew his trowers with, some day), a foot- man's laced hat, Bear's Grease, to make his hair grow (by way of joke), several sticks, all sorts of Jew ar- ticles, a flute (which he can't play, and never intends), a leg of mutton, which he carries somewhere to roast, and for a piece of which the landlord of the Ship makes him pay twice what he gave for the whole ; in short, all that money can be spent upon, which is every thing but medicine gratis, and this he would insist on pay- ing for. He would buy all the painted parrots on an Italian's head, on purpose to break them, rather than not spend his money. He has fiddles and a dance at the Ship, with oceans of flip and grog; and gives the blind fiddler tobacco for sweetmeats, and half-a- crown for treading on his toe. He asks the landlady, with a sigh, after her daughter Nance, avIio first fired his heart with her silk stockings ; and find- in"- that she is married and in trouble, leaves five crowns for her, which the old lady appropriates as part payment for a shilling in advance. He goes to the Port playhouse with Bet Monson, and a great red handkerchief full of apples, gingerbread nuts, and fresh beef, calls out for the fiddlers and Rule Britan- nia ; pelts Tom Sikes in the pit; and compares Othello to the black ship's cook in his white night- cap. When lie comes to London, he and some mess- 226 THE INDICATOR. mates take a hackney-coach, full of Bet Monsons and tobacco-pipes, and go through the streets smoking and lolling: out of window. He has ever been cau- tious of venturing on horseback, and among his other sights in foreign parts, relates with unfeigned asto- nishment how he has seen the Turks ride: " Only, 1 ' says he, guarding against the hearer's incredulity, " they have saddle-boxes to hold 'em in, fore and aft, and shovels like for stirrups. 1 '' He will tell you how the Chinese drink, and the Negurs dance, and the monkies pelt you with cocoa-nuts ; and how King Domy would have built him a mud hut and made him a peer of the realm, if he would have stopped with him, and taught him to make trowsers. He ha a sister at a " School for Young Ladies, 11 who blushes with a mixture of pleasure and shame at his appear- ance ; and whose confusion he completes by slipping fourpence into her hand, and saying out loud that he has " no more copper 11 about him. His mother and elder sisters at home doat on all he says and does, telling him, however, that he is a great sea fellow, and was always wild ever since he was a hop-o^my- thumb, no higher than the window locker. He tells his mother that she would be a duchess in Paranaboo; at which the good old portly dame laughs and looks proud. When his sisters complain of his romping, he says that they are only sorry it is not the baker. He frightens them with a mask made after the New Zealand fashion, and is forgiven for his learning. Their mantle-piece is filled by him with shells and SEAMEN ON SHOltE. 227 shark's teeth ; and when he goes to sea again, there is no end of tears, and " God bless y oil's !" and home- made gingerbread. His Officer on shore does much of all this, only, ge- nerally speaking, in a higher taste. The moment he lands, he buys quantities of jewellery and other valu- ables, for all the females of his acquaintance ; and is taken in for every article. He sends in a cart-load of fresh meat to the ship, though he is going to town next day ; and calling in at a chandler's for some candles, is persuaded to buy a dozen of green wax, with which he lights up the ship at evening ; regret- ting that the fine moonlight hinders the effect of the colour. A man, with a bundle beneath his arm, accosts him in an under-tone ; and, with a look in which respect for his knowledge is mixed with an avowed zeal for his own interest, asks if his Honour will just step under the gangway here, and inspect some real India shawls. The gallant Lieutenant says to himself, " This fellow knows what's what, by his face ;" and so he proves it by being taken in on the spot. When he brings the shawls home, he says to his sister with an air of triumph, " There, Poll, there's something for you ; only cost me twelve, and is worth twenty, if its worth a dollar." She turns pale — " Twenty what, my dear George? Why, you haven't given twelve dollars for it, I hope ?" " Not I, by the Lord."—" That's lucky ; because you see, my dear George, that all together is not worth more than fourteen or fifteen shillings." 228 THE INDICATOR. " Fourteen or fifteen what ! Why its real India, en't it ? Why the fellow told me so ; or I'm sure I'd as soon" — (here he tries to hide his blushes with a bluster) — I'd as soon have given him twelve douses on the chaps as twelve guineas." — " Twelve guineas .'" exclaims the sister; and then drawling forth, " Why — my — dear — George," is proceeding to shew him what the articles would have cost at CondelFs, when he interrupts her by requesting her to go and choose for herself a tea-table service. He then makes his escape to some messmates at a coffee-house, and drowns his recollection of the shawls in the best wine, and a discussion on the comparative merits of the English and West-Indian beauties and tables. At the theatre afterwards, where he has never been before, he takes a lady at the back of one of the boxes for a woman of quality ; and when, after re- turning his long respectful gaze with a smile, she turns aside and puts her handkerchief to her mouth, he thinks it is in derision, till his friend undeceives him. He is introduced to the lady ; and ever afterwards, at first sight of a woman of quality (without any disparagement either to those charming personages), expects her to give him a smile. He thinks the other ladies much better creatures than they are taken for ; and for their parts, they tell him, that if all men were like himself, they would trust the sex again : — which, for aught we know, is the truth. He has, indeed, what he thinks a very liberal opinion of ladies in general; judging them all, in a manner, with the eye SEAMEN ON SHORE. 229 of a seaman's experience. Yet he will believe never- theless in the " true-love"" of any given damsel whom he seeks in the way of marriage, let him roam as much, or remain as long at a distance, as he may. It is not that he wants feeling ; but that he has read of it, time out of mind, in songs ; and he looks upon constancy as a sort of exploit, answering to those which he performs at sea. He is nice in his watches and linen. He makes you presents of cornelians, antique seals, cocoa-nuts set in silver, and other valu- ables. When he shakes hands Avith you, it is like being caught in a windlass. He would not swagger about the streets in his uniform, for the world. He is generally modest in company, though liable to be irritated by what he thinks ungentlemanly behaviour. He is also liable to be rendered irritable by sickness ; partly because he has been used to command others, and to be served with all possible deference and alacrity ; and partly, because the idea of suffering pain, without any honour or profit to get by it, is unprofessional, and he is not accustomed to it. He treats talents unlike his own with great respect. He often perceives his own so little felt, that it teaches him this feeling for that of others. Besides, he ad- mires the quantity of information which people can get, without travelling like himself; especially when he sees how interesting his own becomes, to them as well as to every body else. When he tells a story, particularly if full of wonders, lie takes care to main- tain his character for truth and simplicity, by quali- 230 THE INDICATOR. fying it with all possible reservations, concessions, and anticipations of objection ; such as " in case, at such times as, so to speak, as it were, at least, at any rate.'' 1 He seldom uses sea-terms but when jocosely provoked by something contrary to his habits of life ; as for instance, if he is always meeting you on horse- back, he asks if you never mean to walk the deck again ; or if he finds you studying day after day, he says you are always overhauling your log-book. He makes more new acquaintances, and forgets his old ones less, than any other man in the busy world ; for he is so compelled to make his home every where, remembers his native one as such a place of enjoy- ment, has all his friendly recollections so fixed upon his mind at sea, and has so much to tell and to hear when he returns, that change and separation lose with him the most heartless part of their nature. He also sees such a variety of customs and manners, that he becomes charitable in his opinions altogether ; and charity, while it diffuses the affections, cannot let the old ones go. Half the secret of human intercourse is to make allowance for each other. When the Officer is superannuated or retires, he becomes, if intelligent and enquiring, one of the most agreeable old men in the world, equally welcome to the silent for his card-playing, and to the conversa- tional for his recollections. He is fond of astronomy and books of voyages, and is immortal with all who know him for having been round the world, or seen the Transit of Venus, or had one of his fingers carried SEAMEN OX SHORE. 231 off by a New Zealand hatchet, or a present of feathers from an Otaheitan beauty. If not elevated by his acquirements above some of his humbler tastes, he delights in a corner-cupboard holding his cocoa-nuts and punch-bowl; has his summer-house castellated and planted with wooden cannon ; and sets up the figure of his old ship, the Britannia or the Lovely Nancy, for a statue in the garden ; where it stares eternally with red cheeks and round black eyes, as if in astonishment at its situation. Chaucer, who wrote his Canterbury Tales about four hundred and thirty years ago, has among his other characters in that work a Shipman, who is exactly of the same cast as the modern sailor, — the same robustness, courage, and rough-drawn virtue, doing its duty, without being very nice in helping itself to its recreations. There is the very dirk, the complexion, the jollity, the experience, and the bad horsemanship. The plain unaffected ending of the description has the air of a sailors own speech ; while the line about the beard is exceedingly picturesque, poetical, and comprehensive. In copying it out, we shall merely alter the old spelling, where the words are still modern. A shipman was there, wormed far by west; For auglit I wot, he was of Dartmouth. He rode opon a rouncie, as he coutli,* All in a gown offalding to the knee. A dagger hanging by a lace had he, * lie rode upon a hack-horse, as well as he could. 232 THE INDICATOR. About his neck, under his arm adown : The hot summer had made his hew all brown : And certainly he was a good felaw. Full many a draught of wine he hadde draw From Bourdeaux ward, while that the chapman slep. Of nice conscience took he no keep. If that he fought and had the higher hand, By water he sent 'em home to every land. But of his craft, to reckon well his tides, His streames and his strandes him besides, His harborough, his moon, and his lode manage, There was not such from Hull unto Carthage. Hardy he was, and wise, T undertake ; With many a tempest had his beard been shake. He knew well all the havens, as they were, From Gothland to the Cape de Finisterre, And every creek in Briton and in Spain. His barge ycleped was the Magdelain. When about to tell his Tale, he tells his fellow-tra- vellers that he shall clink them so merry a bell, That it shall waken all this company: But it shall not be of philosophy, Nor of physick, nor of terms quaint of law ; There is but little Latin in my maw. The story he tells is a well-known one in the Italian novels, of a monk who made love to a merchant's wife, and borrowed a hundred francs of the husband to give her. She accordingly admits his addresses during the absence of her good man on a journey. When the latter returns, he applies to the cunning monk for repayment, and is referred to the lady ; who thus finds her mercenary behaviour outwitted. ( 233 ) XXXL— OX THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. There is not a more unthinking way of talking, than to say such and such pains and pleasures are only imaginary, and therefore to be got rid of or un- dervalued accordingly. There is nothing imaginary, in the common acceptation of the word. The logic of Moses in the Vicar of Wakefield is good argument here : — " Whatever is, is. r> Whatever touches us, whatever moves us, does touch and does move us. We recognize the reality of it, as we do that of a hand in the dark. We might as well say that a sight which makes us laugh, or a blow which brings tears into our eyes, is imaginary, as that any thing else is imaginary which makes us laugh or weep. We can only judge of things by their effects. Our perception constantly deceives us, in things with which we suppose ourselves perfectly conversant ; but our reception of their effect is a different matter. Whether we are materialists or immaterialists, whether things be about us or within us, whether we think the sun is a substance, or only the image of a divine thought, an idea, a thing ima- ginary, we are equally agreed as to the notion of its warmth. But on the other hand, as this warmth is felt differently by different temperaments, so what we call imaginary things affect different minds. What we have to do is not to deny their effect, because we do not feel in the same proportion, or whether we even feel it at all ; but to see whether our neighbours may 234 THE INDICATOR. not be moved. If they are, there is, to all intents and purposes, a moving cause. But we do not see it ? No ; — neither perhaps do they. They only feel it ; they are only sentient, — a word which implies the sight given to the imagination by the feelings. But what do you mean, we may ask in return, by seeing ? Some rays of light come in contact with the eye ; they bring a sensation to it ; in a word, they touch it ; and the impression left by this touch we call sight. How far does this differ in effect from the impression left by any other touch, however mysterious? An ox knocked down by a butcher, and a man knocked down by a fit of apoplexy, equally feel themselves com- pelled to drop. The tickling of a straw and of a co- medy, equally move the muscles about the mouth. The look of a beloved eye will so thrill the frame, that old philosophers have had recourse to a doc- trine of beams and radiant particles flying from one sight to another. In fine, what is contact itself, and why does it affect us ? There is no one cause more mysterious than another, if we look into it. Nor does the question concern us like moral causes. We may be content to know the earth by its fruits ; but how to increase and improve them is a more at- tractive study. If instead of saying that the causes which moved in us this or that pain or pleasure were imaginary, people were to say that the causes them- selves were removeable, they would be nearer the truth. When a stone trips us up, we do not fall to disputing its existence : we put it out of the way. In THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 235 like manner, when we suffer from what is called an imaginary pain, our business is not to canvass the reality of it. Whether there is any cause or not in that or any other perception, or whether every thing consist not in what is called effect, it is sufficient for us that the effect is real. Our sole business is to re- move those second causes, which always accompany the original idea. As in deliriums, for instance, it would be idle to go about persuading the patient that he did not behold the figures he says he does. He might reasonably ask us, if he could, how we know any thing about the matter ; or how we can be sure, that in the infinite wonders of the universe, certain realities may not become apparent to certain eyes, whether diseased or not. Our business would be to put him into that state of health, in which human beings are not diverted from their offices and comforts by a liability to such imaginations. The best reply to his question would be, that such a morbidity is clearly no more a fit state for a human being, than a disarranged or incomplete state of works is for a watch ; and that seeing the general tendency of nature to this completeness or state of comfort, we naturally conclude, that the imaginations in question, whether substantial or not, are at least not of the same lasting or prevailing description. We do not profess metaphysics. We are indeed so little conversant with the masters of that art, that we are never sure whether we are using even its proper terms. All that we may know on the sub- 236 THE INDICATOR. ject comes to us from some reflection and some ex- perience ; and this all may be so little as to make a metaphysician smile ; which if he be a true one, he will do good-naturedly. The pretender will take oc- casion from our very confession, to say that we know nothing. Our faculty, such as it is, is rather instinc- tive than reasoning ; rather physical than metaphy- sical; rather sentient because it loves much, than be- cause it knows much ; rather calculated by a certain retention of boyhood, and by its wanderings in the green places of thought, to light upon a piece of the old golden world, than to tire ourselves, and conclude it unattainable, by too wide and scientific a search. We pretend to see farther than none but the worldly and the malignant. And yet those who see farther, may not all see so well. We do not blind our eyes with looking upon the sun in the heavens. We believe it to be there, but we find its light upon earth also ; and we would lead humanity, if we could, out of misery and coldness into the shine of it. Pain might still be there ; must be so, as long as we are mortal ; For oft we still must weep, since we are human : but it should be pain for the sake of others, which is noble ; not unnecessary pain inflicted by or upon them, which it is absurd not to remove. The very pains of mankind struggle towards pleasures; and such pains as are proper for them have this inevitable accompaniment of true humanity, — that they cannot but realize a certain gentleness of enjoyment. Thus THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 237 the true bearer of pain would come round to us ; and he would not grudge us a share of his burden, though in taking from his trouble it might diminish his pride. Pride is but a bad pleasure at the expense of others. The great object of humanity is to enrich every body. If it is a task destined not to succeed, it is a good one from its very nature ; and fulfils at least a glad des- tiny of its own. To look upon it austerely is in reality the reverse of austerity. It is only such an impatience of the want of pleasure as leads us to grudge it in others ; and this impatience itself, if the sufferer knew how to use it, is but another impulse, in the general yearning, towards an equal wealth of enjoyment. But we shall be getting into other discussions. — The ground-work of all happiness is health. Take care of this ground ; and the doleful imaginations that come to warn us ajrainst its abuse, will avoid it. Take care of this ground, and let as many glad ima- ginations throng to it as possible. Read the magical works of the poets, and they will come. If you doubt their existence, ask yourself whether you feel pleasure at the idea of them ; whether you are moved into delicious smiles, or tears as delicious. If you are, the result is the same to you, whether they exist or not. It is not mere words to sav, that he who goes through a rich man's park, and sees things in it which never bless the mental eyesight of the pos- sessor, is richer than he. He is richer. More results of pleasure come home to him. The ground is actu- 238 THE INDICATOE. ally more fertile to him : the place haunted with finer shapes. He has more servants to come at his call, and administer to him with full hands. Knowledge, sympathy, imagination, are all Divining Rods, with which he discovers treasure. Let a painter go through the grounds, and he will see not only the general co- lours of green and brown, but their combinations and contrasts, and the modes in which they might again be combined and contrasted. He will also put figures in the landscape if there are none there, flocks and herds, or a solitary spectator, or Venus lying w r ith her white body among the violets and primroses. Let a musician go through, and he will hear " differ- ences discreet" in the notes of the birds and the laps- ing of the water-fall. He will fancy a serenade of wind instruments in the open air at the lady's window, with a voice rising through it ; or the horn of the hunter ; or the musical cry of the hounds, Matched in mouth like bells, Each under each; or a solitary voice in a bower, singing for an expected lover; or the chapel organ, waking up like the fountain of the winds. Let a poet go through the grounds, and he will heighten and increase all these sounds and images. He will bring the colours from heaven, and put an unearthly meaning into the voice. He will have stories of the sylvan inhabitants ; will shift the population through infinite varieties ; will put a sentiment upon every sight and sound ; will be THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 239 human, romantic, supernatural ; will make all nature send tribute into that spot. Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures While the landskip round it measures; Russet lawns, and fallows grey, Where the nibbling flocks do stray ; Mountains, on whose barren breast The labouring clouds do often rest ; Meadows trim with daisies pied, Shallow brooks, and rivers wide. Towers and battlements it sees, Bosomed high in tufted trees, Where perhaps some Beauty lies, The Cynosure of neighbouring eyes. But not to go on quoting lines which are ever in peo- ple's mouths like a popular tune, take a passage from the same poet less familiar to one's every-day recol- lections. It is in his Arcadian Mask, which was performed by some of the Derby family at their seat at Harefield, near Uxbridge. The Genius of the place, meeting the noble shepherds and shepherdesses, accosts them : — Stay, gentle swains, for though in this disguise, I see bright honour sparkle through your eyes ; Of famous Arcady ye are, and sprung Of that renowned flood, so often sung, Divine Alpheus, who by secret sluice Stole under seas to meet his Arethuse ; And ye, the breathing roses of the wood, Fair silver-buskincd Nymphs, as great and good ; I know this quest of yours, and free intent, Was all in honour and devotion meant 240 THE INDICATOR. To the greatmistress of yon princely shrine, "Whom with low reverence I adore as mine ; And with all helpful service will comply To further this night's glad solemnity ; And lead ye where ye may more near behold What shallow-searching Fame hath left untold ; Which I, full oft, amidst these shades alone, Have sat to wonder at, and gaze upon : For know, by lot from Jove I am the Power Of this fair wood, and live in oaken bower, To nurse the saplings tall, and curl the grove In ringlets quaint and wanton windings wove: And all my plants I save from nightly ill Of noisome winds, and blasting vapours chill ; And from the boughs brush off the evil dew, And heal the harms of thwarting thunder blue, Or what the cross dire-looking planet smites, Or hurtful worm with cankered venom bites. When evening gray doth rise, I fetch my round Over the mount, and all this hallowed ground; And early, ere the odorous breath of morn Awakes the slumbering leaves, or tassel'd horn Shakes the high thicket, haste I all about, Number my ranks, and visit every sprout With puissant words and murmurs made to bless. But else, in deep of night, when drowsiness Hath locked up mortal sense, then listen I To the celestial Syrens' harmony, That sit upon the nine infolded spheres, And sing to those thathold the vital shears, And turn the adamantine spindle round, On which the fate of gods and men is wound. Such sweet compulsion doth in music lie To lull the daughters of necessity, THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 241 And keep unsteady Nature to her law, And the low world in measured motion draw, After the heavenly tune, which none can hear Of human mould, with gross unpurged ear. " Milton's Genius of the Grove,"" says Warton, " being a spirit sent from Jove, and commissioned from heaven to exercise a preternatural guardianship over the ' saplings tall, 1 to avert every noxious influ- ence, and ' to visit every sprout with puissant words, and murmurs made to bless, 1 had the privilege, not indulged to gross mortals, of hearing the celes- tial syrens 1 harmony. This enjoyment, 11 continues the critic, in the spirit of a true reader, luxuriating over a beautiful thought, " this enjoyment, which is highly imagined, was a relaxation from the duties of his peculiar charge, in the depth of midnight, when the world is locked up in sleep and silence.' 1 * The music of the spheres is the old Platonic or Pythago- rean doctrine ; but it remained for Milton to render it a particular midnight recreation to " purged ears, 11 after the earthly toils of the day. And we partake of it with the Genius. We may say of the love of • Tf the reader wishes to indulge himself in a volume full of sheer poetry with a pleasant companion, familiar with the finest haunts of the Muses, he cannot do better than get Warton* $ Edition of the, Minor Poems of Milton. The principal notes have been transferred by Mr. Todd to the sixth volume of his own valuable edition of Milton's Poetical Works ; but it is better to have a good thing entire. VOL. i. M 242 THE INDICATOR. nature, what Shakspeare says of another love, that it Adds a precious seeing to the eye. And we may say also, upon the like principle, that it adds a precious hearing to the ear. This and imagi- nation, whichever follows upon it, are the two puri- fiers of our sense, which rescue us from the deafening babble of common cares, and enable us to hear all the affectionate voices of earth and heaven. The starry orbs, lapsing about in their smooth and spark- ling dance, sing to us. The brooks talk to us of soli- tude. The birds are the animal spirits of nature, carolling in the air, like a careless lass. The gentle gales, Fanning their odoriferous wings, dispense Native perfumes ; and whisper whence they stole Those balmy spoils. Paradise Lost, book iv. The poets are called creators (IlowTai, Makers), be- cause with their magical words, they bring forth to our eye-sight the abundant images and beauties of creation. They put them there, if the reader pleases ; and so are literally creators. But whether put there or discovered, whether created or invented (for inven- tion means nothing but finding out), there they are. If they touch us, they exist to as much purpose as any thing else which touches us. If a passage in King Lear brings the tears into our eyes, it is real as the touch of a sorrowful hand. If the flow of a song of Anacreon's intoxicates us, it is as true to a pulse within us as the wine he drank. We hear not their THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 243 sounds with ears, nor see their sights with eyes; but we hear and see both so truly, that we are moved with pleasure ; and the advantage, nay, even the test, of seeing and hearing, at any time, is not in the seeing and hearing, but in the ideas we realize, and the pleasure we derive. Intellectual objects, therefore, inasmuch as they come home to us, are as true a part of the stock of nature, as visible ones ; and they are infinitely more abundant. Between the tree of a country clown and the tree of a Milton or Spenser, what a difference in point of productiveness ! Between the plodding of a sexton through a church-yard, and the walk of a Gray, what a difference ! What a dif- ference between theBermudasof a ship-builder and the Bermoothes of Shakspeare ; the isle Full of noises, Sounds, and sweet airs, that give delight, and hurt not ; the isle of elves and fairies, that chased the tide to and fro on the sea-shore ; of coral-bones and the knell of sea-nymphs ; of spirits dancing on the sands, and singing amidst the hushes of the wind ; of Caliban, whose brute nature enchantment had made poetical ; of Ariel, who lay in cowslip bells, and rode upon the bat ; of Miranda, who wept when she saw Ferdinand work so hard, and begged him to let her help ; tell- ing him, I am your wife, if you will marry me ; If not, I'll die your maid. To be your fellow You may deny me ; but I'll be your servant, Whether you will or no. M 2 244 THE INDICATOR. Such are the discoveries which the poets make for us ; worlds, to which that of Columbus was but a handful of brute matter. America began to be richer for us the other day, when Humboldt came back and told us of its luxuriant and gigantic vegetation ; of the myriads of shooting lights, which revel at evening in the south- ern sky ; and of that grand constellation, at which Dante seems to have made so remarkable a guess (Purgatorio, cant, i, v. 22). The natural warmth of the Mexican and Peruvian genius, set free from des- potism, will soon do all the rest for it ; awaken the sleeping riches of its eye-sight, and call forth the glad music of its affections. To return to our parks or landscapes, and what the poets can make of them. It is not improbable that Milton, by his Genius of the Grove at Harefield, covertly intended himself. He had been applied to by the Derbys to write some holiday poetry for them. He puts his consent in the mouth of the Genius, whose hand, he says, curls the ringlets of the grove, and who refreshes himself at midnight with listening to the music of the spheres : that is to say, whose hand confers new beauty on it by its touch, and who has pleasures in solitude far richer and loftier than those of mere patrician mortal. See how finely Ben Jonson enlivens his description of Penshurst, the family-seat of the Sydneys ; now with the creations of classical mythology, and now with the rural manners of the time, THE REALITIES OF IMAGINATION. 245 Thou art not, Penshurst, built to envious show, Or touch, of niarble; nor canst boast a row Of polished pillars, or a roof of gold ; Thou hast no lantern, whereof tales are told ; Or stairs, or courts ; but stand'st an ancient pile : And these, grudged at, are reverenced the while. Thou joy'st in better marks, of soil, of air, Of wood, of water : therein thou art fair. Thou hast thy walks for health, as well as sport; Thy mount, to which the Dryads do resort ; Where Pan and Bacchus their high feasts have made, Beneath the broad beech, and the chestnut shade; That taller tree, which of a nut was set At his great birth, where all the Muses met.* There, in the writhed bark, are cut the names Of many a Sylvan, taken with his flames : And thence the ruddy Satyrs oft provoke The lighter fawns to reach thy lady's oak. Thy copse too, named of Gam;igc, thou hast there, That never fails to serve thee seasoned deer. When thou wouldst feast, or exercise thy friends. The lower land, that to the river bends, Thy sheep, thy bullocks, kine, and calves do feed; The middle grounds thy mares and horses breed : Each bank doth yield thee conies ; and thy tops Fertile of wood, Ashore and Sydney copse, To crown, — thy open table doth provide The purple pheasant with the speckled side. • ••*••• Then hath thy orchard fruit, thy garden flowers, Fresh as the air, and new as are the hours. The early cherry, with the later plum, Fig, grape, and quince, each in his time doth come : * Sir Philip Sydney. 246 THE INDICATOR. The blushing apricot, and woolly peach, Hang on thy walls, that every child may reach ; And though thy walls be of the country stone, They're reared with no man's ruin, no man's groan ; There's none that dwell about them wish them down ; But all come in, the farmer and the clown, And no one empty handed, to salute Thy lord and lady, though they have no suit. Some bring a capon, some a rural cake, Some nuts, some apples ; some that think they make The better cheeses, bring e'm ; or else send By their ripe daughters, whom they would commend This way to husbands ; and whose baskets bear An emblem of themselves in plum or pear. Imagination enriches every thing. A great library contains not only books, but The assembled souls of all that men held wise. — Davenant. The moon is Homer's and Shakspeare's moon, as well as the one Ave look at. The sun comes out of his chamber in the east, with a sparkling eye, " rejoicing like a bridegroom. 1 ' The commonest thing becomes like Aaron's rod, that budded. Pope called up the spirits of the Cabala to wait upon a lock of hair, and justly gave it the honours of a constellation ; for he has hung it, sparkling for ever, in the eyes of posterity. A common meadow is a sorry thing to a ditcher or a coxcomb ; but by the help of its dues from imagina- tion and the love of nature, the grass brightens for us, the air soothes us, we feel as we did in the daisied hours of childhood. Its verdures, its sheep, its DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. 247 hedge-row elms, — all these, and all else which sight, and sound, and associations can give it, are made to furnish a treasure of pleasant thoughts. Even brick and mortar are vivified, as of old, at the harp of Or- pheus. A metropolis becomes no longer a mere col- lection of houses or of trades. It puts on all the grandeur of its history, and its literature ; its towers and rivers ; its art, and jewellery, and foreign wealth ; its multitude of human beings all intent upon excite- ment, wise or yet to learn ; the huge and sullen dig- nity of its canopy of smoke by day ; the wide gleam upwards of its lighted lustre at night-time ; and the noise of its many chariots, heard, at the same hour, when the wind sets gently towards some quiet suburb. XXXII.— DEATHS OF LITTLE CHILDREN. A Grecian philosopher being asked why he wept for the death of his son, since the sorrow was in vain, replied, " I weep on that account. 11 And his an- swer became his wisdom. It is only for sophists to contend, that we, whose eyes contain the fountains of tears, need never give way to them. It would be unwise not to do so on some occasions. Sorrow un- locks them in her balmy moods. The first bursts may be bitter and overwhelming; but the soil on which they pour, would be worse without them. 248 THE INDICATOR. They refresh the fever of the soul— the dry misery which parches the countenance into furrows, and ren- ders us liable to our most terrible " flesh-quakes.' 1 There are sorrows, it is true, so great, that to give them some of the ordinary vents is to run a hazard of being overthrown. These we must rather strengthen ourselves to resist, or bow quietly and drily down, in order to let them pass over us, as the traveller does the wind of the desert. But where we feel that tears would relieve us, it is false philosophy to deny our- selves at least that first refreshment ; and it is always false consolation to tell people that because they can- not help a thing, they are not to mind it. The true way is, to let them grapple with the unavoidable sor- row, and try to win it into gentleness by a reason- able yielding. There are griefs so gentle in their very nature, that it would be worse than false heroism to refuse them a tear. Of this kind are the deaths of infants. Particular circumstances may render it more or less advisable to indulge in grief for the loss of a little child ; but, in general, parents should be no more advised to repress their first tears on such an occasion, than to repress their smiles towards a child surviving, or to indulge in any other sympathy. It is an appeal to the same gentle tenderness ; and such appeals are never made in vain. The end of them is an acquittal from the harsher bonds of affliction from the tying down of the spirit to one melancholy idea. It is the nature of tears of this kind, however DEATHS OK LITTLE CHILDREN. 249 strongly they may gush forth, to run into quiet waters at last. We cannot easily, for the whole course of our lives, think with pain of any good and kind person whom we have lost. It is the divine nature of their qualities to conquer pain and death itself; to turn the memory of them into pleasure : to survive with a placid aspect in our imaginations. We are writing at this moment just opposite a spot which contains the grave of one inexpressibly dear to us. We see from our window the trees about it, and the church spire. The green fields lie around. The clouds are travelling over-head, alternately taking away the sun-shine and restoring it. The vernal winds, piping of the flowery summer-time, are never- theless calling to mind the far-distant and dangerous ocean, which the heart that lies in that grave had many reasons to think of. And yet the sight of this spot does not give us pain. So far from it, it is the existence of that grave which doubles every charm of the spot ; which links the pleasures of our childhood and manhood together ; which puts a hushing ten- derness in the winds, and a patient joy upon the land- scape; which seems to unite heaven and earth, mor- tality and immortality, the grass of the tomb and the grass of the green field; and gives a more maternal aspect to the whole kindness of nature. It does not hinder gaiety itself. Happiness was what its tenant, through all her troubles, would have diffused. To diffuse happiness and to enjoy it, is not only carrying- on her wishes, but realizing her hopes ; and gaiety, M 3 250 THE INDICATOR. freed from its only pollutions, malignity and want of sympathy, is but a child playing about the knees of its mother. The remembered innocence and endearments of a child stand us instead of virtues that have died older. Children have not exercised the voluntary offices of friendship ; they have not chosen to be kind and good to us ; nor stood by us, from conscious will, in the hour of adversity. But they have shared their pleasures and pains with us as well as they could ; the inter- change of good offices between us has, of necessity, been less mingled with the troubles of the world ; the sorrow arising from their death is the only one which we can associate with their memories. These are happy thoughts that cannot die. Our loss may always render them pensive ; but they will not always be painful. It is a part of the benignity of Nature that pain does not survive like pleasure, at any time, much less where the cause of it is an innocent one. The smile will remain reflected by memory, as the moon reflects the light upon us when the sun has {rone into heaven. When writers like ourselves quarrel with earthly pain (we mean writers of the same intentions, without implying, of course, any thing about abilities or other- wise), they are misunderstood if they are supposed to quarrel with pains of every sort. This would be idle and effeminate. They do not pretend, indeed, that humanity might not wish, if it could, to be entirely free from pain ; for it endeavours, at all times, to DEATHS OV LITTLE CHILDREN. 251 turn pain into pleasure : or at least to set off the one with the other, to make the former a zest and the lat- ter a refreshment. The most unaffected dignity of suffering does this, and, if wise, acknowledges it. The greatest benevolence towards others, the most unselfish relish of their pleasures, even at its own ex- pense, does but look to increasing the general stock of happiness, though content, if it could, to have its identity swallowed up in that splendid contemplation. We are far from meaning that this is to be called sel- fishness. We are far, indeed, from thinking so, or of so confounding words. But neither is it to be called pain when most unselfish, if disinterestedness be truly understood. The pain that is in it softens into plea- sure, as the darker hue of the rainbow melts into the brighter. Yet even if a harsher line is to be drawn between the pain and pleasure of the most unselfish mind (and ill-health, for instance, may draw it), we should not quarrel with it if it contributed to the general mass of comfort, and were of a nature which general kindliness could not avoid. Made as we are, there are certain pains without which it would be dif- ficult to conceive certain great and overbalancing pleasures. We may conceive it possible for beings to be made entirely happy ; but in our composition something of pain seems to be a necessary ingredient, in order that the materials may turn to as fine account as possible, though our clay, in the course of ages and experience, may be refined more and more. We may get rid of the worst earth, though not of earth itself. 252 THE INDICATOR. Now the liability to the loss of children — or rather what renders us sensible of it, the occasional loss it- self — seems to be one of these necessary bitters thrown into the cup of humanity. We do not mean that every one must lose one of his children in order to enjoy the rest ; or that every individual loss afflicts us in the same proportion. We allude to the deaths of infants in general. These might be as few as we could render them. But if none at all ever took place, we should regard every little child as a man or woman secured ; and it will easily be conceived what a world of endearing cares and hopes this security would endanger. The very idea of infancy would lose its continuity with us. Girls and boys would be future men and women, not present children. They would have attained their full growth in our imagi- nations, and might as well have been men and women at once. On the other hand, those who have lost an infant, are never, as it were, without an infant child. They are the only persons who, in one sense, retain it always, and they furnish their neighbours with the same idea.* The other children grow up to manhood and wo- manhood, and suffer all the changes of mortality. This one alone is rendered an immortal child. Death has arrested it with his kindly harshness, and blessed it into an eternal image of youth and innocence. Of such as these are the pleasantest shapes that visit • " I sighed," says old Captain Dalton, " when 1 envied you the two bonnie children ; but I sigh not now to call either the monk or the soldier mine own!" — Monastery, vol. iii, p. 341. POETICAL ANOMALIES OF SHAPE. 253 our fancy and our hopes. They are the ever-smiling emblems of joy ; the prettiest pages that wait upon imagination. Lastly, " Of these are the kingdom of heaven. 11 Wherever there is a province of that bene- volent and all-accessible empire, whether on earth or elsewhere, such are the gentle spirits that must inha- bit it. To such simplicity, or the resemblance of it, must they come. Such must be the ready confidence of their hearts, and creativeness of their fancy. And so ignorant must they be of the " knowledge of good and evil, 11 losing their discernment of that self-created trouble, by enjoying the garden before them, and not being ashamed of what is kindly and innocent. XXXIII.— POETICAL ANOMALIES OF SHAPE. It is not one of the least instances of the force of habit to see how poetry and mythology can reconcile us to shapes, or rather combinations of shape, unlike any thing in nature. The dog-headed deities of the Egyptians were doubtless not so monstrous in their eyes as in ours. The Centaurs of the Greeks, as Ovid has shewn us, could be imagined possessing beauty enough for a human love story ; and our imaginations find nothinf at all monstrous in the idea of an angel, though it partakes of the nature of the bird. The angel, it is true, is the least departure from humanity. Its wings are not an alteration of the human shape, 254 THE INDICATOR. but an addition to it. Yet, leaving a more awful wonder out of the question, we should be startled to find pinions growing out of the shoulder-blades of a child ; and we should wait with anxiety to see of what nature the pinions were, till we became recon- ciled to them. If they turned out to be ribbed and webbed, like those of the imaginary dragon, conceive the horror. If, on the other hand, they became fea- thers, and tapered off, like those of a gigantic bird, comprising also grace and splendour, as well as the power of flight, we can easily fancy ourselves recon- ciled to them. And yet again, on the other hand, the flying women, described in the Adventures of Peter Wilkins, do not shock us, though their wings partake of the ribbed and webbed nature, and not at all of the feathered. We admire Peter's gentle and beautiful bride, notwithstanding the phenomenon of the graundee, its light whalebone-like intersections, and its power of dropping about her like drapery. It even becomes a matter of pleasant curiosity. We find it not at all in the way. We can readily apprehend the delight he felt at possessing a creature so kind and sensitive ; and can sympathize with him in the happiness of that bridal evening, equally removed from prudery and grossness, which he describes with a mixture of sentiment and voluptuousness beyond all the bridals we ever read. To imagine any thing like a sympathy of this kind, it is of course necessary that the difference of form should consist in addition, and not in alteration. But POETICAL ANOMALIES OF SHAPE. 9.55 the un-angel-like texture of the flying apparatus of fair Youwarkee (such, if we remember, is her name) helps to shew us the main reason why we are able to receive pleasure from the histories of creatures only half-human. The habit of reading prevents the first shock ; but we are reconciled in proportion to their possession of what we are pleased to call human qua- lities. Kindness is the great elevator. The Centaurs may have killed all the Lapithae, and shewn consi- derable generalship to boot, without reconciling us to the brute part of them ; but the brutality melts away before the storv of their two lovers in Ovid. Drunk- enness and rapine made beasts of them; — sentiment makes human beings. Polyphemus in Homer is a shocking monster, not because he has only one eye, but because he murders and eats our fellow-creatures. But in Theocritus, where he is Galatea's lover, and sits hopelessly lamenting his passion, we only pity him. His deformity even increases our pity. We blink the question of beauty, and become one-eyed for his sake. Nature seems to do him. an injustice in gifting him with sympathies so human, and at the same time preventing them from being answered ; and we feel impatient with the all-beautiful Galatea, if we think she ever shewed him scorn as well as unwilling- ness. We insist upon her avoiding him with the greatest possible respect. These fictions of the poets, therefore, besides the mere excitement which they give the imagination, assist remotely to break the averseness and unchari- 258 THE INDICATOR. tableness of human pride. And they may blunt the point of some fancies that are apt to come upon me- lancholy minds. When Sir Thomas Brown, in the infinite range of his metaphysical optics, turned his glass, as he no doubt often did, towards the inhabi- tants of other worlds, the stories of angels and Cen- taurs would help his imaginative good-nature to a more willing conception of creatures in other planets unlike those on earth ; to other " lords of creation ;" and other, and perhaps nobler humanities, noble in spirit, though differing in form. If indeed there can be any thing in the starry endlessness of existence, nobler than what we can conceive of love and gene- rosity. XXXIV.— SPRING AND DAISIES. Spring, while we are writing, is complete. The winds have done their work. The shaken air, well tempered and equalized, has subsided ; the genial rains, however thickly they may come, do not saturate the ground, beyond the power of the sun to dry it up again. There are clear chrystal mornings ; noons of blue sky and white cloud ; nights, in which the grow- ing moon seems to lie looking at the stars, like a young- shepherdess at her flock. A few days ago she lav- gazing in this manner at the solitary evening star, like Diana, on the slope of a valley, looking up at SPRIXG AND DAISIES. 257 Endymion. His young eye seemed to sparkle out upon the world ; while she, bending inwards, her hands behind her head, watched him with an ena- moured dumbness. But this is the quiet of Spring. Its voices and swift movements have come back also. The swallow shoots by us, like an embodied ardour of the season. The glowing bee has his will of the honied flowers, grappling with them as they tremble. We have not yet heard the nightingale or the cuckoo ; but we can hear them with our imagination, and enjoy them through the content of those who have. Then the young green. This is the most apt and perfect mark of the season, — the true issuing forth of the Spring. The trees and bushes are putting forth their crisp fans ; the lilac is loaded with bud ; the meadows are thick with the bright young grass, run- ning into sweeps of white and gold with the daisies and buttercups. The orchards announce their riches, in a shower of silv r er blossoms. The earth in fertile woods is spread with yellow and blue carpets of prim- roses, violets, and hyacinths, over which the birch- trees, like stooping nymphs, hang with their thicken- ing hair. Lilies-of-the-valley, stocks, columbines, lady-smocks, and the intensely red piony which seems to anticipate the full glow of summer-time, all come out to wait upon the season, like fairies from their subterraneous palaces. Who is to wonder that the idea of love mingles it- self with that of this cheerful and kind time of the 258 THE INDICATOR. year, setting aside even common associations ? It is not only its youth, and beauty, and budding life, and " the passion of the groves,' n that exclaim with the poet, Let those love now, who never loved before ; And those who always loved, now love the more.* All our kindly impulses are apt to have more senti- ment in them, than the world suspect ; and it is by fetching out this sentiment, and making it the ruling association, that we exalt the impulse into generosity and refinement, instead of degrading it, as is too much the case, into what is selfish, and coarse, and pollutes all our systems. One of the greatest inspirers of love is gratitude, — not merely on its common grounds, but gratitude for pleasures, whether consciously or un- consciously conferred. Thus we are thankful for the delight given us by a kind and sincere face ; and if we fall in love with it, one great reason is, that we long to return what we have received. The same feeling has a considerable influence in the love that has been felt for men of talents, whose persons or ad- dress have not been much calculated to inspire it. In spring-time, joy awakens the heart : with joy, awakes gratitude and nature ; and in our gratitude, we return, on its own principle of participation, the love that has been shewn us. This association of ideas renders solitude in spring, and solitude in winter, two very different things. In • Pervigilium Veneris. — Parnell's translation. SPRING AND DAISIES. 259 the latter, we are better content to bear the feelings of the season by ourselves : — in the former they are so sweet as well as so overflowing, that we long to share them. Shakspeare, in one of his sonnets, de- scribes himself as so identifying the beauties of the Spring with the thought of his absent mistress, that he says he forgot them in their own character, and played with them only as with her shadow. See how exquisitely he turns a common-place into this fancy ; and what a noble brief portrait of April he gives us at the beginning. There is indeed a wonderful mix- ture of softness and strength in almost every one of the lines. From you have I been absent in the spring, When proud-pied April, dressed in all his trim, Hath put a spirit of youth in every thing ; That heavy Saturn laughed and leaped with him. Yet not the lays of birds, nor the sweet smell Of different flowers in odour and in hue, Could make me any summer's story tell, Or from their proud lap pluck them where they grew: Nor did I wonder at the lilies white, Nor praise the deep vermilion in the rose : They were but sweet, but patterns of delight, Drawn after you, you pattern of all those. Yet seemed it winter still ; and, you away, As with your shadow, 1 with these did play. Shakspeare was fond of alluding to April. He did not allow May to have all his regard, because she was richer. Perdita, crowned with flowers, in the Win- ters Tale, is beautifully compared to 260 THE INDICATOR. Flora, Peering in April's front. There is a line in one of his sonnets, which, agreeably to the image he had in his mind, seems to strike up in one's face, hot and odorous, like perfume in a censer. In process of the seasons have I seen Three April perfumes in three hot Junes burned. His allusions to spring are numerous in proportion. We all know the song, containing that fine line, fresh from the most brilliant of pallets: — When daisies pied, and violets blue, And lady-smocks all silver white, And cuckoo-buds of yellow hue, Do paint the meadotvs with delight. We owe a long debt of gratitude to the daisy ; and we take this opportunity of discharging a millionth part of it. If we undertook to pay it all, we should have had to write such a book, as is never very likely to be written, — a journal of numberless happy hours in childhood, kept with the feelings of an infant and the pen of a man. For it would take, we suspect, a depth of delight and a subtlety of words, to express even the vague joy of infancy, such as our learned departures from natural wisdom Avould find it more difficult to put together, than criticism and comfort, or an old palate and a young relish. — But knowledge is the widening and the brightening road that must conduct us back to the joys from which it led us ; and which it is destined perhaps to secure and extend. SPRING AND DAISIES. 261 We must not quarrel with its asperities, when we can help. We do not know the Greek name of the daisy, nor do the dictionaries inform us ; and we are not at present in the way of consulting books that might. We always like to see what the Greeks say to these things, because they had a sentiment in their enjoy- ments. The Latins called the daisy Bellis or Bellus, as much as to say Nice One. With the French and Italians it has the same name as a Pearl, — Margue- rite, Margarita, or, by way of endearment, Marghere- tina.* The same word was the name of a woman, and occasioned infinite intermixtures of compliment about pearls, daisies, and fair mistresses. Chaucer, in his beautifid poem of the Flower and the Leaf, which is evidently imitated from some French poetess, says, And at the laste there began anon A ladv for to sing right womanly A bargaretf in praising the daisie, For as me thought among her notes sweet, She said " Si douset est la Margarete." " The Margaret is so sweet." Our Margaret how- ever, in this allegorical poem, is undervalued in com- parison with the laurel ; yet Chaucer perhaps was partly induced to translate it on account of its making * This word is originally Greek, — Margarites ; and as the Franks probably brought it from Constantinople, perhaps they brought its association with the daisy also. t Bargaret, Bergerette, a little pastoral. OQO THE INDICATOR. the figure that it does ; for he has informed us more than once, in a very particular manner, that it was his favourite flower. There is an interesting pas- sage to this effect in his Legend of Good Women ; where he says, that nothing but the daisied fields in spring could take him from his books. And as for me, though that I can* but lite* On hookas for to read I me delight, And to hem give I faith and full credence, And in my heart have hem in reverence, So heartily, that there is game none, That from mybookes maketh me to gone, But it be seldom, on the holy day ; Save certainly, when that the month of May Is comen, and that I hear the foules sing, And that the flowers ginnen for to spring, Farewell my booke, and my dovotion. Now have I then eke this condition, That, of all the flowers in the mead, Then love I most those flowers white and red, Such that men callen daisies in our town. To hem I have so great affection, As I said erst, when comen is the May, That in the bed there dawethf me no day, That I nam up and walking in the mead, To seen this flower agenst the sunne spread, When it upriseth early by the morrow, That blissful sight softeneth all my sorrow. So glad am I, when that I have presence Of it, to done it all reverence, As she that is of all flowers the flower. He says that he finds it ever new, and that he shall * Know but little. t Dawneth. SPRING AXD DAISIES. 263 love it till his " heart dies :" and afterwards, with a natural picture of his resting on the grass, Adown full softeley I gan to sink, And leaning on my elbow and my side, The long day I shope* me for to abide For nothing else, and I sball not lie, But for to look upon the daisie ; That well by reason men it call may The daisie, or else the eye of day. This etymology, which we have no doubt is the real one, is repeated by Ben Jonson, who takes occasion to spell the word days-eyes ; adding, with his usual tendency to overdo a matter of learning, Days-eyes, and the lippes of cows ; vidilicet, cowslips: which is a disentanglement of compounds, in the style of our pleasant parodists : Puddings of the plum, And fingers of the lady. Mr. Wordsworth introduces his homage to the daisy with a passage from George Wither ; which, as it is an old favourite of ours, and extremely applicable both to this article and our whole work, we cannot deny ourselves the pleasure of repeating. It is the more interesting, inasmuch as it was written in prison, where the freedom of the author opinions had thrown him.f He is speaking of his Muse, or Imagination. * Shaped. t It is not generally known, that Chaucer was four years in prison, in his old age, on the same account. He was a Wick- liffite, — one of the precursors of the Reformation. His prison, doubtless, was no diminisher of his love of the daisy. 264 THE INDICATOR. Her divine skill taught me this; That from every thing - I saw I could some instruction draw, And raise pleasure to the height From the meanest object's sight. By the murmur of a spring, Or the least bough's rustelling ; By a daisy, whose leaves spread Shut, when Titan goes to bed ; Or a shady bush or tree ; She could more infuse in me, Than all Nature's beauties can In some other wiser man. Mr. Wordsworth undertakes to patronize the Celan- dine, because nobody else will notice it ; which is a good reason. But though he tells us, in a startling piece of information, that Poets, vain men in their mood, Travel with the multitude, yet he falls in with his old brethren of England and Normandy, and becomes loyal to the daisy. Be violets in their secret mews The flowers the wanton Zephyrs chuse ; Proud be the rose, with rains and dews Her head impearling; Thou liv'st with less ambitious aim, Yet hast not gone without thy fame ; Thou art indeed, by many a claim, The poet's darling. SPRING AND DAISIES. 265 A nun demure, of lowly port ; Or sprightly maiden of Love's court, In thy simplicity the sport Of all temptations ; A queen in crown of rubies drest; A starveling in a scanty vest ; Are all, as seem to suit thee best, Thy appellations. A little Cyclops, with one eye Staring to threaten or defy, — That thought comes next, and instantly The freak is over; The freak will vanish, and behold! A silver shield with boss of gold, That spreads itself, some fairy bold In fight to cover. I see thee glittering from afar ; And then thou art a pretty star, Not quite so fair as many are In heaven above thee ! Yet like a star, with glittering crest, Self-poised in air, thou seem'st to rest; — May peace come never to his nest, Who shall reprove thee. Sweet flower ! for by that name at last, When all my reveries are past, I call thee, and to that cleave fast ; Sweet silent creature ; That breath's! with me in sun and air, Do thou, as thou art wont, repair My heart with gladness, and a share Of thy meek nature. vol,. I. n 266 THE INDICATOR. Mr. Wordsworth calls the daisy " an unassuming common-place of Nature,"" which it is ; and he praises it very becomingly for discharging its duties so cheer- fully, in that universal character. But we cannot agree with him in thinking that it has a " homely face." Not that we should care, if it had; for homeliness does not make ugliness ; but we appeal to every body, whether it is proper to say this of la belle Marguerite. In the first place, its shape is very pretty and slender, but not too much so. Then it has a boss of gold, set round and irradiated with silver points. Its yellow and fair white are in so high a taste of contrast, that Spenser has chosen the same colours for a picture of Leda reposing : — Oh wondrous skill and sweet wit of the man ! That her in daffodillies sleeping- laid, From scorching- heat her dainty limbs to shade. It is for the same reason, that the daisy, being chiefly white, makes such a beautiful shew in com- pany with the buttercup. But this is not all ; for look at the back, and you find its fair petals blushing with a most delightful red. And how compactly and delicately is the neck set in green ! Belle et douce Marguerite, aimable soeur du roi Kingcup, we would tilt for thee with a hundred pens, against the stoutest poet that did not find perfection in thy cheek. But here somebody may remind us of the spring showers, and what drawbacks they are upon going into the fields. — Not at all so, when the spring is really MAY-DAY. 267 confirmed, and the showers but April-like and at in- tervals. Let us turn our imaginations to the bright side of spring, and we shall forget the showers. You see they have been forgotten just this moment. Be- sides, we are not likely to stray too far into the fields; and if we should, are there not hats, bonnets, barns, cottages, elm-trees, and good wills ? We may make these things zests, if we please, instead of drawbacks. XXXV.— MAY-DAY May-Day is a word, which used to awaken in the minds of our ancestors all the ideas of youth, and verdure, and blossoming, and love, and hilarity ; in short, the union of the two best things in the world, the love of nature, and the love of each other. It was the day, on which the arrival of the year at matu- rity Avas kept, like that of a blooming heiress. They caught her eye as she was coming, and sent up hun- dreds of songs of joy. Now the bright Morning-Star, Day's harbinger, Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire : Woods and groves are of thy dressing ; Hill and dale, doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. n2 268 THE INDICATOR. These songs were stopped by Milton's friends the Puritans, whom in his old age he differed with, most likely on these points among others. But till then, they appear to have been as old, all over Eu- rope, as the existence of society. The Druids are said to have had festivals in honour of May. Our Teutonic ancestors had undoubtedly; and in the countries which had constituted the Western Roman Empire, Flora still saw thanks paid for her flowers, though her worship had gone away.* The homage which was paid to the Montli of Love and flowers, may he divided into two sorts, the general and the individual. The first consisted in going with others to gather May, and in joining in sports and games afterwards. On the first of the month, " the juvenile part of both sexes, 1 ' says Bourne, in his Popular Antiquities, " were wont to rise a little after midnight and walk to some neigh- bouring wood, where they broke down branches from the trees, and adorned them with nosegays and crowns of flowers. When this was done, they re- turned with their booty about the rising of the sun, and made their doors and windows to triumph in the * The great May holiday observed over the West of Europe was known for centuries, up to a late period, under the name of the Belte or Beltane. Such a number of etymologies, all perplexing-ly probable, have been found for this word, that we have been surprised to miss among them that of Bel-tempss, the Fine Time or Season. Thus Printemps, the First Time or Prime Season, is the Spring. MAY-DAY. 269 flowery spoil. The after part of the day was chiefly spent in dancing round a May-pole, which being placed in a convenient part of the village, stood there, as it were, consecrated to the Goddess of Flowers, with- out the least violation offered to it, in the whole circle of the year." Spenser, in his Shepherd's Calendar, has detailed the circumstances, in a style like a rustic- dance. Younge folke now flocken in — every where To gather May-buskets* — and swelling brere ; And home they hasten — the postes to dight, And all the kirk-pilours — eare day-light, With hawthorne buds — and sweet eglantine, And girlonds of roses — and soppesin wine. ******** Sicker this morowe, no longer agoe, I saw a shole of shepherds outgoe With singing, and shouting, and jolly chere ; Before them yodef a lustic tabrerej That to the many a hornpipe played, \\ hereto they dauncen eche one with his mayd. To see these folks make such jovisaunce, Made my heart after the pipe to daunce. Tho§ to the greene wood they speeden hem all, To fetchen home May with their musicall ; And home they bringen, in a royal! throne, Crowned as king ; and his queen attone]| Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend A fayre flocke of faeries, and a fresh bend * Bushets — Boskets — Bushes — from Boschetti, ItaL + Yofe, Went. \ Tabrere, a Tabourer. § Tho, Then. || Attone, At once — With him. 270 THE INDICATOR. Of lovely nymphs. O that I were there To helpen the ladies their May-bush beare. The day was passed in sociality and manly sports ; — in archery, and running, and pitching the bar, — in dancing, singing, playing music, acting Robin Hood and his company, and making a well-earned feast upon all the country-dainties in season. It closed with an award of prizes. As I have seen the Lady of the May, Set in an arbour (on a holiday) Built by the Maypole, where the jocund swains Dance with the maidens to the bag-pipe's strains, When envious night commands them to be gone, Call for the merry youngsters one by one, And for their well performance soon disposes, To this a garland interwove with roses, To that a carved hook, or well-wrought scrip, Gracing another with her cherry lip ; To one her garter, to another then A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again ; And none returneth empty, that hath spent His pains to fill their rural merriment.* * Britannia's Pastorals, by William Browne. Song the 4th. Browne, like his friend Wither, from whom we quoted a pas- sage last week, wanted strength and the power of selection ; though not to such an extent. He is however well worth read- ing by those who can expatiate over a pastoral subject, like a meadowy tract of country ; finding'out the beautiful spots, and gratified, if not much delighted, with the rest. His genius, which was by no means destitute of the social part of passion, seems to have been turned almost wholly to description by the beauties of his native county Devonshire. MAY-DAY. 271 Among the gentry and at court the spirit of the same enjoyments took place, modified according to the taste or rank of the entertainers. The most universal amusement, agreeably to the general current in the veins, and the common participation of flesh and blood (for rank knows no distinction of legs and knee- pans), was dancing. Contests of chivalry supplied the place of more rural gymnastics. But the most poetical and elaborate entertainment was the Mask. A certain flowery grace was sprinkled over all ; and the finest spirits of the time thought they shewed both their manliness and wisdom, in knowing how to raise the pleasures of the season to their height. Sir Philip Sydney, the idea of whom has come down to us as a personification of all the refinement of that age, — is fondly recollected by Spenser in this character. His sports were faire, his joyance innocent, Sweet without soure, and honey without gall : And he himself seemed made for merriment, Merrily masking both in bowre and hall. There was no pleasure nor delightfull play, When Astrophel soever was away. For he could pipe, and daunce, and caroll sweet, Amongst the shepheards in their shearing feast; As somer's larke that with her song doth greet The dawning day forth comming from the East. And layes of love he also could compose ; Thrice happie she, whom he to praise did choose. Astrophel, st. 5. Individual homage to the month of May consisted 272 THE INDICATOR. in paying respect to it though alone, and in plucking flowers and flowering boughs to adorn apartments with. This maiden, in a morn betime, Went forth when May Mas in the prime To get sweet setywall, The honey-suckle, the harlock, The lily, and the lady-smock, To deck her summer-hall. Drayton's Pastorals, Eclog-. 4. But when morning pleasures are to be spoken of, the lovers of poetry who do not know Chaucer, are like those who do not know what it is to be up in the morning. He has left us two exquisite pictures of the solitary observance of May, in his Palamon a?ul Arctic They are the more curious, inasmuch as the actor in one is a lady, and in the other a knight. How far they owe any of their beauty to his original, the Theseide of Boccaccio, we cannot say ; for we never had the happiness of meeting with that rare work. The Italians have so neglected it, that they have not only never given it a rifacimento or re- modelling, as in the instance of Boiardo's poem, but are almost as much unacquainted with it, we believe, as foreign nations. Chaucer thought it worth his while to be both acquainted with it, and to make others so ; and we may venture to say, that we know of no Italian after Boccaccio's age who was so likely to understand him to the core, as his English admirer, Ariosto not excepted. Still, from what we have seen MAY-DAY. 273 of Boccaccio's poetry, we can imagine the Theseide to have been too lax and long. If Chaucer's Palamon and Arcite be all that he thought proper to distil from it, it must have been greatly so; for it was an epic. But at all events the essence is an exquisite one. The tree must have been a fine old enormity, from which such honey could be drawn. To begin, as in duty bound, with the lady. How she sparkles through the antiquity of the language, like a young beauty in an old hood ! Thus passeth yere by yere, and day by day 'Jill it felle ones in a morowe of May, That Emelie— But we will alter the spelling where we can, as in a former instance, merely to let the reader see what a notion is in his way, if he suffers the look of Chaucer's words to prevent his enjoying him. Thus passeth year by year, and day by day, Till it fell once, in a morrow of Maj , That Emily, that fairer was to seen Than is the lily upon his stalk green, And fresher than the May with tinners new, (For with the rosy colour strove her hue ; I a'ot which was the finer of them two) Ere it was day, as she was wont to do, She was arisen and all ready dight, Km- May will have no sluggardy a-night : The season prick eth every gentle heart, And maketh him out of his sleep to start, A nd saith " Arise, and do thine observance." This maketh Emily have remembraiK' 1 N 3 274 THE INDICATOR. To do honour to May, and for to rise. Yclothed was she, fresh for to devise : Her yellow hair was braided in a tress, Behind her back, a yarde* long I guess : And in the garden, at the sun uprist, She walketh up and down, where as her list ; She gathereth flowers, party white and red To make a subtle garland for her head ; And as an angel, heavenly she sung. The great tower, that was so thick and strong, Which of the castle was the chief dongeon, (Where as these knightes weren in prison, Of which I tolde you, and tellen shall) Was even joinant to the garden wall, There as this Emily had her playing. Bright was the sun, and clear that morwfening — [How finely, to our ears at least, the second line of the couplet always rises up from this full stop at the first !] Bright was the sun, and clear that morwening, And Palamon, this woeful prisoner, As was his wont, by leave of his jailer, Was risen, and roamed in a chamber on high, In which he all the noble city sigh,t And eke the garden, full of branches green, There as this fresh Emilia the sheen} Was in her walk, and roamed up and down. Sir Walter Scott, in his edition of Dryden, says upon the passage before us, and Drydetfs version of it, that * These additional syllables are to be read slightly, like the e in French verse. t Saw. X The shining. MAY-DAY. 275 " the modern must yield the palm to the ancient, in spite of the beauty of his versification.'" We quote from memory, but this is the substance of his words. For our parts, we agree with them, as to the consign- ment of the palm, but not as to the exception about the versification. With some allowance as to our present mode of accentuation, it appears to us to be touched with a finer sense of music even than Dry- den's. It is more delicate, without any inferiority in strength, and still more various. But to our other portrait. It is as sparkling with young manhood, as the former is with a gentler fresh- ness. What a burst of radiant joy is in the second couplet ; what a vital quickness in the comparison of the horse, " starting as the fire ;" and what a native and happy ease in the conclusion ! The busy lark, the messenger of day, Saleweth* in her song the morrow gray ; And fiery Phoebus riseth up so bright, That all the orient laugheth of the sight ; And with his stremes drieth in the greves t The silver droppes hanging in the leaves ; And Arcite, that is in the court real t With Theseus the squier principal, Is risen, and looketh on the merry day ; And for to do his observance to May, ltcmemb'ring on the point of his desire, lie on the courser, starting as the fire, Is ridden to the fieldes him to play, Out of the court, were it a mile or tway: • Saluteth. t Groves. t Royal 276 THE INDICATOR. And to the grove, of which that I you told, By aventure his way 'gan to hold, To maken him a gai-land of the greves, Were it of woodbind or of hawthorn leaves, And loud he sung against the sunny sheen : " O May, with all thy flowers and thy green, Right welcome he thou, iairh freshe May : I hope that I some green here getten may." And from his courser, with a lusty heart, Into the grove full hastily he start, And in the path he roamed up and down. The versification of this is not so striking as the other, but Dryden again falls short in the freshness and feeling of the sentiment. His lines are beautiful ; but they do not come home to us with so happy and cordial a face. Here they are. The word morning in the first line, as it is repeated in the second, we are bound to consider as a slip of the pen ; perhaps for mounting, The morning-lark, the messenger of day, Saluteth in her song the morning grav ; And soon the sun arose with beams so bright, That all the horizon laughed to see the joyous sight : He with his tepid rays the rose renews, And licks the drooping leaves and dries the dews ; When Arcite left his bed, resolv'd to pay Observance to the month of merry May : Forth on his fiery steed betimes he rode, That scarcely prints the turf on which he trod : At ease he seemed, and prancing o'er the plains, Turned only to the grove his horse's reins, The grove T named before ; and, lighted there, A woodbine garland sought to crown his hair ; AIAY-DAY. 277 Then turned his face against the rising day, And raised his voice to welcome in the May : " For thee, sweet month, the groves green liveries wear, If not the first, the fairest of the year : For thee the Graces lead the dancing Hours, And Nature's ready pencil paints the flowers : When thy short reign is past, the feverish Sun The sultry tropic fears, and moves more slowly on. So may thy tender blossoms fear no blight, Nor goats with venom'd teeth thy tendrils bite, As thou shalt guide my wandering steps to find The fragrant greens I seek, my brows to bind." His vows address'd, within the grove he stray'd. How poor is this to Arcite's leaping from his courser " with a lusty heart." How inferior the common-place of the " fiery steed,"" which need not involve any actual notion in the writer's mind, to the courser " starting as the fire ;" — how inferior the turning his face to " the rising day" and " raising his voice," to the singing " loud against the sunny sheen ;" and lastly, the whole learned invocation and adjura- tion of May, about guiding his " wandering steps" and " so may thy tender blossoms" &c. to the call upon the "fair fresh May,"" ending with that simple, quick-hearted line, in which he hopes he shall get " some green here ;" a touch in the happiest viva- city. DrydeiVs genius, for the most part, wanted faith in nature. It was too gross and sophisticate. There was as much difference between him and his original, as between a hot noon in perukes at St. James's, and one of Chaucer's lounges on the grass, of a May-morning. 278 THE INDICATOR. All this worship of May is over now. There is no issuing forth, in glad companies, to gather boughs ; no adorning of houses with " the flowery spoil ;" no songs, no dances, no village sports and coronations, no courtly poetries, no sense and acknowledgment of the quiet presence of nature, in grove or glade. O dolce primavera, o fior novelli, O aure o arboscelli o fresche erbette, O piagge benedette, o colli o monti, O valid, o fiumi, o fonti, o verdi rivi, Palme lauri, ed olive, edere e mirti ; O gloriosi spiriti de gli boschi ; O Eco, o antri foschi, o cbiare linfe, O faretrate ninfe, o agresti Pani, O Satiri e Silvani, o Fauni e Driadi, Naiadi ed Amadriadi, o Semidee, Oreadi e Napee, — or siete sole. — Sannazzaro. O thou delicious spring, O ye new flowers, O airs, O youngling bovvers ; fresh thickening grass, And plains beneath heaven's face ; O hills and mountains, Vallies, and streams, and fountains ; banks of green, Myrtles, and palms serene, ivies, and bays ; And ye Avho warmed old lays, spirits o' the woods, Echoes, and solitudes, and lakes of light; O cpiivered virgins bright, Pans rustical, Satyrs and Sylvans all, Dryads, and ye That up the mountains be ; and ye beneath In meadow or flowery heath, — ye are alone. Two hundred years ago, our ancestors used to de- light in anticipating their May holidays. Bigotry came in, and frowned them away ; then Debauchery, MAY-DAY. 279 and identified all pleasures with the town; then Avarice, and we have ever since been mistaking the means for the end. Fortunately, it does not follow, that we shall con- tinue to do so. Commerce, while it thinks it is only exchanging commodities, is helping to diffuse know- ledge. All other gains, — all selfish and extravagant systems of acquisition, — tend to over-do themselves, and to topple down by their own undiffused magni- tude. The world, as it learns other things, may learn not to confound the means with the end, or at least (to speak more philosophically,) a really poor means with a really richer. The veriest cricket-player on a green has as sufficient a quantity of excitement as a fundholder or a partizan ; and health, and spirits, and manliness to boot. Knowledge may go on ; must do so, from necessity ; and should do so, for the ends we speak of ; but knowledge, so far from being incompatible with simplicity of pleasures, is the quickest to perceive its wealth. Chaucer would lie for hours, looking at the daisies. Scipio and Laelius could amuse themselves with making ducks and drakes on the water. Epaminondas, the greatest of all the active spirits of Greece, w as a flute-player and dancer. Alfred the Great could act the whole part of a minstrel. Epicurus taught the riches of tem- perance and intellectual pleasure in a garden. The other philosophers of his country walked between heaven and earth in the colloquial bowers of Acade- mus ; and " the wisest heart of Solomon," who found 280 THE INDICATOR. every thing vain because he was a king, has left us panegyrics on the Spring and " the voice of the turtle," because he was a poet, a lover, and a wise man. XXXVI.— SHAKSPEARE'S BIRTH-DAY. The fifth of May, making the due allowance of twelve days from the twenty-third of April, according to the change of the Style, is the birth-day of Shak- speare. Pleasant thoughts must be associated with him in every thing. If he is not to be born in April, he must be born in May. Nature will have him with her on her blithest holidays, like her favourite lover. O thou divine human creature — greater name than even divine poet or divine philosopher — and yet thou wast all three — a very spring and vernal abundance of all fair and noble things is to be found in thy produc- tions ! They are truly a second nature. We walk in them, with whatever society we please ; either with men, or fair women, or circling spirits, or with none but the whispering airs and leaves. Thou makest worlds of green trees and gentle natures for us, in thy forests of Arden, and thy courtly retirements of Na- varre. Thou bringest us among the holiday lasses on the green sward ; layest us to sleep among faints in the bowers of midsummer ; wakest us with the song of the lark and the silver-sweet voices of lovers ; shakspeare's birth-day. 281 bringest more music to our ears, both from earth and from the planets ; anon settest us upon enchanted islands, where it welcomes us again, from the touching of invisible instruments ; and after all, restorest us to our still desired haven, the arms of humanity. Whe- ther grieving us or making us glad, thou makest us kinder and happier. The tears which thou fetchest down, are like the rains of April, softening the times that come after them. Thy smiles are those of the month of love, the more blessed and universal for the tears. The birth-days of such men as Shakspeare ought to be kept, in common gratitude and affection, like those of relations whom we love. He has said, in a line full of hiin, that One touch of nature makes the whole world kin. How near does he become to us with his thousand touches ! The lustre and utility of intellectual power is so increasing in the eyes of the world, that we do not despair of seeing the time when his birth-day will be a subject of public rejoicing ; when the regular feast will be served up in tavern and dwelling-house, the bust crowned with laurel, and the theatres sparkle with illuminations. In the mean time, it is in the power of every admirer of Shakspeare to honour the day privately. Rich or poor, busy or at leisure, all may do it. The busiest finds time to eat his dinner, and may pitch one con- siderate glass of wine down his throat. The poorest 282 THE INDICATOR. may call him to mind, and drink his memory in honest water. We had mechanically written health, as if he were alive. So he is in spirit ; — and the spirit of such a writer is so constantly with us, that it would be a good thing, a judicious extravagance, a contemplative piece of jollity, to drink his health instead of his me- mory. But this, we fear, should be an impulse. We must content ourselves with having felt it here, and drinking it in imagination. To act upon it, as a pro- posal of the day before yesterday, might be too much like getting up an extempore gesture, or practising an unspeakable satisfaction. An outline, however, may be drawn of the manner, in which such a birth-day might be spent. The tone and colouring would be filled up, of course, according to the taste of the parties. — If any of our readers, then, have leisure as well as inclination to devote a day to the memory of Shakspeare, we would advise them, in the first place, to walk out, whether alone or in com- pany, and enjoy during the morning as much as pos- sible of those beauties of nature, of which he has left us such exquisite pictures. They would take a volume of him in their hands, the most suitable to the occa- sion ; not to hold themselves bound to sit down and read it, nor even to refer to it, if the original work of natuie should occupy them too much ; but to read it, if they read any thing ; and to feel that Shakspeare was with them substantially as well as spiritually ; — that they had him with them under their arm. There is another thought connected with his presence, which shakspeare's birth-day. 283 may render the Londoner's walk the more interesting. Shakspeare had neither the vanity, which induces a man to be disgusted with what every body can enjoy; nor on the other hand the involuntary self-degradation, which renders us incapable of enjoying what is abased by our own familiarity of acquaintanceship. About the metropolis, therefore, there is perhaps not a single rural spot, any more than about Stratford-upon-Avon, which he has not himself enjoyed. The south side of London was the one nearest his theatre. Hyde Park- was then, as it is now, one of the fashionable prome- nades. Richmond also was in high pride of estima- tion. At Greenwich Elizabeth held her court, and walked abroad amid the gallant service of the Sydneys and Raleighs. And Hampstead and Higligate, with the country about them, were as they have been ever since, the favourite resort of the lovers of natural pro- ductions. Nay, without repeating what we said in a former number about the Mermaid in Cornhill, the Devil Tavern in Fleet-street, the Boar's Head in Eastcheap, and other town associations with Shak- speare, the reader who cannot get out of London on his birth-day, and who has the luck to be hard at work in Chancery-lane or the Borough, may be pretty certain that Shakspeare has admired the fields and the May flowers there; for the fields were close to the latter, perhaps came up to the very walls of the theatre ; and the suburban-mansion and gardens of his friend Lord Southampton occupied the spot now 28 A THE INDICATOR. called Southampton-buildings. It was really a country neighbourhood. The Old Bourne (Holborn) ran by, with a bridge over it : and Gray's Inn was an Aca- demic bower in the fields. The dinner does not much signify. The sparest or the most abundant will suit the various for_ tunes of the great poet ; only it will be as well for those who can afford wine, to pledge Falstaff in a cup of " sherris sack," which seems to have been a sort of sherry negus. After dinner Shakspeare's volumes will come well on the table ; lying among the desert like laurels, where there is one, and supplying it where there is not. Instead of songs, the persons present may be called upon for scenes. But no stress need be laid on this proposition, if they do not like to read out aloud. The pleasure of the day should be as much at liberty as possible ; and if the company prefer conversation, it will not be very easy for them to touch upon any subject which Shakspeare shall not have touched upon also. If the enthusiasm is in high taste, the ladies should be crowned with violets, which (next to the roses of their lips) seem to have been his favourite flower. After tea should come sing-injr and music, especially the songs which Arne set from his ' plays, and the ballad of Thou soft-flowing Avon. If an engraving or bust of him could occupy the princi- pal place in the room, it would look like the " present deity" of the occasion ; and we have known a very pleasant effect produced by every body's bringing some LA DAME SAXS MERCY. 285 quotation applicable to him from his works, and lay- ing it before his image, to be read in the course of the evening. XXXVII— LA BELLE DAME SANS MERCY. Among the pieces printed at the end of Chaucer's works, and attributed to him, is a translation, under this title, of a poem of the celebrated Alain Chartier, secretary to Charles the Sixth and Seventh. It was the title which suggested to a friend the verses at the end of our present number.* We wish Alain could have seen them. He would have found a Trouba- dour air for them, and sung them to La Belle Dame Agnes Sorel, who was, however, not Sans Mercy. The union of the imaginative and the real is very striking throughout, particularly in the dream. The wild gentleness of the rest of the thoughts and of the music are alike old, and they are also alike young; for love and imagination are always young, let them bring with them what times and accompaniments they may. If we take real flesh and blood with us, we may throw ourselves, on the facile wings of our sympathy, into what age we please. It is only by trying to feel, * The late Mr. Keats. This beautiful little effusion is re- printed in the Indicator, where it originally appeared, because it is not to be found in the collected works of that delightful poet. 286 THE INDICATOR. as well as to fancy, through the medium of a costume, that writers become fleshless masks and cloaks — things like the trophies of the ancients, when they hung up the empty armour of an enemy. La Belle Dame Sans Mercy. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, Alone and palely loitering? The sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. Ah, what can ail thee, wretched wight, So haggard and so woe-begone ? The squirrel's granary is full, And the harvest's done, I see a lily on thy brow, With anguish moist and fever dew ; And on thy cheek a fading rose Fast withereth too. I met a lady in the meads, Full beautiful, a fairy's child ; Her hair was long, her foot was light, And her eyes were wild. I set her on my pacing steed, And nothing else saw all day long ; For sideways would she lean and sing A fairy's song. I made a garland for her head, And bracelets too, and fragrant zone ; She look'd at me as she did love, And made sweet moan. LA DAME SANS MERCY. 287 She found me roots of relish sweet, And honey wild, and manna dew ; And sure in language strange she said, I love thee true. She took me to her elfin grot, And there she gaz'd and sighed deep, And there I shut her wild sad eyes — So kiss'd to sleep. And there we slumber'd on the moss, And there I dream'd, ah woe betide, The latest dream I ever dream'd On the cold hill side. I saw pale kings, and princes too, Pale warriors, death pale were they all ; Who cried, " La Belle Dame Sans Mercy Hath thee in thrall !" I saw their starv'd lips in the gloom With horrid warning gaped wide, And I awoke and found me here, On the cold hill side. And this is why I sojourn here, Alone and palely loitering, Though the sedge is wither'd from the lake, And no birds sing. Caviare.* * " Caviare to the multitude." — Hamlet. The signature was of Mr. Keats's own putting ; a touching circumstance, when we call to mind the treatment he met with, and consider how his memory has triumphed over it. 288 THE INDICATOR. XXXVIIL— OF STICKS. Among other comparative injuries which we are accustomed to do to the characters of things animate and inanimate, in order to gratify our human vanity, such as calling a rascal a dog (which is a great com- pliment), and saying that a tyrant makes a beast of himself (which it would be a very good thing, and a lift in the world, if he could), is a habit in which some persons indulge themselves, of calling insipid things and persons sticks. Such and such a one is said to write a stick; and such another is himself called a stick ; — a poor stick, a mere stick, a stick of a fellow. We protest against this injustice done to those use- ful, and once flourishing sons of a good old stock. Take, for instance, a common cherry stick, which is one of the favourite sort. In the first place, it is a very pleasant substance to look at, the grain running round it in glossy and shadowy rings. Then it is of primaeval antiquity, handed down from scion to scion through the most flourishing of genealogical trees. In the third place, it is of Eastern origin ; of a stock, which it is possible may have furnished Haroun Al Raschid with a djereed, or Mahomet with a camel- stick, or Xenophon in his famous retreat with fences, or Xerxes with tent-pins, or Alexander with a javelin, or Sardanapalus with tarts, or Solomon with a simile for his mistress's lips, or Jacob with a crook, or OF STICKS. 289 Methusalem with shadow, or Zoroaster with mathe- matical instruments, or the builders of Babel with scaffolding. Lastly, how do you know but that you may have eaten cherries off this very stick; for it was once alive with sap, and rustling with foliage, and powdered with blossoms, and red and laughing with fruit. Where the leathern tassel now hangs, may have dangled a bunch of berries ; and instead of the brass ferule poking in the mud, the tip was growing into the air with its youngest green. The use of sticks in general is of the very greatest antiquity. It is impossible to conceive a state of so- ciety, in which boughs should not be plucked from trees for some purpose of utility or amusement. Sa- vages use clubs, hunters require lances, and shepherds their crooks. Then came the sceptre, which is origi- nally nothing but a staff, or a lance, or a crook, dis- tinguished from others. The Greek word for sceptre signifies also a walking-stick. A mace, however plumped up and disguised with gilding and a heavy crown, is only the same thing in the hands of an in- ferior ruler ; and so are all other sticks used in office, from the baton of the Grand Constable of France down to the tipstaff of a constable in Bow-street. As the shepherd's dog is the origin of the gentlest whelp that lies on a hearth-cushion, and of the most pompous barker that jumps about a pair of greys, so the merest stick used by a modern Arcadian, when he is driving his flock to Leadenhall-market with a piece of candle in his hat, and No. 554 on his arm, is the first great vol. i. o £90 THE INDICATOR. parent and original of all authoritative staves, from the beadle's cane wherewith he terrifies charity-boys who eat bull's-eyes in church-time, up to the silver mace of the verger, to the wands of parishes and gover- nors, the tasselled staff, wherewith the Band-Major so loftily picks out his measured way before the musi- cians, and which he holds up when they are to cease ; to the White Staff of the Lord Treasurer ; the court- officer emphatically called the Lord Gold Stick ; the Bishop's Crozier (Pedum Episcopale), whereby he is supposed to pull back the feet of his straying flock ; and the royal and imperial sceptre aforesaid, whose holders, formerly called Shepherds of the People (Yioi/xsvsg Aauv), were seditiously said to fleece more than to protect. The Vaulting-Staff, a luxurious in- strument of exercise, must have been used in times immemorial for passing streams and rough ground with. It is the ancestor of the staff with which Pil- grims travelled. The Staff and Quarter-Staff of the country Robin Hoods is a remnant of the war-club. So is the Irish Shilelah, which a friend has well de- fined to be "a stick with two butt-ends. 11 The ori- ginals of all these, that are not extant in our own country, may still be seen wherever there are nations uncivilized. The Negro Prince, who asked our coun- trymen what was said of him in Europe, was sur- rounded in state with a parcel of ragged fellows with shilelahs over their shoulders — Lord Old Sticks. But sticks have been great favourites with civilized as well as uncivilized nations ; only the former have OF STICKS. 291 used them more for help and ornament. The Greeks were a sceptropherous people. Homer probably used a walking-stick, because he was blind ; but we have it on authority that Socrates did. On his first meet- ing with Xenophon, which was in a narrow passage, he barred up the way with his stick, and asked him in his good-natured manner, where provisions were to be had. Xenophon having told him, he asked again, if he knew where virtue and wisdom were to be had ; and this reducing the young man to a non-plus, he said, " Follow me, and learn ;" which Xenophon did, and became the great man we have all heard of. The fatherly story of Agesilaus, who was caught amusing his little boy with riding on a stick, and asked his visitor whether he was a father, is too well known for repetition. There is an illustrious anecdote connected with our subject in Roman history. The highest compli- ment, which his countrymen thought they could pay to the first Scipio was to call him a walking-stick ; for such is the signification of his name. It was given him for the filial zeal with which he used to help his old father about, serving his decrepid age instead of a staff. But the Romans were not remarkable for sen- timent. What we hear in general of their sticks, is the th umpings which servants get in their plays ; and above all, the famous rods which the lictors carried, and which being actual sticks, must have inflicted horrible dull bruises and malignant stripes. They were pretty things, it must be confessed, to carry o 2 292 THE INDICATOR. before the chief magistrate ; just as if the King or the Lord Chancellor were to be preceded by a cat- o'nine-tails. Sticks are not at all in such request with modern times as they were. Formerly, we suspect, most of the poorer ranks in England used to carry them, both on account of the prevalence of manly sports, and for security in travelling : for before the invention of posts and mail-coaches, a trip to Scotland or Northumberland was a thing to make a man write his will. As they came to be ornamented, fashion adopted them. The Cava- liers of Charles the First's time were a sticked race, as well as the apostolic divines and puritans ; who appear to have carried staves, because they read of them among the patriarchs. Charles the First, when at his trial, held out his stick to forbid the Attorney- GeneraFs proceeding. There is an interesting little story connected with a stick, which is related of Andrew MarvelFs father, (worthy of such a son), and which as it is little known, we will repeat ; though it respects the man more than the machine. He had been visited by a young lady, who in spite of a stormy evening persisted in returning across the Humber. because her family would be alarmed at her absence. The old gentleman, high-hearted and cheerful, after vainly trying to dissuade her from perils which he understood better than she, resolved in his gallantry to bear her company. He accordingly walked with her down to the shore, and getting into the boat, threw his stick to a friend, with a request, in a lively OF STICKS. 293 tone of voice, that he would preserve it for a keep- sake. Pie then cried out merrily " Ho-hoy for Heaven !" and put off with his visitor. They were drowned. As commerce increased, exotic sticks grew in request from the Indies. Hence the Bamboo, the Whanghee, the Jambee which makes such a genteel figure under Mr. Lilly's auspices in the Tatler ; and our light modern cane, which the Sunday stroller buys at sixpence the piece, with a twist of it at the end for a handle. The physicians, till within the last few score of years, retained among other fopperies which they converted into gravities, the wig and gold-headed cane. The latter had been an indispensible sign-royal of fashion, and was turned to infinite purposes of accomplished gesticulation. One of the most courtly personages in the Rape of the Lock is Sir Plume, of amber snuff-box justly vain, And the nice conduct of a clouded cane. Sir Richard Steele, as we have before noticed, is re- proached by a busy-body of those times for a habit of jerking his stick against the pavement as he walked. When swords were abolished by Act of Parliament, the tavern-boys took to pinking each other, as inju- riously as they could well manage, with their walking- sticks. Macklin the player was tried for his life for poking a man's eye out in this way. Perhaps this helped to bring the stick into disrepute ; for the use of it seems to have declined more and more, till it is now 294 THE INDICATOR. confined to old men, and a few among the younger. It is unsuitable to our money-getting mode of rushing hither and thither. Instead of pinking a man's ribs or so, or thrusting out his eye from an excess of the jovial, we break his heart with a bankruptcy. Canes became so common before the decline of the use of sticks, that whenever a man is beaten with a stick, let it be of what sort it may, it is still common to say that he has had a "caning: 11 which reminds us of an anecdote more agreeable than surprising; though the patient doubtless thought the reverse. A gentleman, who was remarkable for the amenity of his manners, accompanied by a something which a bully might think it safe to presume upon, found him- self compelled to address a person who did not know how to " translate his style," in the following words, which were all delivered in the sweetest tone in the world, with an air of almost hushing gentility : — " Sir, — I am extremely sorry — to be obliged to say, — that you appear to have a very erroneous notion of the manners that become your situation in life; — and I am compelled, with great reluctance, to add,"" (here he became still softer and more delicate) " that if you do not think fit, upon reflection, to alter this very extraordinary conduct towards a gentleman, I shall be under the necessity of caning you." The other treated the thing as a joke ; and to the de- light of the bye-standers, received a very grave drubbing. There are two eminent threats connected with OF STICKS. 295 caning, in the history of Dr. Johnson. One was from himself, when he was told that Foote intended to mimic him on the stage. He replied, that if " the dog"' ventured to play his tricks with him, he would step out of the stage-box, chastise him before the audience, and then throw himself upon their candour and com- mon sympathy. Foote desisted, as he had good reason to do. The Doctor would have read him a stout lesson, and then made a speech to the audience as forcible ; so that the theatrical annals have to regret, that the subject and Foote's shoulders were not afforded him to expatiate upon. It would have been a fine involuntary piece of acting, — the part of Scipio by Dr. Johnson. — The other threat was against the Doctor himself from Macpherson, the compounder of Ossian. It was for denying the authenticity of that work ; a provocation the more annoying, inasmuch as he did not seem duly sensible of its merits. Johnson replied to Macpherson 1 s letter by one of contemptuous brevity and pith ; and contented himself with carrying about a large stick, with which he intended to repel Macpherson in case of an assault. Had they met, it would have been like " two clouds over the Caspian ; r for both were large-built men. We recollect another bacular Johnsonian anecdote. When he was travelling in Scotland, he lost a huge stick of his in the little treeless island of Mull. JBos- wcll told him he would recover it : but the Doctor shook his head. " No, no," said he ; " let any body in Mull get possession of it, and it will never be re- 296 THE INDICATOR. stored. Consider, Sir, the value of such a piece of timber here.'" The most venerable sticks now surviving; are the smooth amber-coloured canes, in the possession of old ladies. They have sometimes a gold head, but oftener a crook of ivory. But they have latterly been much displaced by light umbrellas, the handles of which are imitations of them ; and these are gradually re- treating before the young parasol, especially about town. The old ladies take the wings of the stage- coaches, and are run away with by John Pullen, in a style of infinite convenience. The other sticks in use are for the most part of cherry, oak, and crab, and seldom adorned with more than a leathern tassel : often with nothing. Bamboo and other canes do not abound as might be expected from our intercourse with India ; but commerce in this as in other respects has overshot its mark. People cannot afford to use sticks, any more than bees could in their hives. Of the common sabbatical cane we have already spoken. There is a sufficing little manual, equally light and lissom, yclept an ebony switch ; but we have not seen it often. That sticks, however, are not to be despised by the leisurely, any one who has known what it is to want words, or to slice off the head of a thistle, will allow. The utility of the stick seems divisible into three heads : first, to give a general consciousness of power ; second, which may be called a part of the first, to help the demeanour ; and third, which may be called OF STICKS. 297 a part of the second, to assist a man over the gaps of speech — the little aukward intervals, called want of ideas. Deprive a man of his stick, who is accustomed to carry one, and with what a diminished sense of vigour and gracefulness he issues out of his house ! Want- ing his stick, he wants himself. His self-possession, like Acres's on the duel-ground, has gone out of his fingers' ends ; but restore it him, and how he resumes his energy ! If a common walking-stick, he cherishes the top of it with his fingers, putting them out and back again, with a fresh desire to feel it in his palm ! How he strikes it against the ground, and feels power come back to his arm ! How he makes the pavement ring with the ferule, if in a street ; or decapitates the downy thistles aforesaid, if in a field ! Then if it be a switch, how firmly he jerks his step at the first in- fliction of it on the air ! How he quivers the point of it as he goes, holding the handle with a strait- dropped arm and a tight grasp ! How his foot keeps time to the switches ! How he twigs the luckless pieces of lilac or other shrubs, that peep out of a gar- den railing ! And if a sneaking-looking dog is com- ing by, how he longs to exercise his despotism and his moral sense at once, by giving him an invigorating twinge ! But what would certain men of address do without their cane or switch ? There is an undoubted Rhab- dosophy, Sceptrosophy, or Wisdom of the Stick, be- sides the famous Divining Rod, with which people o 3 298 THE INDICATOR. used to discover treasures and fountains. It supplies a man with inaudible remarks, and an inexpressible number of graces. Sometimes, breathing between his teeth, he will twirl the end of it upon his stretched- out toe ; and this means, that he has an infinite num- ber of easy and powerful things to say, if he had a mind. Sometimes he holds it upright between his knees, and tattoos it against his teeth or under-lip, which implies that he meditates coolly. On other occasions he switches the side of his boot with it, which announces elegance in general. Lastly, if he has not a bon-mot ready in answer to one, he has only to thrust his stick at your ribs, and say, " Ah ! you rogue r which sets him above you in an instant, as a sort of patronizing wit, who can dispense with the necessity of joking. At the same time, to give it its due zest in life, a stick has its inconveniences. If you have yellow gloves on, and drop it in the mud, a too hasty reco- very is aukward. To have it stick between the stones of a pavement is not pleasant, especially if it snap the ferule off; or more especially if an old gentleman or lady is coming behind you, and after making them start back with winking eyes, it threatens to trip them up. To lose the ferule on a country road, ren- ders the end liable to the growth of a sordid brush, which, not having a knife with you, or a shop in which to borrow one, goes pounding the wet up against your legs. In a crowded street you may have the stick driven into a large pane of glass ; upon THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 299 which an unthinking tradesman, utterly indifferent to a chain of events, issues forth and demands twelve and sixpence. XXXIX.— OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. Though we are such lovers of the country, we can admire London in some points of view ; and among others, from the entertainment to be derived from its shops. Their variety and brilliancy can hardly fail of attracting the most sluggish attention ; and besides reasons of this kind, we can never look at some of them without thinking of the gallant figure they make in the Arabian Nights, with their Bazaars and Bezes- teins; where the most beautiful of unknowns goes shopping in a veil, and the most graceful of drapers is taken blindfold to see her. He goes, too smitten at heart to think of the danger of his head ; and finds her seated among her slaves, (exquisite themselves, only very inferior), upon which she encourages him to sit near her, and lutes are played ; upon which he sighs, and cannot help looking tenderly ; upon which she claps her hands, and a charming collation is brought in ; upon which they eat, but not much. A dance ensues, and the ocular sympathy is growing tenderer, when an impossible old woman appears, and says that the Sultan is coming. Alas ! How often have we been waked up, in the person of the young 300 THE INDICATOR. draper or jeweller, by that ancient objection ! How have we received the lady in the veil, through which we saw nothing but her dark eyes and rosy cheeks ! How have we sat cross-legged on cushions, hearing or handling the lute, whose sounds faded away like our enamoured eyes ! How often have we not lost our hearts and left-hands, like one of the Calendars ? Or an eye, like another ? Or a head ; and resumed it at the end of the story ? Or slept (no, not slept) in the Sultan's garden at Schiraz with the Fair Persian. But to return (as well as such enamoured persons can) to our shops. — We prefer the country a million times over for walking in generally, especially if we have the friends in it that enjoy it as well ; but there are seasons when the very streets may vie with it. If you have been solitary, for instance, for a long time, it is pleasant to get among your fellow-creatures again, even to be jostled and elbowed. If you live in town, and the weather is showery, you may get out in the intervals of rain, and then a quickly dried pave- ment and a set of brilliant shops are pleasant. Nay, we have known days, even in spring, when a street shall out-do the finest aspects of the country ; but then it is only when the ladies are abroad, and there happens to be a run of agreeable faces that day. For whether it is fancy or not, or whether certain days do not rather bring out certain people, it is a common remark, that one morning you shall meet a succession of good looks, and another encounter none but the THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 301 reverse. We do not merely speak of handsome faces ; but of those which are charming, or otherwise, what- ever be the cause. We suppose, that the money- takers are all abroad one day, and the heart-takers the other. It is to be observed, that we are not speaking of utility in this article, except indeed the great utility of agreeableness. A candid leather-cutter therefore will pardon us, if we do not find any thing very at- tractive in his premises. So will his friend the shoe- maker, who is bound to like us rural pedestrians. A stationer too, on obvious accounts, will excuse us for thinking his a very dull and bald-headed business. We cannot bear the horribly neat monotony of his shelves, with their load of virgin paper, their slates and slate-pencils that set one's teeth on edge, their pocket-books, and above all, their detestable ruled account-books, which at once remind one of the ne- cessity of writing, and the impossibility of writing any thing pleasant on such pages. The only agree- able thing, in a stationer's shop, when it has it, is the ornamental work, the card-racks, hand-screens, &c. which remind us of the fair morning fingers that paste and gild such things, and surprise their aunts with presents of flowery boxes. But we grieve to add, that the prints which the stationers furnish for such elegancies, arc not in the very highest taste. They are apt to deviate too scrupulously from the originals. Their well-known heads become too anonymous. Their young ladies have casts in the eyes, a little too 302 THE INDICATOR. much on one side even for the sidelong divinities of Mr. Harlowe. In a hatter's shop we can see nothing but the hats ; and the reader is acquainted with our pique against them. The beaver is a curious animal, but the idea of it is not entertaining enough to convert a window full of those requisite nuisances into an agreeable spec- tacle. It is true, a hatter, like some other tradesmen, may be pleasanter himself, by reason of the adversity of his situation. We cannot say more for the cruel- shop next door, — a name justly provocative of a pun It is customary however to have sign-paintings of Adam and Eve at these places ; which is some relief to the monotony of the windows ; only they remind us but too well of these cruel necessities to which they brought us. The baker's next ensuing is a very dull shop ; much inferior to the gingerbread baker's, whose parliament we used to munch at school. The tailor's makes one as melancholy to look at it, as the seden- tary persons within. The hosier's is worse ; particu- larly if it has a Golden Leg over it ; for that precious limb is certainly not symbolical of the weaver's. The windows, half board and half dusty glass, which abound in the city, can scarcely be turned to a pur- pose of amusement, even by the most attic of dry- salters. We own we have half a longing to break them, and let in the light of nature upon their re- cesses ; whether they belong to those more piquant gentlemen, or to bankers, or any other high and wholesale personages. A light in one of these win- THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 303 dows in the morning is, to us, one of the very dismal- lest reflections on humanity. We wish we could say something for a tallow-chandler's, because every body abuses it : but we cannot. It must bear its fate like the man. A good deal might be said in behalf of candle-light ; but in passing from shop to shop, the variety is so great, that the imagination has not time to dwell on any one in particular. The ideas they suggest must be obvious and on the surface. A gro- cer's and tea-dealer's is a good thing. It fills the mind instantly with a variety of pleasant tastes, as the ladies in Italy on certain holidays pelt the gentlemen with sweetmeats. An undertaker's is as great a baulk to one's spirits, as a loose stone to one's foot. It gives one a deadly jerk. But it is pleasant upon the whole to see the inhabitant looking carelessly out of doors, or hammering while humming a tune ; for why should he die a death at every fresh order for a coffin ? An undertaker, walking merrily drunk by the side of a hearse, is a horrid object ; but an undertaker singing and hammering in his shop, is only rapping death him- self on the knuckles. The dead are not there; the altered fellow-creature is not there ; but only the liv- ing man, and the abstract idea of death ; and he may defy that as much as he pleases. An apothecary's is the more deadly tiling of the two ; for the coffin may be made for a good old age, but the draught and the drug are for the sickly. An apothecary's looks well however at night-time, on account of the coloured glasses. It is curious to see two or three people talk- 304 THE INDICATOR. ing together in the light of one of them, and looking profoundly blue. There are two good things in the Italian warehouse, — its name and its olives ; but it is chiefly built up of gout. Nothing can be got out of a brazier's windows, except by a thief: but we understand that it is a good place to live at for those who cannot procure water-falls. A music shop with its windows full of title-pages, is provokingly insipid to look at, considering the quantity of slumbering enchantment inside, which only wants waking. A bookseller's is interesting, especially if the books are very old or very new, and have frontispieces. But let no author, with or without money in his pocket, trust himself in the inside, unless, like the bookseller, he has too much at home. An author is like a ba- ker ; it is for him to make the sweets, and others to buy and enjoy them. And yet not so. Let us not blaspheme the " divinity that stirs within us." The old comparison of the bee is better ; for even if his toil at last is his destruction, and he is killed in order to be plundered, he has had the range of nature before he dies. His has been the summer air, and the sunshine, and the floAvers ; and gentle ears have listened to him, and gentle eyes have been upon him. Let others eat his honey that please, so that he has had his morsel and his song. — A book-stall is better for an author than a regular shop ; for the books are cheaper, the choice often better and more ancient ; and he may look at them, and move on, without the horrors of not buying any thing ; unless indeed the THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 305 master or mistress stands looking at him from the shop door ; which is a vile practice. It is necessary, we suppose, to guard against pilferers ; but then ought not a stall-keeper, of any perception, to know one of us real magnanimous spoilers of our gloves from a sordid thief? A tavern and coffee-house is a pleasant sight, from its sociality ; not to mention the illustrious club memories of the times of Shakspeare and the Tatlers. We confess that the commonest public-house in town is not such an eyesore to us, as it is to some. There may be a little too much drink- ing and roaring going on in the middle of the week ; but what, in the mean time, are pride, and avarice, and all the unsocial vices about ? Before we object to public-houses, and above all to their Saturday evening recreations, we must alter the systems that make them a necessary comfort to the poor and laborious. Till then, in spite of the vulgar part of the polite, we shall have an esteem for the " Devil and the Bag o 1 Nails;" and like to hear, as we go along on Saturday night, the applauding knocks on the table that follow the song of " Lovely Nan" or " Brave Captain Death" or " Tobacco is an Indian Weed,'" or " Why, Sol- diers, why" or " Says Plato, why should man be rain," or that judicious and unanswerable ditty commencing Now what can man more desire Nor sitting by a sea-coal fire : And on his knees, &c. We will even refuse to hear any thing against a 306 THE INDICATOR. gin-shop, till the various systems of the moralists and economists are discussed, and the virtuous leave oft* seduction and old port. In the mean time, we give up to any body's dislike the butcher's and fishmonger's. And yet see how things go by compa- rison. We remember, in our boyhood, a lady from the West-Indies, of a very delicate and high-bred nature, who could find nothing about our streets that more excited her admiration than the butchers shops. She had no notion, from what she had seen in her own country, that so ugly a business could be carried on with so much neatness, and become actually passable. An open potatoe-shop is a dull, bleak-looking place, except in the height of summer. A cheese-monger's is then at its height of annoyance, unless you see a paviour or bricklayer coming out with his three- penn'orth on his bread— a better sight than the glut- ton's waddling away from the fishmonger's. A poul- terer's is a dead-bodied business, with its birds and their lax necks. We dislike to see a bird any where but in the open air, alive and quick. Of all creatures, restraint and death become its winged vivacity the least. For the same reason we hate aviaries. Doo-_ shops are tolerable. A cook-shop does not mingle the agreeable with the useful. We hate its panes, with Ham and Beef scratched upon them in white letters. An ivory-turner's is pleasant, with its red and white chessmen, and little big-headed Indians on elephants ; so is a toy-shop, with its endless delights for children. A coach-maker's is not disagreeable, if THE SIGHT OF SHOPS. 307 you can see the painting and pannels. An umbrella- shop only reminds one of a rainy day, unless it is a shop for sticks also, which, as we have already shewn, are meritorious articles. The curiosity-shop is some- times very amusing, with its mandarins, stuffed birds, odd, old carved faces, and a vai-iety of things as in- describable as bits of dreams. The green-grocer car- ries his recommendation in his epithet. The hair- dressers are also interesting, as far as their hair goes, but not as their heads — we mean the heads in their windows. One of the shops we like least is an ang- ling repository, with its rod for a sign, and a fish danc- ing in the agonies of death at the end of it. We really cannot see what equanimity there is in jerking a lacerated carp out of water by the jaws, merely be- cause it has not the power of making a noise ; for we presume that the most philosophic of anglers would hardly delight in catching shrieking fish. An optici- an's is not very amusing, unless it has those reflecting- glasses in which you see your face run off on each side into attenuated width, or upwards and downwards in the same manner, in dreary longitude. A saddler's is good, because it reminds one of horses. A Christian sword-maker's or gun-maker's is edifying. A glass- shop is a beautiful spectacle ; it reminds one of the splendours of a fairy palace. We like a blacksmith's for the sturdy looks and thumpings of the men, the swarthy colour, the fiery sparkles, and the thunder- breathing throat of the furnace. Of other houses of traffic, not common in the streets, there is something 308 THE INDICATOR. striking to us in the large, well-conditioned horses of the brewers, and the rich smoke rolling; from out their chimneys. We also greatly admire a wharf, with its boats, barrels, and packages, and the fresh air from the water, not to mention the smell of pitch. It car- ries us at once a hundred miles over the water. For similar reasons, the crabbedest old lane has its merits in our eyes, if there is a sail-maker's in it, or a boat- builder's and water at the end. How used old Ro- berts of Lambeth to gratify the aspiring modesty of our school-coats, when he welcomed us down to his wherries and captains on a holiday, and said, " Blue against Black at any time," meaning the Westminster boys. And the colleges will ratify his praise, taking into consideration the difference of the numbers that go there from either cloisters. But of all shops in the streets, a print-seller's pleases us the most. We would rather pay a shilling to Mr. Colnaghi, Mr. Molteno, or Messieurs Moon and Boys, to look at their windows on one of their best furnished days, than we would for many an exhibition. We can see fine engravings there, translations from Raphael and Ti- tian, which are newer than hundreds of originals. We do not despise a pastry-cook's, though we would rather not eat tarts and puffs before the half-averted face of the prettiest of accountants, especially with a beggar watching and praying all the while at the door. We need not expatiate on the beauties of a florist's, where you see un withering leaves, and roses made immortal. A dress warehouse is sometimes really worth stop- A NEARER VIEW OF SHOPS. 309 ping at, for its flowered draperies and richly coloured shawls. But one's pleasure is apt to be disturbed (ye powers of gallantry ! bear witness to the unwilling pen that writes it) by the fair faces that come forth, and the half-polite, half-execrating expression of the tradesman that bows them out ; for here takes place the chief enjoyment of the mystery yclept shopping ; and here, while some ladies give the smallest trouble unwillingly, others have an infinity of things turned over, for the mere purpose of wasting their own time and the shopman's. We have read of a choice of a wife by cheese. It is difficult to speak of preference in such matters, and all such single modes of trial must be something equivocal ; but we must say, that of all modes of the kind, we should desire no better way of seeing what ladies we admired most and whom least, than by witnessing this trial of them at a linen- draper's counter. XL.— A NEARER VIEW OF SOME OF THE SHOPS. In the general glance that we have taken at shops, we found ourselves unwillingly compelled to pass some of them too quickly. It is the object therefore of the present article to enter into those more attrac- tive thresholds, and look a little about us. We ima- gine a fine day ; time, about noon ; scene, any good 310 THE INDICATOR. brilliant street. The ladies are abroad in white and green ; the beaux lounging, conscious of their waists and neckcloths ; the busy pushing onward, conscious of their bills; the dogs and coaches — but we must reserve this out-of-door view of the streets for a sepa- rate article. To begin then, where our shopping experience be_ gan, with the toy-shop. Visions of glorv, spare our aching sight! Ye just breeched ages, crowd not on our soul ! We still seem to have a lively sense of the smell of that gorgeous red paint, which was on the handle of our first wooden sword ! The pewter guard also — how beautifully fretted and like silver did it look ! How did we hang it round our shoulder by the proud belt of an old ribbon ; — then feel it well suspended ; then draw it out of the sheath, eager to cut down four savage men for ill-using ditto of damsels ! An old muff made an excellent grenadier's cap; or one's hat and feather, with the assistance of three surreptitious large pins, became fiercely modern and military. There it is, in that corner of the window — the same identical sword, to all appearance, which kept us awake the first night behind our pillow. We still feel ourselves little boys, while standing in this shop ; and for that matter, so we do on other occasions. A field has as much merit in our eyes, and gingerbread almost as much in our mouths, as at that daisy -pluck- ing and cake-eating period of life. There is the trigger- A NEARER VIEW OF SHOPS. 311 rattling gun, fine ofits kind, but not so complete a thing as the sword. Its memories are not so ancient : for Alex- ander or St. George did not fight with a musket. Neither is it so true a thing; it is not "like life.' 11 The trigger is too much like that of a cross-bow ; and the pea which it shoots, however hard, produces even to the imaginative faculties of boyhood a humiliating flash of the mock-heroic. It is difficult to fancy a dragon killed with a pea : but the shape and appur- tenances of the sword being genuine, the whole senti- ment of massacre is as much in its wooden blade, as if it were steel of Damascus. The drum is still more real, though not so heroic. — In the corner opposite are battle-doors and shuttle-cocks, which have their maturer beauties ; balls, which possess the additional zest of the danger of breaking people's windows ; — ropes, good for swinging and skipping, especially the long ones which others turn for you, while you run in a masterly manner up and down, or skip in one spot with an easy and endless exactitude of toe, look- ing alternately at their conscious faces ; — blood-allies, with which the possessor of a crisp finger and thumb- knuckle causes the smitten marbles to vanish out of the ring ; kites, which must appear to more vital birds a ghastly kind of fowl, with their grim long white faces, no bodies, and endless tails ; — cricket-bats, manly to handle ; — trap-bats, a genteel inferiority ; — swimming-corks, despicable ; — horses on wheels, an imposition on the infant public ; — rocking horses, too much like Pegasus, ardent yet never getting on ; — 312 THE INDICATOR. Dutch toys, so like life, that they ought to be better ; — Jacob's ladders, flapping down one over another their tintinnabulary shutters ; — dissected maps, from which the infant statesmen may learn how to dovetail provinces and kingdoms; — paper posture-makers, who hitch up their knees against their shoulder-blades, and dangle their legs like an opera dancer; — Lilli- putian plates, dishes, and other household utensils, in which a grand dinner is served up out of half an apple ; — boxes of paints, to colour engravings with, always beyond the outline ; — ditto of bricks, a very sensible and lasting toy, which we except from a grudge we have against the gravity of infant geome- tricks ; — whips, very useful for cutting people's eyes unawares ; — hoops, one of the most ancient as well as excellent of toys; — sheets of pictures, from A apple- pie up to farming, military, and zoological exhibitions, always taking care that the Fly is as large as the Elephant, and the letter X exclusively appropriated to Xerxes ; — musical deal-boxes, rather complaining than sweet, and more like a peal of bodkins than bells; — penny trumpets, awful at Bartlemy-tide ; — Jew's harps, that thrill and breathe between the lips like a metal tongue; — carts— carriages — hobby-horses, upon which the infant equestrian prances about proudly on his own feet ; — in short, not to go through the whole representative body of existence — dolls, which are so dear to the maternal instincts of little girls. We pro- test, however, against that abuse of them, which makes them full-dressed young ladies in body, while A NEARER VIEW OF SHOPS. 313 they remain infant in face ; especially when they are of frail wax. It is cultivating finery instead of affec- tion. We prefer good honest plump limbs of cotton and saw-dust, dressed in baby-linen ; or even our ancient young friends, with their staring dotted eyes ; red varnished faces, triangular noses, and Rosinante wooden limbs — not, it must be confessed, excessively shapely or feminine, but the reverse of fragile beauty, and prepared against all disasters. The next step is to the Pastry-cook's, where the plain bun is still the pleasantest thing in our eyes, from its respectability in those of childhood. The pastry, less patronized by judicious mothers, is only so much elegant indigestion : yet it is not easy to forget the pleasure of nibbling away the crust all round a raspberry or currant tart, in order to enjoy the three or four delicious semicircular bites at the fruity plenitude remaining. There is a custard with a wall of paste round it, which provokes a siege of this kind ; and the cheese-cake has its amenities of approach. The acid flavour is a relief to the maw- kishness of the biffin or pressed baked apple, and an addition to the glib and quivering lightness of the jelly. Twelfth Cake, which when cut looks like tin- side of a rich pit of earth covered with snow, is plea- sant from warmer associations. Confectionary does not seem in the same request as of old ; its paint has hurt its reputation. Yet the school-boy has still much to say for its humbler suavities. Kisses are VOL. I. I' \ 314 THE INDICATOR. very amiable and allegorical. Eight or ten of them, judiciously wrapped up in pieces of letter paper, have saved many a loving heart Jtbe trouble of a less elo- quent billet-doux. Candied citron we look upon to be the very acme and atticism of confectionary grace. Preserves are too much of a good thing, with the exception of the jams that retain their fruit-skins. " Jam satis.' 1 They qualify the cloying. Yet mar- malade must not be passed over in these times, when it has been raised to the dignity of the peerage. The other day there was a Duke of Marmalade in Hayti, and a Count of Lemonade, — so called, from places in which those eminent relishes are manufactured. After all, we must own that there is but one thing for which we care much at a Pastry-cook's, except our old acquaintance the bun ; especially as we can take up that, and go on. It is an ice. Fancy a very hot day ; the blinds down ; the loungers unusually languid ; the pavement burning one's feet ; the sun, with a strong outline in the street, baking one whole side of it like a brick-kiln ; so that every body is crowding on the other, except a man going to inter- cept a creditor bound for the Continent. Then think of a heaped-up ice, brought upon a salver with a spoon. What statesman, of any warmth of imagina- tion, would not pardon the Neapolitans in summer, for an insurrection on account of the want of ice ? Think of the first sidelong dip of the spoon in it, bringing away a well-sliced lump ; then of the sweet A NEARER VIEW OF SHOPS. 315 wintry refreshment, that goes lengthening down one's throat ; and lastly, of the sense of power and satisfac- tion resulting from having had the ice. Not heaven itself can do away that slice ; But what has been, has been ; and I have had my ice. We unaccountably omitted two excellent shops last week, — the fruiterer's and the sculptor's. There is great beauty as well as agreeableness in a well- disposed fruiterer's window. Here are the round piled-up oranges, deepening almost into red, and heavy with juice ; the apple with its brown red cheek, as if it had slept in the sun ; the pear, swelling downwards ; thronging grapes, like so many tight little bags of wine ; the peach, whose handsome leathern coat strips off so finely ; the pearly or ruby-like currants, heaped in light long baskets ; the red little mouth- fuls of strawberries ; the larger purple ones of plums; cherries, whose old comparison with lips is better than any thing new ; mulberries, dark and rich with juice, fit to grow over what Homer calls the deep black- watered fountains ; the swelling pomp of melons ; the rough inexorable-looking cocoa-nut, milky at heart ; the elaborate elegance of wall-nuts ; the quaint cashoo- nut ; almonds, figs, raisins, tamarinds, green leaves, — in short, Whatever Earth, all-bearing' mother, yields In India East or West, or middle shore In Pontus or the Punick coast, or where Alcinous reigned, fruit of all kinds, in coat Rough, or smooth rind, or bearded husk, or shell.— Milton. p 2 316 THE INDICATOR. There is something of more refined service in wait- ing upon a lady in a fruit-shop, than in a pastry- cook's. The eating of tarts, as Sir Walter Scott handsomely saith in his Life of Dryden (who used to enjoy them, it seems, in company with " Madam Reeves'") is " no inelegant pleasure;" but there is something still more graceful and suitable in the choosing of the natural fruit, with its rosy lips and red cheeks. A white hand looks better on a basket of plums, than in the doubtful touching of syrupy and sophisticated pastr} r . There is less of the kit- chen about the fair visitor. She is more Pomona-like, native, and to the purpose. We help her, as we would a local deity. Here be grapes whose lusty blood Ts the learned poets good, Sweeter yet did never crown The. head of Bacchus ;— - nuts more brown Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them ; Deign, O fairest fair, to take them. For these black ey'd Driope Hath often times commanded me, With my clasped knee to climb ; See how well the lusty time Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread. Here be berries for a Queen, Some be red, some be green ; These are of that luscious meat, The great God Pan himself doth eat. All these, and what the woods can yield. The hanging mountain or the field, A NEARER VIEW OF SHOPS. 317 I freely offer, and ere long Will bring you more, more sweet and strong. Till when humbly leave I take, Lest the great Pan do awake, That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Under a broad beech's shade. Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess. How the poets double every delight for us, with their imagination and their music ! In the windows of some of the sculptor's shops, artificial fruit may be seen. It is a better thing to put upon a mantle-piece than many articles of greater fashion ; but it gives an abominable sensation to one's imaginary teeth. The incautious epicure who plunges his teeth into " a painted snow-ball" in Italy (see Brydone's Tour in Sicily and Malta), can hardly receive so jarring a baulk to his gums, as the bare apprehension of a bite at a stone peach ; but the far- ther you go in a sculptor's shop the better. Many persons are not aware that there are show-rooms in these places, which are well worth getting a sight of by some small purchase. For the best plaster casts the Italian shops, such as Papera's in Marylebone-street, Golden-square, and Sarti's in Greek-street, are the best. Of all the shop-pleasures that are " not inelcgant, ,1 an hour or two passed in a place of this kind is surely one of the most polite. Here are the gods and heroes of old, and the more beneficent philosophers, ancient and modern. You are looked upon, as you walk among them, by the paternal majesty of Jupiter, the force 318 THE INDICATOR. and decision of Minerva, the still more arresting gen- tleness of Venus, the budding compactness of Hebe, the breathing inspiration of Apollo. Here the Celes- tial Venus, naked in heart and body, ties up her locks, her drapery hanging upon her lower limbs. Here the Belvidere Apollo, breathing forth his triumphant disdain, follows with an earnest eye the shaft that has killed the serpent. Here the Graces, linked in an affectionate group, meet you in the naked sincerity of their innocence and generosity, their hands " open as day," and two advancing for one receding. Here Hercules, like the building of a man, looks down from his propping club, as if half disdaining even that repose. There Mercury, with his light limbs, seems just to touch the ground, ready to give a start with his foot and be off again. Bacchus, with his riper cheek, and his thicker hanging locks, appears to be eyeing one of his nymphs. The Vatican Apollo, near him, leans upon the stump of a tree, the hand which hangs upon it holding a bit of his lyre, the other arm thrown up over his head, as if he felt the air upon his body, and heard it singing through the strings. In a corner on another side, is the Crouching Venus of John of Bologna, shrinking just before she steps into the bath. The Dancing Faun is not far off, with his animal spirits, and the Piping Faun, sedater because he possesses an art more accomplished. Among the other divinities, we look up with venera- tion to old Homer's head, resembling an earthly Ju- piter. Plato beholds us with a bland dignity — a A NEARER VIEW OF SHOPS. 319 beauty unimpairable by years. How different from the brute impulse of Mars, the bloated self-will of Nero, or the dull and literal effeminacy of some of the other emperors ! There is a sort of presence in sculpture, more than in any other representations of art. It is curious to see how instinctively people will fall into this sentiment when they come into a place with busts and statues in it, however common. They hush, as if the images could hear them. In our boyhood, some of our most delightful holidays were spent in the gallery of the late Mr. West, in Newman-street. It runs a good way back from the street, crossing a small garden, and opening into lof- tier rooms on the other side of it. We remember how the world used to seem shut out from us the mo- ment the street-door was closed, and we began step- ping down those long carpetted aisles of pictures, with statues in the angles where they turned. We had observed every body walk down them in this way, like the mild possessor of the mansion, and we went so likewise. We have walked down with him at night to his painting-room, as he went in his white flannel gown, with a lamp in his hand, which shot a lustrous twilight upon the pictured walls in passing ; and every thing looked so quiet and graceful, that we should have thought it sacrilege to hear a sound beyond the light tread of his footsteps. But it was the statues that impressed us, still more than the pic- tures. It seemed as if Venus and Apollo waited our turning at the corners ; and there they were, always 320 THE INDICATOR. the same, placid and intuitive, more human and bodily than the paintings, yet too divine to be over real. It is to that house, with the gallery in question, and the little green plot of ground, surrrounded with an arcade and busts, that we owe the greatest part of our love for what is Italian and belongs to the fine arts. And if this is a piece of private history, with which the readers have little to do, they will excuse it for the sake of the greatest of all excuse, which is Love. EXD OF VOL I. IV ,0 P LONDON: Printed by J. L. Cox and Son, 75, Great Queen Street, Lincoln's-Inn Fields. * W Jl lil'fi J I ■ ''\y«ygji j » \NGElFr* -. > •-"- re 1 > £? ■ &•* ^HIBRARYfl/ 4 ^ ■:.._ s c/OallVDJO *OF-CAllF0fy RARY^ # l O r cxdr (—5 U. >■ r " AU V U Q 1 1 JUJrnMJl "% <\AFIIWIVFR •AWr.Firr lDY u §1 ^UIBRARYQ^ ^/OJITVIHO^ ^•IIBRARYQ^ 33 3 1158 01314 6468 ^OFCALIFOfyA t/5 DC ^OF-CAUFORto , dc k nr t & ,\WEUNIVER% ^lOSANGElfj T> O <£ ^/hbainihi^ UC SOUTHERN REGIONAL LIBRARY FACILITY AA 000367761' h\ SO PT- ,4-01 "•TJUDNV-Si v /HIJAIf %0JI1V.: /ER5"//, v.ll: ^•LIBRARY, Lin;