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A BOOK FOB A CORNER ; 
 
 OR, 
 
 Mnilm in $rn® anil 
 
 FROM AUTHORS 
 
 THE BEST SUITED TO THAT MODE OF ENJOYMENT 
 
 WITH 
 
 COMMENTS ON EACH, AND A GENERAL INTRODUCTION, 
 
 BY LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 NEW YORK; 
 
 DERBY & JACKSON, 119 NASSAU STREET. 
 1S59. 
 
 BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. 
 
PFEFACE. 
 
 N ample account of the nature of this work will be 
 
 ±X. found in the Introduction ; but to give a brief and 
 more general idea of the entertainment which it is pro- 
 posed to set before the purchaser, it may be as well to 
 state in this place, that the book, for the most part, is a 
 collection of passages from such authors as retain, if not 
 the highest, yet the most friendly and as it were domes- 
 tic hold upon us during life, and sympathize with us 
 through all portions of it. Hence the first extract is a 
 Letter addressed to an Infant, the last the Elegy in the 
 Churchyard,* and the intermediate ones have something 
 of an analogous reference to the successive stages of 
 existence. It is therefore intended to be read by intel- 
 ligent persons of all times of life, the youthful associa 
 tions in it being such as the oldest readers love to call 
 to mind, and the oldest such as all would gladly meet 
 
 * The last article of the Second Series. 
 
G 
 
 PREFACE. 
 
 with in their decline. It lias no politics in it, no polem- 
 ics, nothing to offend the delicatest mind. The inno- 
 centest boy and the most cautious of his seniors might 
 alike be glad to look over the other’s shoulder, and find 
 him in his corner perusing it. 
 
 This may be speaking in a boastful manner ; but an 
 Editor has a right to boast of his originals, especially 
 when they are such as have comforted and delighted him 
 throughout his own life, and are for that reason recom- 
 mended by him to others. 
 
CONTENTS OF FIRST SERIES. 
 
 Nature of the present Work, and a few Remarks on its Read- 
 ers ^ 
 
 Letter to a New-born Child Catherine Talbot. 27 
 
 The Schoolmistress Shenstone. oO 
 
 Grown Schoolboys. A Letter to Geo. Montagu Horace Walpole. 42 
 Ode on Solitude. Written at twelve years of age . . Pope. 45 
 
 Sir Bertrand — A Fragment P r - Aikin. 47 
 
 Robinson Crusoe. The Five Points in his History . . . Pe Foe. 53 
 
 Crusoe’s Meditations and Mode of Life 56 
 
 He finds the Print of a Man’s Foot on the Shore ... 59 
 
 Sees Savages in the Island, and obtains a Servant . . . 6o 
 
 Peter Wilkins’s Discovery of the Flying Woman. PoUt Pultock. 73 
 
 Gil Blas and the Parasite Le Sage. 96 
 
 Ludovico in the Haunted Chamber. From the “Mysteries of 
 
 Udolpho” Mrs. Radcliffe. 104 
 
 The Warning. From the Novel of “ Nature and Art ” Mrs. Inchbald. 128 
 
 John Buncle Thomas Amory. lo7 
 
 Delights of Books of Travel 1 ^ 
 
 Wandering Tartars and their Chief Zagatai, in the Thir- 
 teenth Century William de Rubruquis. 154 
 
 Passage of the Desert of Lop Marco Polo. 162 
 
 Kubla Khan “ “ 16 * 
 
 Kubla Khan’s Palace at Xanadu “ “ 165 
 
 Kubla Khan’s Person and State “ “ 
 
 Friar Oderic’s Rich Man who was fed by Fifty 
 
 Virgins ** w 
 
 Of the Old Man of the Mountain . . . . “ “ l? 1 
 
8 
 
 CONTEXTS. 
 
 Delights of Books of Travel — Continued. 
 
 How Prester John burnt up his Enemy’s Men 
 
 and Horses “ “ 
 
 Praise of Women Ledyard. 
 
 Bed in the Desert Mungo Park. 
 
 First Sight of the Niger “ “ 
 
 Kindness of a Woman to him, and a Song 
 
 over his Distress “ “ 
 
 He passes a Lion “ “ 
 
 Narrow Escape from another Lion ... “ " 
 
 Moss in the Desert “ “ 
 
 A Shipwreck, a Sea Voyage, and an Adventure by the Way . 
 
 Shipwreck of a Spanish Vessel . . . Cyrus Redding. 
 
 A Sea Voyage, and Adventure by the Way . . . Cook. 
 
 Business, Books, and Amusement. Passages from his Autobiogra- 
 phy William Hutton. 
 
 PACK 
 
 173 
 
 175 
 
 177 
 
 179 
 
 180 
 
 182 
 
 184 
 
 184 
 
 189 
 
 190 
 
 193 
 
 217 
 
NATURE OF THE PRESENT WORK, 
 
 AND A 
 
 FEW REMARKS ON ITS READERS. 
 
 HIS compilation is intended for all lovers of books, at 
 
 every time of life, from childhood to old age, particu- 
 larly such as are fond of the authors it quotes, and who 
 enjoy their perusal most in the quietest places. It is in- 
 tended for the boy or girl who loves to get with a book 
 into a corner — for the youth who on entering life finds his 
 advantage in having become acquainted with books — for 
 the man in the thick of life, to whose spare moments books 
 are refreshments^— and for persons in the decline of life, 
 who reflect on what they have experienced, and to whom 
 books and gardens afford their tranquillest pleasures. 
 
 It is a book (not to say it immodestly) intended to lie 
 in old parlour windows, in studies, in cottages, in cabins 
 aboard ship, in country-inns, in country-houses, in summer- 
 houses, in any houses that have wit enough to like it, and 
 are not the mere victims of a table covered with books for 
 show. 
 
 1 * 
 
10 
 
 INTRODUCTION \ 
 
 When Slienstone was a child, he used to have a new 
 book brought him from the next country-town, whenever 
 any body went to market. If he had gone to bed and was 
 asleep, it was put behind his pillow ; and if it had been 
 forgotten, and he was awake, his mother (more kindly than 
 wisely) “ wrapped up a piece of wood of the same form, and 
 pacified him for the night.” This is the sort of child we 
 hope to be a reader of our volumes. 
 
 When Gray and Walpole were at Eton, they partitioned 
 out the fields into territories of which they had read in 
 books, and so ruled over them and sent ambassadors to one 
 another. These are the sort of school-boys we look to en- 
 tertain. 
 
 When Mrs. Inchbald, who was a farmer’s daughter, first 
 came to London, she was alone, and would have been sub- 
 jected to no small perils but for the knowledge she had 
 acquired from books ; for she was poor, lovely, and sensitive. 
 She turned the knowledge to the greatest account, and lived 
 to add precious matter to the stock. We flatter ourselves, 
 
 or rather we dare to aver, considering the authors who 
 
 m 
 
 furnish our extracts, that nobody would have more approved 
 of our book than Mrs. Inchbald. 
 
 Some of the most stirring men in the world, persons in 
 the thick of business of all kinds, and indeed with the busi- 
 ness of the world itself on their hands, — Lorenzo de Medici, 
 for instance, who was at once the great merchant and the 
 political arbiter of his time, — have combined with their 
 other energies the greatest love of books, and found no re- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 11 
 
 creation at once so wholesome and so' useful. We hope 
 many a man of business will refresh himself with the shout 
 pieces in these volumes, and return to his work the fitter to 
 baffle craft, and yet retain a reverence for simplicity. 
 
 Every man who has a right sense of business, whether 
 his business be that of the world or of himself, has a respect 
 for all right things apart from it ; because business with 
 him is not a mindless and merely instinctive industry, like 
 that of a beetle rolling its ball of clay, but an exercise of 
 faculties congenial with the other powers of the human 
 being, and all working to some social end. Hence he ap- 
 proves of judicious and reflecting leisure — of domestic and 
 social evenings— of suburban retreats— of gardens— of ulti- 
 mate retirement “for good”— of a reading and reflective 
 old age. Such retirements have been longed for, and in 
 many instances realized, by wise and great men of all classes, 
 from the Diocletians of old to the Foxes and Burkes of our 
 own days. Warren Hastings, who had ruled in India, 
 yearned for the scenes of his boyhood ; and lived to be 
 happy in them. The wish to possess a country-house, a 
 retreat, a nest, a harbour of some kind from the storms and 
 even from the agitating pleasures of life, is as old as the 
 sorrows and joys of civilization. The child feels it when 
 he “ plays at house the schoolboy, when he is reading in 
 his corner ; the lover, when he thinks of his mistress. 
 Epicurus felt it in his garden ; Horace and Yirgil expressed 
 their desire of it in passages which the sympathy of man- 
 kind has rendered immortal. It was the end of all the 
 
12 
 
 INTRODUCTION . 
 
 wisdom and experience of Shakspeare. He retired to his 
 native town, and built himself a house in which he died. 
 And who else docs not occasionally u flit ” somewhere mean- 
 time if he can ? The country for many miles round Lon- 
 don, and indeed in most other places, is adorned with houses 
 and grounds of men of business, who arc whirled to and fro 
 on w T cckly or daily evenings, and who would all find some- 
 thing to approve in the closing chapters of our work. The 
 greatest moneyed man of our time, Rothschild, who weighed 
 kings in his balance, could not do without his house at 
 Gunnersbury. Even the turbulent De Retz, according to 
 Madame de Sevigne, became the sweetest of retired Signiors, 
 and did nothing but read books and feed his trout. It is 
 customary to jest upon such men, and indeed upon all re- 
 tirement ; to say that they would still meddle with affairs 
 if they could, and that retirement is a failure and a “ bore.” 
 Fox did not think so. It is possible that De Retz would 
 have meddled fast enough ; nor are many energetic men 
 superior, perhaps, to temptations of their spirit in this way, 
 when such occur. But this does not hinder them from en- 
 joying another and a seasonable pleasure meantime. On 
 the contrary, this very energy is the thing which hinders it 
 from palling ; that is to say, supposing their intellects are 
 large enough to include a sense of it. De Retz, like Burke 
 and Fox. was a lover of books. Sir Robert Walpole, who 
 retired only to be sick and to die, did not care for books 
 Occupation is the necessary basis of all enjoyment ; and he 
 who cannot read, or botanize, or farm, or amuse himself 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 1 o 
 1 D 
 
 with his neighbours, or exercise his brain with thinking, is 
 in a bad way for the country at any time, much more for 
 retiring into it. He has nothing to do but to get back as 
 fast as he can, and be hustled into a sensation by a mob. 
 
 u Books, Venus, books.” It is those that teach us to 
 refine on our pleasures when young, and which, having so 
 taught us, enable us to recall them with satisfaction when 
 old. For let the half-witted say what they will of delu- 
 sions, no thorough reader ever ceased to believe in his 
 books, whatever doubts they might have taught him by 
 the way. They are pleasures too palpable and habitual for 
 him to deny. The habit itself is a pleasure. They contain 
 his young dreams and his old discoveries ; all that he has 
 lost, as well as all that he has gained ; and, as he is no 
 surer of the gain than of the loss, except in proportion to 
 the strength of his perceptions, the dreams, in being re- 
 newed, become truths again. He is again in communion 
 with the past ; again interested in its adventures, grieving 
 with its griefs, laughing with its merriment, forgetting the 
 very chair and room he is sitting in. Who, in the myste- 
 rious operation of things, shall dare to assert in what unreal 
 corner of time and space that man’s mind is ; or what better 
 proof he has of the existence of the poor goods and chattels 
 about him, which at that moment (to him) are non-existent ? 
 “ Oh !” people say, u but he wakes up, and sees them there.” 
 Well ; he woke down then, and saw the rest. What we 
 distinguish into dreams and realities, are, in both cases, but 
 representatives of impressions. Who shall know what dif- 
 
14 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 ference there is in them at all, save that of degree, till some 
 higher state of existence help us to a criterion? 
 
 For our part, such real things to us are books, that, if 
 habit and perception make the difference between real and 
 unreal, we may say that we more frequently wake out of 
 common life to them, than out of them to common life. Yet 
 we do nat find the life the less real. We only feel books 
 to be a constituent part of it ; a world, as the poet says, 
 
 “ Round which, with tendrils strong as fiesli and blood, 
 
 Our pastime and our happiness may grow.” 
 
 What do readers care for “ existing things ” (except when 
 Ireland is mentioned, or a child is grieving) compared with 
 poetry and romance ? What for Bonaparte and his pre- 
 tences, compared with the honest- jealousy of “ Orlando,” or 
 the cakes of Alfred ? What for all the parsons in the world 
 (except Pius IX. or some Welsh curate) compared with 
 Parson Adams or the Vicar of Wakefield? What men 
 (generally speaking) are they so sure of? are so intimate 
 with ? can describe, quote, and talk of to one another with 
 so much certainty of a mutual interest ? And yet, when 
 readers wake up to that other dream of life, called real life 
 (and we do not mean to deny its palpability), they do not 
 find their enjoyment of it diminished. It is increased — 
 increased by the contrast — by the variety — by the call upon 
 them to show the faith which books have originally given 
 them in all true and good things, and which books, in spite 
 of contradiction and disappointment, have constantly main 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 15 
 
 tained. Mankind are the creatures of books, as well as of 
 other circumstances ; and such they eternally remain ; 
 proofs, that the race is a noble and a believing race, and 
 capable of whatever books can stimulate. 
 
 The volumes now offered to our fellow readers originated 
 in this kind of passion for books. They were suggested by 
 a wish we had long felt to get up a book for our private en- 
 joyment, and of a very particular and unambitious nature. 
 It was to have consisted of favourite passages, not out of the 
 authors we most admired, but those whom we most loved ; 
 and it was to have commenced, as the volumes do, with 
 Shenstone’s Schoolmistress , and ended with Gray’s Elegy. 
 It was to have contained indeed little which the volumes do 
 not comprise, though not intended to be half so big, and it 
 was to have proceeded on the same plan of beginning with 
 childhood and ending with thp church-yard. We did not 
 intend to omit the greatest authors on account of their 
 being the greatest, but because they moved the feelings too 
 strongly. What we desired was not an excitement, but a 
 balm. Headers, who have led stirring lives, have such men 
 as Shakspeare with them always, in their very struggles and 
 sufferings, and in the tragic spectacles of the world. Great 
 crowds and great passions are Shakspeares ; and we, for one 
 (and such we take to be the case with many readers), are 
 sometimes as willing to retire from their “ infinite agitation 
 of wit,” as from strifes less exalted ; and retreat into the 
 placider corners of genius more humble. It is out of no 
 disrespect to their greatness ; neither, we may be allowed 
 
16 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 to say, is it from any fear of being unable to sustain it ; for 
 we have seen perhaps as many appalling faces of things in 
 our time as they have, and we arc always ready to confront 
 more if duty demand it. But we do not choose to be always 
 suffering over again in books what we have suffered in the 
 world. We prefer, when in a state of repose, to renew what 
 we have enjoyed — to possess wholly what we enjoy still — 
 to discern in the least and gentlest things the greatest and 
 sweetest intentions of Nature — and to cultivate those sooth- 
 ing, serene, and affectionate feelings, which leave us in peace 
 with all the world, and in good hope of the world to come. 
 The very greatest genius, after all, is not the greatest thing 
 in the world, any more than the greatest city in the world 
 is the country or the sky. It is a concentration of some of 
 its greatest powers, but it is not the greatest diffusion of its 
 might. It is not the habit of its success, the stability of 
 its sereneness. And this is what readers like ourselves desire 
 to feel and know. The greatest use of genius is but to sub- 
 serve to that end ; to further the means of enjoying it, and 
 to freshen and keep it pure ; as the winds and thunders, 
 which come rarely, are purifiers of the sweet fields, which 
 are abiding. 
 
 The book, therefore, as originally contemplated, was to 
 consist principally, besides the pieces mentioned, of such 
 others as Cowley’s Garden , Wotton’s Happy Life , the fa- 
 vourite passages about the country from Horace and Virgil, 
 Claudian’s Old Man of Verona , Pope’s Ode on Solitude , a 
 selection from the Coverley papers in the Spectator , Thom- 
 
IXTRODUCTIOX. 
 
 17 
 
 son’s Castle of Indolence , Letters of Gray, Virgil’s Gnat 
 out of Spenser ; and, though we have several editions of the 
 work constantly by us, we think we could not have denied 
 ourselves the pleasure of having something out of the Ara- 
 bian Nights. Our Sequestered Book (for such, in our mind, 
 we called it) would hardly have seemed complete without a 
 chapter or two about Sindbad or the Forty Thieves , or the 
 retirement of the Fairy Banou. The book was to have 
 been addressed entirely to lovers of sequestered pleasures, 
 and chiefly to such as were in the decline of life, or poeti- 
 cally beginning it. 
 
 When the volume, however, came to be considered with 
 a view to publication; objections were made to the smallness 
 of its size, and the probable fewness of its readers. Had we 
 been rich; we should have parried the objection, and sent 
 forth a volume at any rate, with, the contents of which the 
 few would have been pleased. We consoled ourselves with 
 reflecting that we had other favourite passages which could 
 be included in a larger book ; and an extension of the plan 
 now struck us, which in the eyes of many readers, perhaps 
 of most, would in all probability improve it. This was, to 
 suppose our sequestered reader thinking; not merely of the 
 pleasures of his childhood or of his old age. but of his whole 
 life, past or to come, and thus calling to mind passages 
 from favourite authors of all kinds in illustration of its suc- 
 cessive phases. The spirit of the first conception was still, 
 however, to be carefully retained. Life, without effemi- 
 nately shutting one’s eyes to its perplexities, was to be re 
 
18 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 garded, not in spleen, or in sorrow, or in narrowness of any 
 kind, but with a cheerfulness befitting childhood, a manli- 
 ness befitting a man, and with that calm and loving wisdom 
 in age which discerns so much beauty and goodness in the 
 face of Nature, that it cannot doubt the benevolence of her 
 soul. 
 
 Hence the inclusion in the present volume of knaveries 
 and other half-witted activities out in the world, and of 
 terrors and tragedies in solitude. Hence extracts from Le 
 Sage and Fielding, from Steele, Smollett-, Goldsmith, Mrs. 
 Radcliffe, and others. 
 
 We have imagined a book-loving man, or man able 
 to refresh himself with books, at every successive period of 
 his life ; — the child at his primer, the sanguine boy, the 
 youth entering the world, the man in the thick of it, the 
 man of alternate business and repose, the retired man calm- 
 ly considering his birth and his death ; and in this one hu- 
 man being we include, of course, the whole race and both 
 sexes, mothers, wives, and daughters, and all which they do 
 to animate and sweeten existence. Thus our invisible, or 
 rather many-bodied hero (who is the reader himself), is in 
 the first instance a baby ; then a child under the School- 
 mistress of Shenstone ; then the schoolboy with Gray and 
 Walpole, reading poetry and romance; then Gil Bias en- 
 tering the world ; then the sympathiser with the John B un- 
 cles who enjoy it, and the Travellers who fill it with enter- 
 prise ; then the matured man beginning to talk of disap- 
 pointments. and standing in need of admonition Against 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 19 
 
 Inconsistency in his Expectations ; then the reassured 
 man comforted by his honesty and his just hopes, and re- 
 freshing himself with his Club or his country-lodging, hi? 
 pictures, or his theatre ; then the retiring, or retired, or 
 finally old man, looking back with tenderness on his enjoy- 
 ments, with regret for his errors, with comfort in his virtues, 
 and with a charity for all men, which gives him a right to 
 the comfort ; loving all the good things he ever loved, par- 
 ticularly the books which have been his companions and the 
 childhood which he meets again in the fields ; and neither 
 wishing nor fearing to be gathered into that kindly bosom 
 of Nature, which covers the fields with flowers, and is en- 
 circled with the heavens. 
 
 The reader, however, is not to suppose that any atten- 
 tion to this plan of the book is exacted of him. Such a 
 demand would be a pedantry and a folly. It is only sug- 
 gested to him in case he may like it, and for the purpose of 
 showing that we set nothing before him -which does not 
 possess a principle of order. He may regard the book, if 
 more convenient to do so, as a mere set of extracts with 
 comments, or of extracts alone, not requiring comments 
 Our sequestered book was to have been without comments ; 
 and we should have been well content, had none been de- 
 sired for this. There is a pleasure, it is true, in expressing 
 love and admiration, and in hoping that we contribute to the 
 extension of such feelings in the world ; but we can truly 
 say, that we seldom quote a fine passage, and comment 
 upon it at any length, without wishing that everybody had 
 
20 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 been as well acquainted with it as ourselves, and could 
 dispense with the recommendation. All wc expect of the 
 reader is that he should like the extracts on which the 
 comments are made. If he does not do that, he has no 
 business to be a reader of the book, or perhaps to be a 
 reader at all. At least he is no universalist ; no sympa- 
 thiser with the entire and genial round of existence ; and 
 it is for the reader who is, that these volumes arc emphati- 
 cally intended. 
 
 A universalist, in one high bibliographical respect, may 
 be said to be the only true reader ; for he is the only 
 reader on whom no writing is lost. Too many people ap- 
 prove no books but such as are representatives of some 
 opinion or passion of their own. They read, not to have 
 human nature reflected on them, and so be taught to know 
 and to love everything, but to be reflected themselves as in 
 a pocket mirror, and so interchange admiring looks with 
 their own narrow cast of countenance. The universalist 
 alone puts up with difference of opinion, by reason of his 
 own very difference ; because his difference is a right 
 claimed by him in the spirit of universal allowance, and 
 not a privilege arrogated by conceit. He loves poetry and N 
 prose, fiction and matter of fact, seriousness and mirth, 
 because lie is a thorough human being, and contains por- 
 tions of all the faculties to which they appeal. A man who 
 can be nothing but serious, or nothing but merry, is but 
 half a man. The lachrymal or the risible organs are 
 wanting in ^ him. He has no business to have eyes or 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 21 
 
 muscles like other men. The universalist alone can put 
 up with him. by reason of the very sympathy of his antipa- 
 thy. He understands the defect enough to pity, while he 
 dislikes it. The universalist is the only reader who can 
 make something out of books for which he has no predilec- 
 tion. He sees differences in them to sharpen his reason- 
 ing ; sciences which impress on him a sense of his igno- 
 rance ; nay, languages which, if they can do nothing else, 
 amuse his eye and set him thinking of other countries. He 
 will detect old acquaintances in Arabic numerals, and 
 puzzle over a sum or a problem, if only to try and taste the 
 curiosity of it. He is the only man (except a soldier or a 
 gardener) to whom an army list or an almanac would not be 
 thoroughly disgusting on a rainy day in a country ale- 
 house, when nothing else readable is at hand, and the 
 coach has gone “just ten minutes.” The zodiacal light of 
 “ Francis Moore, Physician,” would not be lost on him. He 
 would laugh at the Doctor’s verses ; wonder who St. Alphage 
 or St. Hugh could have been, as affecting the red-letter 
 days ; and see what Christian or surnames prevailed in the 
 army, or what personages had authority in those days. The 
 words “ltoyal Highness the Duke of York” would set 
 him thinking on the good-natured though not astonishing 
 prince, and imagining how hearty a dish of beef-steaks 
 he would have dispatched in the room in which he was 
 sitting. 
 
 Our compilation, therefore, though desirous to please 
 all who are willing to be pleased, is ambitious to satisfy 
 
22 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 this sort of person most of all. It is of his childhood we 
 were mostly thinking when we extracted the Schoolmistress, 
 lie will thoroughly understand the wisdom lurking beneath 
 the playfulness of its author. He will know how whole- 
 some as well as amusing it is to become acquainted with 
 books like Gil Bias and Joseph Andrews. lie will derive 
 agreeable terror from Sir Bertram and the Haunted 
 Chamber ; will assent with delighted reason to every sen- 
 tence in Mrs. BarbauhV s Essay ; will feel himself wan- 
 dering into solitudes with Gi'ay ; shake honest hands with 
 Sir Roger de C over ley ; be ready to embrace Parson 
 Adams , and to chuck Pounce out of window, instead of the 
 hat ; will travel with Marco Polo and Mungo Park ; 
 stay at home with Thomson ; retire with Cowley ; be in- 
 dustrious with Hutton ; sympathizing with Shenstonc and 
 Mrs. Inchbald ; laughing with (and at) Bundle ; melan- 
 choly, and forlorn, and self-restored, with the shipwrecked 
 mariner of De Foe. There are Robinson Crusoes in the 
 moral as well as physical world, and even a universalist 
 may be one of them ; men, cast on desert islands of thought 
 and speculation ; without companionship ; without worldly 
 resources ; forced to arm and clothe themselves out of the 
 remains of shipwrecked hopes, and to make a home for 
 their solitary hearts in the nooks and corners of imagina- 
 tion and reading. It is not the worst lot in the world 
 Turned to account for others, and embraced with patient 
 cheerfulness, it may, with few exceptions, even be one of 
 the best. We hope our volume may light into the hands 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 23 
 
 of such men. Every extract which is made in it, has some- 
 thing of a like second-purpose, beyond what appears on its 
 face. There is amusement for those who require nothing 
 more, and instruction in the shape of amusement for those 
 who choose to find it. We only hope that the “knowing 
 reader ?? will not think we have assisted inquiry too 
 often. We hate, with our friends the little boys, nothing 
 so much as the “ Moral ” that officiously treads the heels of 
 the great yEsop, and which assumes that the sage has not 
 done his w'ork when he has told his story. It is bad enough 
 to be forced to interpret wisdom of any kind ; but to talk 
 after such transparent lessons as those, is overweeningness 
 horrible. The little boys will find nothing of the sort to 
 frighten them in this book ; and they need not look at the 
 prefaces, if they have no mind for them. It is beautiful to 
 think how ignorant our grown memories are of prefaces to 
 books of amusement that were put into our hands when 
 young, and how intensely we remember the best extracts. 
 What grown up people in general know anything of good 
 Dr. Enfield or didactic Dr. Knox, or even of Percy, the 
 editor of Ancient Reliques ? Yet who that has read the 
 Speaker and Elegant Extracts ever forgot the soliloquy in 
 Hamlet , Goldsmith’s Beau Tibbs and Contented Beggar , 
 or the story of Robin Hood ? 
 
 Those exquisite humours of Goldsmith, and the story of 
 Robin Hood, we have omitted, with a hundred others, partlv 
 because we had not room for an abundance of things wlr 
 we admired, chiefly because they did not fall within a cei 
 
24 
 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 tain idea of our plan. The extremely familiar knowledge 
 also which readers have of them might have been another 
 objection, even in a work consisting chiefly of favourite 
 passages ; — things, which imply a certain amount of familiar 
 knowledge, if not in the public at large, yet among readers 
 in general. If any persons should object that some of 
 these also are too familiar, the answer is, that they are of a 
 nature which rendered it impossible for us, consistently 
 with our plan, to omit them, and that readers in general 
 would have missed them. We allude, in particular, to the 
 Elegy in a Country Cliurch-Yard and the Ode on the 
 Prospect of Eton College . It is the privilege of fine 
 writers, when happy in their treatment of a universal sub- 
 ject of thought or feeling, to leave such an impression of it 
 in the reading world as almost to identify it with every- 
 body’s own reflections, or constitute it a sort of involuntary 
 mental quotation. Of this kind are Gray’s reflections in 
 the church-yard, and his memories of scliool-boy happiness. 
 Few people who know these passages by heart, ever think 
 of a church-yard or a school-ground without calling them 
 to mind. 
 
 The nature and the amount of the reader’s familiarity 
 with many other extracts are the reasons why we have ex- 
 tracted them. They constitute part of the object and 
 essence of the book ; for the familiarity is not a vulgar and 
 repulsive one, but that of a noble and ever-fresh companion, 
 whose society we can the less dispense with, the more we 
 are accustomed to it. The book in this respect resembles 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 25 
 
 a set of pictures which it delights us to live with, or a eol- 
 lection of favourite songs and pieces of music, which we bind 
 up in volumes in order that we may always have them at 
 hand, or know where to find them. Who, in such a room 
 full of pictures, would object to his Raphael or Titian? 
 Or in such a collection of music, to his Beethoven, Rossini, 
 or Paisiello ? Our book may have little novelty in the least 
 sense of the word ; but it has the best in the greatest 
 sense ; that is to say, never-dying novelty ; — antiquity hung 
 with ivy -blossoms and rose-buds ; old friends with the ever- 
 new faces of wit, thought, and affection. Time has proved 
 the genius with which it is filled. “ Age cannot wither it,” 
 nor “ custom stale its variety.” We ourselves have read, 
 and shall continue to read it to our dying day ; and we 
 should not say thus much, especially on such an occasion, if 
 we did not know that hundreds and thousands would do the 
 same, whether they read it in this collection or nol 
 
I'rttrr ta a Mm-hm Cliilii. 
 
 BY CATHERINE TALBOT. 
 
 This lady, whose posthumous “ Essays ” and “ Reflections ” were ad* 
 mired in their day, was niece of Thomson’s friend, Lord Chancellor 
 Talbot ; and the “ very young correspondent ” to whom her pleasant 
 letter is addressed, was daughter of the Chancellor’s third son, John, 
 afterwards a Welsh judge, ancestor of the present Earl Talbot. What 
 became of the little lady is not mentioned. Miss Talbot had very deli- 
 cate health, which she bore with great sweetness of temper. She led 
 a maiden life, and died in the year 1770, aged forty-nine. 
 
 Y OU are heartily welcome, my dear little cousin, into 
 this unquiet world ; long may you continue in it, in all 
 the happiness it can give, and bestow enough on all your 
 friends to answer fully the impatience with which you have 
 been expected. May you grow up to have every accom- 
 plishment that your good friend, the Bishop of Derry,* can 
 already imagine in you ; and in the meantime, may you 
 have a nurse with a tuneable voice, that may not talk an 
 immoderate deal of nonsense to you You are at present, 
 my dear, in a very philosophical disposition : the gaieties and 
 follies of life have no attraction for you ; its sorrows you 
 kindly commiserate ! but, however, do not suffer them to 
 
 * Thomas Bundle, another friend of Thomson’s and the Chancellor’s. 
 See the note ensuing. 
 
28 
 
 LETTER TO A NEW-BORN CHILD. 
 
 disturb your slumbers, and find charms in nothing but har- 
 mony and repose. You have as yet contracted no partialities, 
 are entirely ignorant of party distinctions, and look with a 
 perfect indifference on all human splendour. You have an 
 absolute dislike to the vanities of dress ; and are likely, for 
 many months, to observe the Bishop of Bristol’s first rule 
 of conversation, Silence, though tempted to transgress it by 
 the novelty and strangeness of all objects round you. # As 
 you advance further in life, this philosophical temper will 
 by degrees wear off ; the first object of your admiration will 
 probably be the candle, and thence (as we all of us do) you 
 will contract a taste for the gaudy and the glaring, without 
 making one moral reflection upon the danger of such false 
 admiration as leads people many a time to burn their fingers. 
 You will then begin to show great partiality for some very 
 good aunts, who will contribute all they can towards spoiling 
 you ; but you will be equally fond of an excellent mamma 
 who will teach you, by her example, all sorts of good qua* 
 lities ; only, let me warn you of one thing, my dear, and 
 that is, not to learn of her to have such an immoderate love 
 of home as is quite contrary to all the privileges of this 
 polite age, and to give up so entirely all those pretty graces 
 of whim, flutter, and affection, which so many charitable 
 poets have declared to be the prerogative of our sex. Oh ! 
 my poor cousin, to what purpose will you boast this prero- 
 gative, when your nurse tells you (with a pious care to sow 
 
 * The Bishop of Bristol, afterwards Archbishop of Canterbury, was 
 Seeker. His “ first rule of conversation” is very good. It was on these 
 two prelates that Pope wrote his couplet — 
 
 E’en in a bishop I can spy desert ; 
 
 Seeker is decent, Bundle has a heart. 
 
 By u decent ” we are to understand the word in its classical sense of 
 becoming. 
 
LETTER TO A NEW-BORN CHILD. 
 
 29 
 
 the seeds of jealousy and emulation as early as possible) 
 that you have a fine little brother “ come to put your nose 
 out of joint?” There will be nothing to be done then but 
 to be mighty good ; and prove what, believe me, admits of 
 very little dispute (though it has occasioned abundance), 
 that we girls, however people give themselves airs of being 
 disappointed, are by no means to be despised. The men un- 
 envied shine in public ; but it is we must make their homes 
 delightful to them — and, if they provoke us, no less un- 
 comfortable. I do not expect you to answer this letter yet 
 awhile ; but, as I dare say you have the greatest interest 
 with your papa, will beg you to prevail upon him that we 
 may know by a line (before his time is engrossed by an- 
 other secret committee) that you and your mamma are 
 well. In the meantime, I will only assure you that all 
 here rejoice in your existence extremely ; and that I am, 
 my very young correspondent, most affectionately yours, &c. 
 
€\)t Irjnrolmistra. . 
 
 BY SHENSTONE. 
 
 The Schoolmistress is one of those poems (delightful, to our thinking) 
 which are to be read with a smile on the face, and thoughtfulness at 
 heart: — the smile, for the assumption of dignity in its tone; the 
 thoughtfulness, for the human interest of the subject. It is Shenstone’s 
 masterpiece. Its playful imitation of the manner of Spenser saved 
 him from that inferior artificial style of the day, which injured the 
 natural feeling of most of his other poems ; and the manliness at the 
 heart of its gentle wisdom ought to have saved the writer from the 
 fears wdiich he condescended to entertain, lest undiscerning critics 
 should take it for something as dull as themselves. The poem has the 
 pungent sweetness and balminess of the herbs described in its cottage 
 garden. We never think of it without seeming to inhale their fra- 
 grance. 
 
 The good dame, the heroine of the poem, was the schoolmistress of 
 Shenstone’s own infancy. He was the offspring of a race now almost 
 extinct, the small uneducated country-gentleman, farming his own 
 estate ; and he was sent to the first nurse-like teacher that presented 
 herself in the neighbourhood. Her name was Sarah Lloyd, Let this 
 be known, for the glory and encouragement of all such educers of in- 
 fant “bards sublime,” or future “Chancellors in embryo.” The birch- 
 tree is not in so much request as it was in her days. The “ little bench 
 of heedless bishops” may now look at it without “shaping it into 
 rods,” “and tingling at the view.” The change is better for all parties, 
 considering that a proper amount of healthy vigour, reflection, and su- 
 periority to petty pains is to be secured by better means. It is not for 
 its mode of infant training that the poem is here reprinted ; but for its 
 
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 31 
 
 archness, its humour, its agreeable description, and the writer’s thought- 
 ful humanity. 
 
 H me ! full sorely is my heart forlorn, 
 
 jLjl To think how modest worth neglected lies, 
 While partial Fame doth with her blasts adorn 
 Such deeds alone, as pride and pomp disguise ; 
 Deeds of ill sort, and mischievous emprize : 
 
 Lend me thy clarion, goddess ! let me try 
 To sound the praise of merit, ere it dies ; 
 
 Such as I oft have chauneed to espy, 
 
 Lost in the dreary shades of dull obscurity. 
 
 In every village mark’d with little spire, 
 
 Embower’d in trees, and hardly known to fame, 
 There dwells, in lowly shed and mean attire, 
 
 A matron old, whom we Schoolmistress name: 
 
 Who boasts unruly brats with birch to tame ; 
 
 They grieven sore in piteous durance pent, 
 
 Aw’d by the power of this relentless dame ; 
 
 And oft-times, on vagaries idly bent, 
 
 For unkempt hair, or task unconn’d, are sorely shent 
 
 And all in sight doth rise a birchen tree, 
 
 Which Learning near her little dome did stowe ; 
 Whilom a twig of small regard to see, 
 
 Though now so wide its waving branches flow 
 And work the simple vassals mickle woe ; 
 
 For not a wind might curl the leaves that blew, 
 
 But their limbs shudder’d, and their pulse beat low. 
 And as they look’d, they found their horror grew, 
 And shap’d it into rods, and tingled at the view’. 
 
 So I Lave seen (who has not, may conceive) 
 
 A lifeless phantom near a garden plac’d ; 
 
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS . 
 
 32 
 
 So doth it wanton birds of peace bereave, 
 
 Of sport, of song, of pleasure, of repast ; 
 
 They start, they stare, they wheel, they look aghast ; 
 
 Sad servitude ! such comfortless annoy 
 May no bold Briton’s riper age e’er taste ! 
 
 Ne superstition clog his chance of joy, 
 
 Ne vision empty, vain, his native bliss destroy. 
 
 Near to this dome is found a patch so green, 
 
 On which the tribe their gambols do display ; 
 
 And at the door imprisoning board is seen, 
 
 Lest weakly wights of smaller size should stray, 
 
 Eager, perdie, to bask in sunny day ! 
 
 The noises intermix’d, which thence resound, 
 
 Do learning’s little tenement betray ; 
 
 Where sits the dame, disguis’d in look profound, 
 
 And eyes her fairy throng, and turns her wheel around. 
 
 Her cap, far whiter than the driven snow, 
 
 Emblem right meet of decency does yield : 
 
 Her apron, dy’d in grain, is blue, I trowe, 
 
 As is the harebell that adorns the field : 
 
 And in her hand, for sceptre, she does wield 
 Tway birchen sprays with anxious fear entwin’d, 
 
 With dark distrust, and sad repentance fill’d, 
 
 And stedfast hate, and sharp affliction join’d, 
 
 And fury uncontroul’d, and chastisement unkind.* 
 
 Few but have ken’d, in semblance meet pourtray’d, 
 
 The childish faces of old Eol’s train, 
 
 Libs, Notus, Auster ;f these in frowns array’d, 
 
 * A memorial of the tremendous ingredients that composed the thun- 
 derbolts of Jupiter. 
 
 ^The winds, in the likeness of children, puffing and blowing in the 
 corners of old maps. 
 
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 33 
 
 How then would fare or earth, or sky, or main, 
 
 W ere the stern god to give his flaws the rein ? 
 
 And were not she rebellious breasts to quell, 
 
 And were not she her statutes to maintain, 
 
 The cot no more, I ween, were deem’d the cell, 
 
 Where comely peace of mind and decent order dwell. 
 
 A russet stole was o’er her shoulders thrown ; 
 
 A russet kirtle fenc’d the nipping air ; 
 
 J T was simple russet, but it was her own ; 
 
 ’T was her own country bred the flock so fair ; 
 
 ’T was her own labour did the fleece prepare ; 
 
 And, sooth to say, her pupils, rang’d around, 
 
 Through pious awe did term it passing rare : 
 
 For they in gaping wonderment abound, 
 
 And think, no doubt, she been the greatest wight on ground. 
 
 Albeit ne flattery did corrupt her truth, 
 
 Ne pompous title did debauch her ear; 
 
 Goody, good-woman, gossip, n’aunt, forsooth, 
 
 Or dame, the sole additions she did hear ; 
 
 Yet these she challeng’d, these she held right dear ; 
 
 Ne would esteem him act as mought behove, 
 
 Who should not honour’d eld with these revere ; 
 
 For never title yet so mean could prove, 
 
 But there was eke a mind which did that title love. 
 
 One ancient hen she took delight to feed, 
 
 The plodding pattern of the busy dame ; 
 
 Which, ever and anon, impell’d by need, 
 
 Into her school, begirt with chickens, came ; 
 
 Such favour did her past deportment claim ; 
 
 And if neglect had lavish’d on the ground 
 2 * 
 
34 
 
 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 Fragment of bread, sbe would collect the same ; 
 
 For well sbe knew, and quaintly could expound, 
 
 What sin it were to waste the smallest crumb sbe found. 
 
 Herbs, too, sbe knew, and well of each could speak, 
 That in her garden sipp’d the silvery dew ; 
 
 Where no vain flower disclos’d a gaudy streak ; 
 
 But herbs for use and physic not a few, 
 
 Of grey renown, within those borders grew ; 
 
 The tufted basil, pun-provoking thyme, 
 
 Fresh baum, and marygold of cheerful hue : 
 
 The lowly gill,* that never dares to climb ; 
 
 And more I fain would sing, disdaining here to rhyme. 
 
 Yet euphrasy may not be left unsung, 
 
 That gives dim eyes to wander leagues around ; 
 
 And pungent radish, biting infant’s tongue ; 
 
 And plaintain ribb’d, that heals the reaper’s wound j 
 And marjoram sweet, in shepherd’s posie found ; 
 
 And lavender, whose spikes of azure bloom 
 Shall be ere-while in arid bundles bound, 
 
 To lurk amidst the labours of her loom, 
 
 And crown her kerchiefs clean with mickle rare perfume 
 
 And here trim rosemarine, that whilom crown’d 
 The daintiest garden of the proudest peer, 
 
 Ere, driven from its envy’d site, it found 
 A sacred shelter for its branches here, 
 
 Where edg’d with gold its glittering skirts appear. 
 
 Oh wassel days ! 0 customs meet and well, 
 
 Ere this was banish’d from its lofty sphere ! 
 
 * Ground-ivy. 
 
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 35 
 
 Simplicity then sought this humble cell, 
 
 Nor ever would she more with thane and lordling dwell. # 
 
 Here oft the dame, on Sabbath’s decent eve, 
 
 Hymned such psalms as Sternhold forth did mete ; 
 
 If winter ’t were, she to her hearth did cleave, 
 
 But in her garden found a summer-seat : 
 
 Sweet melody ! to hear her then repeat 
 How Israel’s sons, beneath a foreign king, 
 
 While taunting foemen did a song entreat, 
 
 All for the nonce, untuning every string, 
 
 Uphung their useless lyres — small heart had they to sing. 
 
 For she was just, and friend to virtuous lore, 
 
 And pass’d much time in truly yirtuous deed ; 
 
 And in those elfins’ ears would oft deplore 
 The times when Truth by Popish rage did bleed, 
 
 And tortuous death was true devotion’s meed, 
 
 And simple faith in iron chains did mourn, 
 
 That nould on wooden image place her creed ; 
 
 And lawny saints in smouldering flames did burn : 
 
 Ah ! dearest lord, forefend, thilk days should e’er return. 
 
 In elbow chair, like that of Scottish stem 
 By the sharp tooth of cankering eld defac’d, 
 
 In which, when he receives his diadem, 
 
 Our sovereign prince and liefest liege is plac’d, 
 
 The matron sate ; and some with rank she grac’d, 
 
 (The source of children’s and of courtiers’ pride !) 
 Redress’d affronts (for vile affronts there pass’d) 
 
 t liosemary was in great request as a flavourer of wine and ale, and 
 hence it is associated by the poet with the wassail-bowl of old times. 
 
36 
 
 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 And warn’d them not the fretful to deride, 
 
 But love each other dear, whatever them betide. 
 
 Itiglit well she knew each temper to descry, 
 
 To thwart the proud, and the submiss to raise ; 
 
 Some with vile copper-prize exalt on high, 
 
 And some entice with pittance small of praise ; 
 
 And other some with baleful sprig she frays ; 
 
 Ev’n absent, she the reins of power doth hold, 
 
 While with quaint arts the giddy crowd she sways ; 
 Forewarn’d if little bird their pranks behold, 
 
 T will whisper in her ear, and all the scene unfold. 
 
 Lo ! now with state she utters the command ; 
 
 Eftsoons the urchins to their tasks repair ; 
 
 Their books of stature small they take in hand, 
 
 Which with pellucid horn secured are, 
 
 To save from finger wet the letters fair ; 
 
 The work so gay, that on their back is seen, 
 
 St. George’s high achievements does declare ; 
 
 On which tliilk wight that has y-gazing been, 
 
 Kens the forthcoming rod ; — unpleasing sight, I ween. 
 
 Ah luckless he, and born beneath the beam 
 Of evil star ! it irks me whilst I write ! 
 
 As erst the bard by Mulla’s silver stream,* 
 
 Oft as he told of deadly dolorous plight, 
 
 Sigh’d as he sung, and did in tears indite. 
 
 For, brandishing the rod, she doth begin 
 To loose the brogues, the stripling’s late delight ! 
 
 And dowm they drop. Appears his dainty skin, 
 
 Fair as the furry coat of whitest ermilin. 
 
 * Spenser. Mulla (Mole) is the river by which he dwelt in Ireland. 
 
THE SOHO OLMISTEESS. 
 
 37 
 
 0 ruthfal scene ! when from a nook obscure 
 His little sister doth his peril see : 
 
 All playful as she sate, she grows demure : 
 
 She finds all soon her wonted spirits flee ; 
 
 She meditates a prayer to set him free ; 
 
 Nor gentle pardon could this dame deny 
 (If gentle pardon did with dames agree) 
 
 To her sad grief, \Hiich swells in either eye, 
 
 And wrings her so that all for pity she could die. 
 
 No longer can she now her shrieks command, 
 
 And hardly she forbears, through awful fear, 
 
 To rushen forth, and with presumptuous hand, 
 
 To stay harsh justice in his mid-career. 
 
 On thee she calls, on thee, her parent dear ! 
 
 (Ah ! too remote to ward the shameful blow !) 
 
 She sees no kind domestic visage near, 
 
 And soon a flood of tears begins to flow, 
 
 And gives a loose at last to unavailing woe. 
 
 But ah ! what pen his piteous plight may trace ? 
 
 Or what device his loud laments explain ? 
 
 The form uncouth of his disguised face % 
 
 The pallid hue that dyes his looks amain ? 
 
 The plenteous shower that does his cheek distain ? 
 
 When he in abject wise implores the dame, 
 
 Ne hopeth aught of sweet reprieve to gain ; 
 
 Or when from high she levels well her aim, 
 
 And through the thatch his cries each falling stroke pro* 
 claim. 
 
 * The other tribe, aghast, with sore dismay, 
 
 Attend and con their tasks with mickle care ; 
 
38 
 
 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 By turns, astonied, every twig survey, 
 
 And from their fellow’s hateful wounds beware, 
 Knowing, I wis, how each the same may share, 
 
 Till fear has taught them a performance meet, 
 
 And to the well-known chest the dame repair, 
 
 Whence oft with sugar’d cates she doth them greet, 
 And ginger-bread y-rarc ; now, certes, doubly sweet. 
 
 • 
 
 See to their seats they hie with merry glee, 
 
 And in beseemly order sitten there ; 
 
 All but the wight of flesh y-gall£d ; — he 
 Abhorreth bench, and stool, and fourm, and chair ; 
 (This hand in mouth y-fix’d, that rends his hair;) 
 
 And eke with snubs profound, and heaving breast, 
 
 Convulsions intermitting, doth declare 
 
 His grievous wrong, his dame’s unjust behest ; 
 
 And scorns her offer’d love, and shuns to be caress’d. 
 
 His face besprent with liquid crystal shines, 
 
 His blooming face, that seems a purple flower, 
 
 Which low to earth its drooping head declines, 
 
 All smear’d and sullied by a vernal shower. 
 
 0 the hard bosoms of despotic Power ! 
 
 All, all but she, the author of his shame, 
 
 All, all but she, regret this mournful hour ; 
 
 Yet hence the }^outh, and hence the flower, shall claim, 
 If so I deem aright, transcending worth and fame. 
 
 Behind some door in melancholy thought, 
 
 Mindless of food, he, dreary caitiff ! pines ; 
 
 Ne for his fellows’ joyance careth aught, 
 
 But to the wind all merriment resigns, 
 
 And deems it shame if he to peace inclines ; 
 
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS, 
 
 39 
 
 And many a sullen look askance is sent, 
 
 Which for his dame’s annoyance he designs ; 
 
 And still the more to pleasure him she’s bent, 
 
 The more doth he, perverse, her ’haviour past resent. 
 
 Ah me ! how much I fear lest pride it be ! 
 
 But if that pride it be, which thus inspires, 
 
 Beware, ye dames, with nice discernment see 
 Ye quench not, too, the sparks of nobler fires : 
 
 Ah ! better far than all the Muse’s lyres, 
 
 All coward arts, is valour’s generous heat ; 
 
 The firm fixt breast, which fit and right requires 
 Like Yernon’s patriot soul,* more justly great 
 Than craft that pimps for ill, or flowery false deceit. 
 
 Yet, nurs’d, with skill, what dazzling fruits appear ! 
 Ev’n now sagacious foresight points to show 
 A little bench of heedless bishops here, 
 
 And there a chancellor in embryo, 
 
 Or bard sublime (if bard may e’er be so) 
 
 As Milton, Shakspeare, names that ne’er shall die, 
 Though now he crawl along the earth so low, 
 
 Nor, weeting how the Muse should soar on high, 
 Wisheth, poor starvling elf! his paper kite may fly 
 
 And this perhaps, who, censuring the design, 
 
 Low lays the house which that of cards doth, build, 
 Shall Dennis be.f if rigid fate incline, 
 
 And many an epic to his rage shall yield ; 
 
 And many a poet quit the Aonian field ; 
 
 And, sour’d by age, profound he shall appear 
 
 * A.dmiral Vernon, tlie conqueror of Porto Bello, 
 t The famous snarling critic. 
 
40 
 
 THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 As lie who now, with ’sdainful fury thrill’d, 
 
 Surveys mine work, and levels many a sneer, 
 
 And furls his wrinkly front, and cries, “ What stuff is here! 
 
 But now Bon Phoebus gains the middle skie, 
 
 And liberty unbars her prison-door, 
 
 And like a rushing torrent out they fly, 
 
 And now the grassy cirque han covered o’er 
 With boisterous revel-rout and wild uproar ; 
 
 A thousand ways in wanton rings they run ; 
 
 Heaven shield their short-liv’d pastimes, I implore ! 
 
 For well may Freedom, erst so dearly won, 
 
 Appear to British elf more gladsome than the sun. 
 
 Enjoy, poor imps ! enjoy your sportive trade, 
 
 And cliace gay flies, and cull the fairest flowers ; 
 
 For when my bones in grass-green sodfc are laid, 
 
 Then never may ye taste more careless hours 
 In knightly castles or in ladies’ bowers. 
 
 0 vain to seek delight in earthly things ! 
 
 But most in courts, where proud ambition towers. 
 Deluded wight ! who weens fair peace can spring 
 Beneath the pompous dome of kesar or of king. 
 
 See in each sprite some various bent appear ! 
 
 These rudely carol must incondite lay ; 
 
 Those sauntering on the green with jocund leer, 
 
 Salute the stranger passing on his way ; 
 
 Some to the standing lake their courses bend, 
 
 Some builden fragile tenements of clay ; 
 
 With pebbles smooth at duck and drake to play; 
 
 Thilk to the huxter’s savory cottage tend, 
 
 In pastry kings and queens tli’ allotted mite to spend. 
 
THE SCHOOLMISTRESS. 
 
 41 
 
 Here as each season yields a different store, 
 
 Each season’s stores in order ranged been ; 
 
 Apples with cabbage-net y-covered o’er, 
 
 Galling full sore th’ unmoney’d wight are seen ; 
 
 And gooseb’rie, clad in livery red and green ; 
 
 And here, of lovely dye, the Catherine pear ; 
 
 Fine pear ! as lovely for thy juice, I ween ; 
 
 0 may no wight e’er pcnnyless come there, 
 
 Lest smit with ardent love he pine with hopeless care. 
 
 See ! — Cherries here, ere cherries yet abound, 
 
 With thread so white in tempting posies ty’d, 
 
 Scattering like blooming maid their glances round, 
 
 With pamper’d look draw little ^yes aside, 
 
 And must be bought, though penury betide. 
 
 The plum all azure, and the nut all brown, 
 
 And here, each season, do those cakes abide, 
 
 Whose honour’d names th’ inventive city own, 
 
 Rendering through Britain’s isle Salopia’s praises known. * 
 
 Admired Salopia ! that with venial pride 
 Eyes her bright form in Severn’s ambient wave, 
 
 Fam’d for her loyal cares in perils try’d.f 
 Her daughters lovely, and her striplings brave ; 
 
 Ah ! midst the rest, may flowers adorn his grave, 
 
 Whose art did first these dulcet cates display ; 
 
 A motive fair to Learning’s imps he gave, 
 
 Who cheerless o’er her darkling region stray, 
 
 Till Reason’s morn arise, and light them on their way. 
 
 * Shrewsbury cakes. 
 
 + Shrewsbury, the capital of Shenstone’s native county, was devoted to 
 the cause of Charles the First. 
 
(Pronin lrl]ool[ioi|5. 
 
 A LETTER FROM HORACE WALPOLE TO 1IIS FRIEND GEORGE 
 MONTAGU. 
 
 George Montagu, one of Horace Walpole’s schoolfellows at Eton, 
 was of the Halifax branch of the family of that name. He became 
 Member of Parliament for Northampton, and Private Secretary to Lord 
 North while Chancellor of the Exchequer. 
 
 Walpole, who was now at Cambridge, in his nineteenth year, does 
 not write so correctly as he did afterwards ; yet the germ of his wit is 
 very evident in this letter; also of his foppery or effeminacy; and 
 some may think, of his alleged heartlessness. A wit he was of the 
 first water ; effeminate too, no doubt, though he prided himself on his 
 open-breasted waistcoats in his old age, and possessed exquisite good 
 sense and discernment, where party-feelings did not blind him. But 
 of the charge of heartlessness, his zeal and painstaking in behalf of a 
 hundred people, and his beautiful letter to his friend Conway in parti- 
 cular, offering, in a way not to be doubted, to share his fortune with 
 him (see Correspondence , vol. i. p. 358), ought to acquit him by accla- 
 mation. 
 
 The letter, here presented to the reader, is (with some qualification 
 as to prettiness of manner) a perfect exhibition of the thoughts and 
 feelings that go through the mind of a romantic schoolboy. IIow good 
 is his wishing to have had a kingdom, “ only for the pleasure of being 
 driven from it, and living disguised in an humble vale!” 
 
 King's College, May 6th, 1736. 
 
 EAR GEORGE, 
 
 U I agree with you entirely in the pleasure you take in 
 talking over old stories, but can’t say but I meet every day 
 with new circumstances, which will be still more pleasure 
 
GROWN SCHOOLBOYS. 
 
 43 
 
 to me to recollect. I think at our age ’t is excess of joy, 
 to think, while we are running over past happiness, that it is 
 still in our power to enjoy as great. Narrations of the 
 greatest actions of other people are tedious in comparison 
 of the serious trifles that every man can call to mind of him- 
 self while he was learning those histories. Youthful passa- 
 ges of life are the chippings of Pitt’s diamond, set into lit- 
 tle heart-rings with mottos ; the stone itself more worth, the 
 filings more gentle and agreeable. Alexander, at the head 
 of the world, never tasted the true pleasure that boys of his 
 own age have enjoyed at the head of a school. Little in- 
 trigues, little schemes, and policies engage their thoughts ; 
 and at the same time that they are laying the foundations 
 for their middle age of life, the mimic republic they live in 
 furnishes materials of conversation for their latter age ; and 
 old men cannot be said to be children a second time with 
 greater truth from any one cause, than their living over 
 again their childhood in imagination. To reflect on the 
 season when first they felt the titillation of love, the bud- 
 ding passions, and the first dear object of their wishes ! how 
 unexperienced they gave credit to all the tales of romantic 
 loves ! Dear George, were not the playing fields at Eton 
 food for all manner of flights? No old maid’s gown, though 
 it had been tormented into all the fashions from King 
 James to King George, ever underwent so many transfor- 
 mations as those poor plains have in my idea. At first I 
 was contented with tending a visionary flock, and sighing 
 some pastoral name to the echo of the cascade under the 
 bridge. How happy should I have been to have had a 
 kingdom, only for the pleasure of being driven from it, and 
 living disguised in an humble vale ! As I got further into 
 Virgil and Clelia,* I found myself transported from Area* 
 
 * An old French romance, founded on Roman history. 
 
44 
 
 GROWN SCHOOLBOYS. 
 
 dia to the garden of Italy ; and saw Windsor Castle in no 
 other view than the Capitoli immobile saxum * I wish a 
 committee of the House of Commons may ever seem to be 
 the senate ; or a bill appear half so agreeable as a billet-doux. 
 You see how deep you have carried me into old stories ; I 
 write of them with pleasure, but shall talk of them with 
 more to you. I can’t say I am sorry I was never quite a 
 schoolboy : an expedition against bargemen, or a match at 
 cricket, may be very pretty things to recollect ; but thank 
 my stars, I can remember things that are very near as 
 pretty. The beginning of my Homan history was spent in 
 the asylum,f or conversing in Egeria’s hallowed grove ; not 
 in thumping and pummelling King Amulius’s herdsmen. 
 I was sometimes troubled with a rough creature or two 
 from the plough ; one that, one should have thought, had 
 worked with his head, as well as his hands, they were both 
 so callous. One of the most agreeable circumstances I can 
 recollect is the Triumvirate, composed of yourself, Charles, | 
 and Your sincere Friend. 
 
 * “ The immovable rock of the Capitol.” 
 t The infant city of Rome, when it was a refuge for offenders. 
 
 X Charles Montagu, brother of George, afterwards a general in the 
 army. Another of these schoolboy coteries was called the Quadruple Al- 
 liance, and consisted of Walpole, Gray, West, and Ashton (afterwards a 
 clergyman). Walpole’s schoolfellows gave themselves names out of the 
 classics and old romances, such as Tydeus, Plato, Oroondates, and Alman- 
 zor. Such things have always been going on in schools, and always will 
 as long as schools continue to be worth anything at all, and cultivate a 
 respect for generous and exalted sentiments. 
 
(Dk nit inlituk. 
 
 WRITTEN BY POPE AT TWELVE YEARS OF AGE. 
 
 Pope never wrote more agreeable or well-tuned verses than this 
 interesting effusion of his boyhood. Indeed there is an intimation of 
 sweetness and variety in the versification, which was not borne out 
 afterwards by his boasted smoothness : nor can we help thinking, that 
 had the author of the Ode on Solitude arisen in less artificial times, he 
 would have turned out to be a still finer poet than he was. But the 
 reputation which he easily acquired for wit and criticism, the recent 
 fame of Dryden, and perhaps even his little warped and fragile person, 
 tempted him to accept such power over his contemporaries as he could 
 soonest realize. 
 
 It is observable that Pope never repeated the form of verse in 
 which this poem is written. It might have reminded him of a musical 
 feeling he had lost. All the little concluding lines of the stanzas have a 
 spirited yet touching modulation, very unusual with him afterwards: — 
 
 In his own ground- 
 in winter fire — 
 
 Quiet by day, <fcc. 
 
 The closeness and straightforwardness of the style are remarkable in so 
 young a writer, and singularly announce his future conciseness. The 
 reader smiles to think of the unambitious wish expressed in the final 
 stanza; yet it is pleasant to consider that the youthful poet remained 
 true to his love of the country all his life ; and still more pleasant, that 
 he was rich enough to indulge it. The Ode was probably written at 
 Binfield in Windsor Forest, when he was a happy child, living with 
 
46 
 
 ODE ON SOLITUDE. 
 
 his father ami mother, ami feeling the first delighted power of making 
 verses, in scenery fitted to inspire them. 
 
 H APPY the man whose wish and care 
 A few paternal acres bound, 
 
 Content to breathe his native air 
 
 In his own ground : 
 
 Whose herds with milk, whose fields with breads 
 Whose flocks supply him with attire, 
 
 Whose trees in summer yield him shade. 
 
 In winter fire. 
 
 Blest who can unconcern’dly find 
 
 Hours, days, and years slide soft away, 
 
 In health of body, peace of mind, 
 
 Quiet by day, 
 
 Sound sleep by night ; study and ease, 
 
 Together mix'd j sweet recreation ; 
 
 And innocence, which most doth please 
 With meditation. 
 
 Thus let me live, unseen, unknown j 
 Thus unlamented let me die ; 
 
 Steal from the world, and not a stone 
 Tell where I lie. 
 
lie SSfitrnuir — SI /nignu'iit. 
 
 BY DR. AIKIX. 
 
 If we may judge of others’ impressions by our own, and have not 
 been led to overrate the merit of this Fragment by early associations, 
 there is nothing perused in boyhood which is of a nature to remain 
 longer in the recollection, or to link itself more strongly with analo- 
 gous ideas. The tolling bell, the bloody stump of the arm, the lady 
 who addresses the knight “in these words” (not related), and above 
 all, the “dreary moors” at the commencement, and the light seen at 
 a distance, have recurred, we think, oftener to memory in the course of 
 our life than any other passages in books, with the exception of some 
 in Gray, Spenser, and the Arabian Nights. We cannot read them to 
 this day without feeling a sort of thrilling and desolate evening gloom 
 fall upon our mind ; nor can we ever see a piece of moorland, or a 
 distant light at the close of day, without thinking of them. The finest 
 poetry has only added to their impression; not displaced it. The 
 “ woulds ” that Sir Bertrand crosses, are precisely those in which the 
 ear listens at evening to 
 
 “ Undescribed sounds, 
 
 That come a-swooning over hollow grounds, 
 
 And wither drearily on barren moors . 11 
 
 Dr. Aikin was a writer from whom this effusion was hardly to have 
 been looked for. He was bred in a limited and somewhat formal 
 school of taste, and was no very sensitive critic ; but a good deal of 
 enthusiasm was repressed in him by circumstances ; and he was brother 
 
48 
 
 SIX BERTRAND.— A FRAGMENT. 
 
 of an undoubted and fervid woman of genius, Mrs. Barbauld. There 
 was more in the Aikin family than academical and sectarian connec- 
 tions suffered to come out of it. 
 
 IR BERTRAND turned his steed towards the woulds, 
 
 hoping to cross these dreary moors before the curfew. 
 But ere he had proceeded half his journey, he was bewil- 
 dered by the different tracks ; and not being able, as far as 
 the eye could reach, to espy any object but the brown heath 
 surrounding him, he was at length quite uncertain which 
 way he should direct his course. Night overtook him in 
 this situation. It was one of those nights when the moon 
 gives a faint glimmering of light through the thick black 
 clouds of a louring sky. Now and then she emerged in full 
 splendour from her veil, and then instantly retired behind 
 it, having just served to give the forlorn Sir Bertrand a wide 
 extended prospect over the desolate waste. Hope and 
 native courage awhile urged him to push forwards, but at 
 length the increasing darkness and fatigue of body and 
 mind overcame him ; he dreaded moving from the ground 
 he stood on, for fear of unknown pits and bogs ; and alight 
 ing from his horse in despair, he threw himself on the 
 ground. He had not long continued in that posture when 
 the sullen toll of a distant bell struck his ears — he started 
 up, and turning towards the sound, discerned a dim twink 
 ling light. Instantly he seized his horse’s bridle, and with 
 cautious steps advanced towards it. After a painful march 
 he was stopt by a moated ditch surrounding the place from 
 whence the light proceeded ; and by a momentary glimpse 
 of moon-light he had a full view of a large antique mansion, 
 with turrets at the corners, and an ample porch in the 
 centre. The injuries of time were strongly marked on 
 everything about it. The roof in various places was fallen 
 in, the battlements were half demolished, and the windows 
 
SIR BERTRAND.— A FRAGMENT. 
 
 49 
 
 broken and dismantled. A draw-bridge, with a ruinous 
 gate-way at each end, led to the court before the building. 
 He entered ; and instantly the light, which proceeded from 
 a window in one of the turrets, glided along and vanished ; 
 at the same moment the moon sunk beneath a black cloud, 
 and the night was darker than ever. All was silent. — 
 Sir Bertrand fastened his steed under a shed, and approach- 
 ing the house, traversed its whole front with light and slow 
 footsteps. — All was still as death. — He looked in at the 
 lower windows, but could not distinguish a single object 
 through the impenetrable gloom. After a short parley with 
 himself, he entered the porch, and seizing a massy iron 
 knocker at the gate, lifted it up, and, hesitating, at length 
 struck a loud stroke. — The noise resounded through the 
 whole mansion with hollow echoes. — All was still again — 
 he repeated the strokes more boldly and loudly — another 
 interval ensued — a third time he knocked, and a third time 
 all was still. He then fell back, to some distance, that he 
 might discern whether any light could be seen in the whole 
 front. It again appeared in the same place, and quickly 
 glided away as before — at the same instant a deep sullen 
 toll sounded from the turret. Sir Bertrand’s heart made a 
 fearful stop — he was a while motionless ; then terror im- 
 pelled him to make some hasty steps towards his steed — 
 but shame stopt his flight ; and urged by honour and a 
 resistless desire of finishing the adventure, he returned to 
 the porch ; and working up his soul to a full steadiness of 
 resolution, he drew forth his sword with one hand, and with 
 the other lifted up the latch of the gate. The heavy door, 
 creaking upon its hinges, reluctantly yielded to his hand — 
 he applied his shoulder to it, and forced it open — he quitted 
 it, and stepped forward — the door instantly shut with a 
 'hundering clap. Sir Bertrand’s blood was chilled — he 
 3 
 
50 
 
 SI R BERTRAM).— A FRAGMENT. 
 
 turned back to find the door, and it was long ere his trem- 
 bling hands could seize it : but his utmost strength could 
 not open it again. After several ineffectual attempts, he 
 looked behind him, and beheld, across a hall, upon a large 
 staircase, a pale bluish flame, which cast a dismal gleam of 
 light around. He again summoned forth his courage, and 
 advanced towards it. It retired. He came to the foot of 
 the stairs, and after a moment’s deliberation ascended. He 
 went slowly up, the flame retiring before him, till he came 
 to a w T ide gallery. The flame proceeded along it, and he 
 followed in silent horror, treading lightly, for the echoes of 
 his footsteps startled him. It led him to the foot of another 
 staircase, and then vanished. At the same instant another 
 toll sounded from the turret — Sir Bertrand felt it strike 
 upon his heart. He was now in total darkness, and with 
 his arms extended, began to ascend the second staircase. A 
 dead cold hand met his left hand, and firmly grasped it, 
 drawing him forcibly forwards — he endeavored to disengage 
 himself, but could not — he made a furious blow with his 
 sword, and instantly a loud shriek pierced his ears, and the 
 dead hand was left powerless with his — He dropt it, and 
 rushed forward with a desperate valour. The stairs were 
 narrow and winding, and interrupted by frequent breaches, 
 and loose fragments of stone. The staircase grew narrower 
 and narrower, and at length terminated in a low iron grate. 
 Sir Bertrand pushed it open — it led to an intricate winding 
 passage, just large enough to admit a person upon his hands 
 and knees. A faint glimmering of light served to show the 
 nature of the place. Sir Bertrand entered. A deep hollow 
 groan resounded from a distance through the vault. Ho 
 went forwards, and proceeding beyond the first turning, he 
 discerned the same blue flame which had before conducted 
 him. He followed it. The vault at length suddenly opened 
 
SIR BERTRAND.— A FRAGMENT. 
 
 51 
 
 into a lofty gallery, in the midst of which a figure appeared^ 
 completely armed, thrusting forwards the bloody stump of 
 an arm with a terrible frown and menacing gesture, and 
 brandishing a sword in his hand. Sir Bertrand undaunt- 
 edly sprung forwards, and aiming a fierce blow at the figure^ 
 it instantly vanished, letting fall a massy iron key. The 
 flame now rested upon a pair of ample folding-doors at the 
 end of the gallery. Sir Bertrand went up to it, and applied 
 the key to a brazen lock — with difficulty he turned the bolt 
 — instantly the doors flew open, and discovered a large 
 apartment, at the end of which was a coffin rested upon a 
 bier, with a taper burning upon each side of it. Along the 
 room on both sides were gigantic statues of black marble, 
 attired in the Moorish habit, and holding enormous sabres 
 in their right hands. Each of them reared his arm, and 
 advanced one leg forwards, as the knight entered ; at the 
 same moment the lid of the coffin flew open, and the bell 
 tolled. The flame still glided forwards, and Sir Bertrand 
 resolutely followed, till he arrived within six paces of the 
 coffin. Suddenly, a lady in a shroud and black veil rose up 
 in it, and stretched out her arms towards him ; at the same 
 time the statues clashed their sabres and advanced. Sir 
 Bertrand flew to the lady and clasped her in his arms — she 
 threw up her veil and kissed his lips ; and instantly the 
 whole building shook as with an earthquake, and fell asun- 
 der with a horrible crash. Sir Bertrand was thrown into a 
 sudden trance, and on recovering, found himself seated on a 
 velvet sofa, in the most magnificent room he had ever seen, 
 lighted with innumerable tapers, in lustres of pure crystal. 
 A sumptuous banquet was set in the middle. The doors 
 opening to soft music, a lady of incomparable beauty, attired 
 with amazing splendour, entered, surrounded by a troop of 
 gay nymphs more fair than the Graces. She advanced to 
 
52 
 
 SIR BERTRAND.— A FRAGMENT. 
 
 t-lie knight, and falling on her knees thanked him as her 
 deliverer. The nymphs placed a garland of laurel upon his 
 head, and the lady led him by the hand to the banquet, and 
 sat beside him. The nymphs placed themselves at the 
 table, and a numerous train of servants entering, served up 
 the feast, delicious music playing all the time. Sir Ber- 
 trand could not speak for astonishment — he could only 
 return their honours by courteous looks and gestures. After 
 the banquet was finished, all retired but the lady, who 
 leading back the knight to the sofa, addressed him in these 
 words : 
 
Enlnitsmt tfmr. 
 
 THE FIVE POINTS IN HIS HISTORY. 
 
 These are Crusoe’s loneliness, his contrivances how to live, his discov- 
 ery of the footmark on the sea-shore, his first sight of the savages, and 
 his obtainment of a companion and servant in Frida)', The second, 
 though the least surprising, is the one most habitually felt by the 
 reader ; the one he oftenest thinks of. It is indeed the main subject of 
 the book. But, as its interest spreads over the greater part of it, and 
 could only be duly represented by copious extracts (minuteness of detail 
 being necessary to do justice to its ingenuity and perseverance) it would 
 have occupied too large a share of these pages. The lesser quantity 
 and more startling quality of the other points render them obviously 
 fittest for selection. The loneliness, which is in itself a one-ness T can 
 be well enough represented by one impressive extract ; the footmark 
 is essentially one (never was there a finer unique) ; the first sight of 
 the savages is of the same brief and independent order of interest ; and 
 two “ man Fridays ” are not in the regions of possibility, Peter Wil- 
 kins’s “man Friday ” was obliged to be turned into a woman, and 
 Philip Quarll’s into a monkey. 
 
 Robinson Crusoe is understood to be founded on the real history of 
 Alexander Selkirk, a summary of which, charmingly written, was 
 given to the public by Steele. The greatest genius might have been 
 proud to paint a picture after that sketch. Yet we are not sure that 
 Selkirk’s adventure was not an injury, instead of a benefit to De Foe. 
 A benefit it undoubtedly was, to him and to all of us, if it was required 
 in order to put the thought into De Foe’s head ; but what we mean is, that 
 the world would probably have had the fiction, whether the fact had 
 
54 
 
 ROBINSON CRUSOE. 
 
 existed or not. Desert islands and cast-away mariners existed before 
 Selkirk : children have played at hermits and house-building, even 
 before they read Robinson Crusoe ; and the whole inimitable romance 
 would have required but a glance of Do Foe’s eye upon a child at 
 play, or at a page in an old book of voyages, or even at his own rest- 
 less and isolated thoughts. This is a conjecture, however, impossible 
 to prove ; and we only throw it out in justice to an original genius. 
 After all, it would make little difference; for Selkirk was not Crusoe, 
 nor did lie see the ghost of a human footstep, nor obtain a man Friday. 
 Hie inhabitant of the island avas De Foe himself. 
 
 May we add, nevertheless, that when De Foe thought himself most 
 himself, he was least clever and least pleasant? We were not so dis- 
 appointed with the Second Part of Crusoe as we expected to be, whea 
 we read the book over again the other day, but still it is very infe- 
 rior ; not wanted ; not even of a piece ; for Crusoe’s isolation is the 
 charm. Who cares, after that, for a common settlement? We dread 
 even the remaining of the savages on the island ; not for fear they 
 should eat Robinson, but lest they should become friends with him, 
 and make up a dinner-party. Man Friday is quite enough. lie is 
 single and subordinate, and does but administer to the superiority of 
 his master. 
 
 De Foe did better with one person than with many. He was a 
 very honest man, and very good at conceiving matters of tact ; but it 
 is curious to see how impossible he finds it, even in a fiction, to present 
 any thing to his imagination which does not come palpably home to a 
 man’s worldly or other-worldly interest and importance ; and how 
 fond he is, whether alone or in company, of being all in all ; of play- 
 ing the “ monarch of all he surveys,” and dictating people’s religion 
 and politics to them the moment he catches a listener. He was the 
 prose half of as inventive a genius as ever existed : and his footstep on 
 the sea-shore has left its mark within the borders of the greatest poetry ; 
 but it originated, so to speak, in the same intense spirit of self-reference. 
 It was the one isolated Robinson Crusoe reflected by some one other 
 tremendous individual, come to contest with him his safety and his in- 
 dependence. The abstract idea of a multitude followed it ; but what 
 would their presence have been in comparison ? What would a thou- 
 sand footsteps have been ? The face of things would have been changed 
 at once, and Crusoe’s face have no longer matched it. All the savages 
 
ROBINSON CRUSOE. 
 
 55 
 
 afterwards never tread out that footmark : nor does Crusoe allow them 
 to remain, and run the chance of it. 
 
 It is observable, that De Foe never invented a hero to write about 
 greater than himself ; while, at the same time, he willingly recorded 
 such as were inferior. No rogue or vagabond came amiss to him, any 
 more than a mariner or a merchant. And it is curious to consider how 
 heartily such a minute dealer in matter of fact could set about telling 
 a lie ; — at least what a deliberate and successful one he told about the 
 Ghost of Mrs. Veal ; a long-credited fiction which he invented at the 
 request of a bookseller, in order to sell a devout publication. His His- 
 tory of the Plague was long considered equally true, and reaped a like 
 success. But the fact is, it is a mistake to suppose De Foe a lover of 
 truth in any other sense than that of a workman’s love for his tools, or 
 for any other purpose than that of a masterly use of it, and a conscious- 
 ness of the mastery. We do not mean to dispute his veracity between 
 man and man : though his peculiar genius may not have been without 
 its recommendation of him to that secret government agency in which 
 he was at one time employed under his hero, William the Third. But. 
 the singularly material and mechanical nature of that genius, great as 
 it was, while it hindered him from missing no impressions which could 
 be made personally on himself as a creature of flesh and blood, kept 
 him uri embarrassed with any of the more perplexing truths suggessted 
 by too much thought and by imaginations poetical ; and hence it :s, 
 that defect itself conspired to perfect and keep clear his astonishing 
 impress of matter of fact, and render him an object of admiration, 
 great, but not of an exalted kind. De Foe was in one respect as 
 unvulgar a man as can be conceived ; nobody but Swift could have sur- 
 passed him in such a work as Robinson Crusoe ; yet we cannot conceal 
 from ourselves, that something vulgar adheres to our idea of the author 
 of Moll Flanders, the Complete English Tradesman , and even of Robin- 
 son himself. He has no music, no thorough style, no accomplishments, 
 no love ; but he can make wonderful shift without them all ; was great 
 in the company of man Friday ; and he has rendered his shipwrecked 
 solitary immortal. 
 
56 
 
 CRUSOE'S MEDITATIONS 
 
 crusoe’s meditations and mode of life. 
 
 evil. 
 
 I AM cast upon an horrible 
 desolate island : void of 
 all hope of recovery. 
 
 I am singled out and sep- 
 arated as it were from the 
 world, to be miserable. 
 
 I am divided from man- 
 kind, a solitary, one banish- 
 ed from human society. 
 
 I have no clothes to cover 
 
 me. 
 
 I am without any defence 
 or means to resist any vio- 
 lence of man or beast. 
 
 I have no soul to speak 
 to or relieve me. 
 
 GOOD. 
 
 But I am alive, and not 
 drowned, as all my ship’s 
 company was. 
 
 But I am singled out too 
 from all the ship’s crew, to 
 be spared from death ; and 
 He that miraculously saved 
 me from death, can deliver 
 me from this condition. 
 
 But I am not starved and 
 perishing on a barren place, 
 affording no sustenance. 
 
 But I am in an hot cli- 
 mate, where, if I had clothes, 
 I could hardly w’ear them. 
 
 But I am cast upon an 
 island where I see no wild 
 beasts to hurt me, as I saw 
 on the coast of Africa : and 
 what if I had been ship- 
 wrecked there ? 
 
 But God wonderfully sent 
 the ship in, near enough to 
 the shore, that I have gotten 
 out so many necessary things, 
 as will either supply my wants 
 or enable me to supply my- 
 self, even as long as I live. 
 
 testimony that 
 
 Upon the whole, here was an undoubted 
 
AND MODE OF LIFE. 
 
 57 
 
 there was scarce any condition in the world so miserable, 
 but there was something negative, or something positive, to 
 be thankful in it ; and let this stand as a direction from the 
 experience of the most miserable of all conditions in this 
 world, that we may always find in it something to comfort 
 ourselves from, and to set, in the description of good and 
 evil, on the credit side of the account. 
 
 You are to understand that I now had, as I may call it, 
 two plantations in the island : one, my little fortification or 
 tent, with the wall about it, under the rock, with the cave 
 behind me, which by this time I had enlarged into several 
 apartments or caves, one within another. One of these, 
 which was the driest and largest, and had a door out beyond 
 my wall or fortification, that is to say, beyond where my wall 
 joined to the rock, was all filled up with the large earthen 
 pots, of which I have given an account, and with fourteen or 
 fifteen great baskets, which would hold five or six bushels 
 each, where I laid up my stores of provision, especially my 
 corn ; some in the ear, cut off short from the straw, and the 
 other rubbed out with my hand. 
 
 As for my wall, made, as before, with long stakes or 
 piles, those piles grew all like trees, and were by this time 
 grown so big, and spread so very much, that there was not 
 the least appearance, to any one’s view, of any habitation 
 behind them. 
 
 Near this dwelling of mine, but a little farther within 
 the land, and upon lower ground, lay my two pieces of corn- 
 ground ; which I kept duly cultivated and sowed, and which 
 duly yielded me their harvest in its season ; and whenever 
 I had occasion for more corn, I had more land adjoining as 
 fit as that. 
 
 Besides this, I had my country seat, and I had now a 
 tolerable plantation there also ; for first, I had my little 
 3 * 
 
58 CRUSOE'S MEDITATIONS AND MODE OF LIFE. 
 
 bower, as I called it, which I kept in repair ; that is to say, 
 I kept the hedge which circled it in constantly fitted up to 
 its usual height, the ladder standing always in the inside ; 
 I kept the trees, which at first were no more than my stakes, 
 Nut were now grown very firm and tall ; I kept them always 
 jo cut, that they might spread and grow thick and wild, and 
 make the more agreeable shade, which they did effectually 
 to my mind. In the middle of this I had my tent always 
 standing, being a piece of a sail spread over poles setup for 
 that purpose, and which never wanted any repair or renew- 
 ing ; and under this I had made me a squab or couch, with 
 the skins of the creatures I had killed, and with other soft 
 things, and a blanket laid on them, such as belonged to our 
 sea-bedding, which I had saved, and a great watch-coat to 
 cover me ; and here, whenever I had occasion to be absent 
 from my chief seat, I took up my country habitation. 
 
 Adjoining to this I had my inclosures for my cattle, that 
 is to say, my goats ; and as I had taken an inconceivable 
 deal of pains to fence and inclose this ground, I was so un- 
 easy to see it kept entire, lest the goats should break through, 
 that I never left off, till with infinite labour I had stuck the 
 outside of the hedge so full of small stakes, and so near to 
 one another, that it was rather a pale than a hedge, and 
 there was scarce room to put a hand through between them ; 
 which, afterwards, when those stakes grew, as they all did 
 in the next rainy season, made the inclosure strong, like a 
 wall ; indeed stronger than any wall. 
 
 This will testify for me that I was not idle, and that I 
 spared no pains to bring to pass whatever appeared neces- 
 sary for my comfortable support : for I considered, the keep- 
 ing up a breed of tame creatures thus at my hand would be 
 a living magazine of flesh, milk, butter, and cheese for me 
 as long as I lived in the place, if it were to be forty years; 
 
CRUSOE FINDS THE FEINT OF A FOOT. 
 
 59 
 
 and that keeping them in my reach depended entirely upon 
 my perfecting my inclosures to such a degree, that I might 
 be sure of keeping them together : which, by this method, 
 indeed, I so effectually secured, that when these little stakes 
 began to grow, I had planted them so very thick, I was 
 forced to pull some of them up again. 
 
 In this place also I had my grapes growing, which J 
 principally depended on for my winter store of raisins, and 
 which I never failed to preserve very carefully, as the best 
 and most agreeable dainty of my whole diet : and, indeed, 
 they were not agreeable only, but physical, wholesome, nour- 
 ishing, and refreshing to the last degree. 
 
 As this was also about half way between my other habi- 
 tation and the place where I had laid up my boat, I gene- 
 rally staid and lay here in my w T ay thither; for I used fre- 
 quently to visit my boat, and I kept all things about or 
 belonging to her in very good order : sometimes I went out 
 in her to divert myself, but no nlore hazardous voyages would 
 I go, nor scarce ever above a stone’s cast or two from the 
 shore, I was so apprehensive of being hurried out of my 
 knowledge again by the currents or winds, or any other 
 accident. But now I come to a new scene of my life. 
 
 HE FINDS THE PRINT OF A MAN’S FOOT ON THE SEA- SHORE. 
 
 It happened one day about noon, going towards my 
 boat, I was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man’s 
 naked foot on the shore, which was very plain to be seen 
 in the sand : 1 stood like one thunderstruck, or as if I had 
 seen an apparition ; I listened, I looked round me, I could 
 hear nothing, nor see anything ; I went up to a rising 
 ground to look farther ; I went up the shore, and down the 
 
GO 
 
 CRUSOE FIRES THE PRINT OF 
 
 shore, but it was all one ; I could see no other impression 
 but that one. I went to it again to see if there were any 
 more, and to observe if it might not be my fancy ; Jbut there 
 was no room for that, for there was exactly the very print 
 of a foot, toes, heel, and every part of a foot ; how it came 
 thither I knew not, nor could in the least imagine. But 
 after innumerable fluttering thoughts, like a man perfectly 
 confused and out of myself, I came home to my fortifica- 
 tion, not feeling, as we say, the ground I went on, but 
 terrified to the last degree, looking behind me at every two 
 or three steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and fancying 
 every stump at a distance to be a man ; nor is it possible 
 to describe how many various shapes an affrighted imagina- 
 tion represented things to me in ; how many wild ideas 
 were formed every moment in my fancy, and what strange 
 unaccountable whimsies came into my thoughts by the way. 
 
 When I came to my castle, for so I think I called it 
 ever after this, I fled into it like one pursued ; whether I 
 went over by the ladder, as first contrived, or went in at 
 the hole in the rock, which I called a door, I cannot re- 
 member : for never frighted hare fled to cover, or fox to 
 earth, with more terror of mind than I to this retreat. 
 
 I had no sleep that night ; the farther I was from the 
 occasion of my fright, the greater my apprehensions were ; 
 which is something contrary to the nature of such things, 
 and especially to the usual practice of all creatures in fear. 
 But I was so embarrassed with my own frightful ideas of 
 the thing, that I formed nothing but dismal imaginations 
 to myself, even though I was now a great way off it. 
 Sometimes I fancied it must be the devil ; and reason join- 
 ed with me upon this supposition ; for how should any other 
 thing in human shape come into the place ? Where was 
 the vessel that brought them ? What marks were there of 
 
A MAN'S FOOT ON THE SEA-SHORE. 
 
 61 
 
 any other footsteps ? and how was it possible a man should 
 come there ? But then to think that Satan should take 
 humaii shape upon him in such a place, where there could 
 be no manner of occasion for it, but to leave the print of 
 his foot behind him, and that even for no purpose too (for 
 he could not be sure I should see it) ; this was an amaze- 
 ment the other way. I considered that the devil might 
 have found out abundance of other ways to have terrified 
 me, than this of the single print of a foot ; that as I lived 
 quite on the other side of the island, he would never have 
 been so simple to leave a mark in a place where it was ten 
 thousand to one whether I should ever see it or not ; and 
 in the sand too, which the first surge of the sea upon an 
 high wind would have defaced entirely. All this seemed 
 inconsistent with the thing itself, and with all notions we 
 usually entertain of the subtlety of the devil. 
 
 Abundance of such things as these assisted to argue me 
 out of all apprehensions of its 'being the devil; and I pre- 
 sently concluded then, that it must be some more danger- 
 ous creature, viz., that it must be some of the savages of the 
 mainland over against me, who had wandered out to sea in 
 their canoes ; and, either driven by the currents, or by con- 
 trary winds, had made the island ; and had been on shore, 
 but were gone away again to sea, being as loath, perhaps, 
 to have staid in this desolate island, as I would have been 
 to have had them. 
 
 While these reflections were rolling upon my mind, I 
 was very thankful in my thought, that I was so happy as 
 not to be thereabouts at that time, or that they did not see 
 my boat, by which they would have concluded that some 
 inhabitants had been in the place, and, perhaps, have search- 
 ed further for me. Then terrible thoughts racked my ima- 
 ginations about their having found my boat, and that there 
 
02 CRUSOE FINDS THE FEINT OF A FOOT 
 
 were people here ; and that, if so, I should certainly have 
 them come again in greater numbers, and devour me ; that, 
 if it should happen so that they should not find me, yet 
 they would find my inclosure, destroy all my corn, carry 
 away all my stock of tame goats, and I should perish at last 
 for mere want. 
 
 Thus my fear banished all my religious hope. All that 
 former confidence in God, which was founded upon such 
 wonderful experience, as I had had of his goodness, now 
 vanished ; as if he that had fed me by a miracle hitherto, 
 could not preserve by his power the provision which he had 
 made for me by his goodness. I reproached myself with 
 my easiness, that would not sow any more corn one year 
 than would just serve me until the next season, as if no 
 accident could intervene to prevent my enjoying the crop 
 that was upon the ground ; and this I thought so just a re- 
 proof, that I resolved for the future to have two or three 
 years’ corn beforehand, so that whatever might come, I 
 might not perish for want of bread. 
 
 How strange a chequer-work of Providence is the life of 
 man ! and by what secret differing springs are the affections 
 hurried about, as differing circumstances present ! To-day 
 we love what to-morrow we hate ; to-day we seek what to- 
 morrow we shun ; to-day we desire what to-morrow we fear, 
 nay, even tremble at the apprehensions of. This was ex- 
 emplified in me at this time in the most lively manner 
 imaginable ; for I, whose only affliction was, that I seemed 
 banished from human society ; that I was alone, circum- 
 scribed by the boundless ocean, cut off from mankind, and 
 condemned to what I call a silent life ; that I was as one 
 whom Heaven thought not worthy to be numbered among 
 the living, or to appear among the rest of his creatures; that 
 to have seen one of my own species would have seemed to 
 
HE SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAND. 
 
 63 
 
 me a raising me from death to life, and the greatest bless- 
 ing that Heaven itself, next to the supreme blessing of 
 Salvation, could bestow ; I say, that I should now tremble 
 at the very apprehension of seeing a man, and was ready 
 to sink into the ground at but the shadow or silent appear- 
 ance of a man’s having set his foot on the island. 
 
 HE SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAND, AND OBTAINS A SERVANT. 
 
 In the middle of these cogitations, apprehensions, and 
 reflections, it came into my thoughts one day, that all this 
 might be a mere chimera of my own, and that this foot might 
 be the print of my own foot, when I came on shore from 
 my boat. This cheered me up a little too, and I began to 
 persuade myself it was all a delusion ; that it was nothing 
 else but my own foot ; and why might not I come that way 
 from the boat, as well as I was going that way to the boat ? 
 Again I considered also, that I' could by no means tell for 
 certain where I had trod, and where I had not ; and that if 
 at last this was only the print of my own foot, I had played 
 the part of those fools who strive to make stories of spectres 
 and apparitions, and then are themselves frighted at them 
 more than anybody else. 
 
 Now I began to take courage, and to peep abroad again: 
 for I had not stirred out of my castle for three days and 
 nights, so that I began to starve for provision ; for I had 
 little or nothing within doors, but some barley-cakes and 
 water. Then I knew that my goats wanted to be milked, 
 too, which usually was my evening diversion ; and the poor 
 creatures were in great pain and inconvenience for want of 
 it; and indeed it almost spoiled some of them, and almost 
 diled up their milk. 
 
 Heartening myself therefore with the belief that this 
 
61 
 
 HE SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAND , 
 
 was nothing but the print of one of my own feet (and so 1 
 might be truly said to start at my own shadow), I began to 
 go abroad again, and went to my country house to milk my 
 flock. But to see with what fear I w T ent forward, how often 
 I looked behind me, how I was ready every now and then 
 to lay down my basket and run for my life, it would have 
 made any one have thought I was haunted with an evil 
 conscience, or that I had been lately most terribly frighted ; 
 and so indeed I had. 
 
 However, as I went down thus two or three days, and 
 having seen nothing, I began to be a little bolder, and to 
 think there was really nothing in it but my own imagina- 
 tion ; but I could not persuade myself fully of this, till I 
 should go down to the shore again, and see this print of a 
 foot, and measure it by my own, and see if there was any 
 similitude or fitness, that I might be assured it was my own 
 foot : but when I came to the place, first it appeared evi- 
 dently to me that when I laid up my boat, I could not pos- 
 sibly be on shore any wdiere thereabouts; secondly, when I 
 came to measure the mark with my own foot, I found my 
 foot not so long by a great deal. Both these things filled 
 my head with new imaginations, and gave me the vapours 
 again to the highest degree ; so that I shook with cold, like 
 one in an ague ; and I went home again filled with a belief, 
 that some man or men had been on shore there ; or, in 
 short, that the island was inhabited, and I might be sur- 
 prised before I was aware ; and what course to take for my 
 security I knew not. 
 
 About a year and a half after I had entertained these 
 notions, and by long musing had, as it were, resolved them 
 all into nothing, I was surprised one morning early with 
 seeing no less than five canoes all on shore together, on my 
 side the island, and the people who belonged to them all 
 
AND OBTAINS A SERVANT 
 
 65 
 
 landed and out of my sight. The number of them broke 
 all my measures ; for seeing so many, and knowing that 
 they always came four or six or sometimes more in a boat, 
 I could not tell what to think of it, or how to take my 
 measures, to attack twenty or thirty men single-handed ; 
 so I lay still in my castle, perplexed and discomforted; 
 hewever, I put myself into all the same postures for an 
 attack that I had formerly provided, and was just ready for 
 action, if anything had presented itself, having waited a 
 good while listening to hear if they made any noise. At 
 length, being very impatient, I set my guns at the foot of 
 my ladder, and clambered up to the top of the hill by my 
 two stages as usual ; standing so, however, that my head 
 did not appear above the hill : so that they could not per- 
 ceive me by any means. Here I observed, by the help of 
 my perspective glass, that there were no less than thirty 
 in number, that they bad a fire kindled, and that they had 
 meat dressed ; how they cooked it, that I knew not, or what 
 it was ; but they were all dancing in I know not how many 
 barbarous gestures and figures, their own way, round the 
 fire. 
 
 When I was thus looking on them, I perceived by my 
 perspective two miserable wretches dragged from the boats, 
 where it seems they were laid by, and were now brought 
 out for the slaughter. I perceived one of them immediate- 
 ly fall, being knocked down, I suppose, with a club or 
 wooden sword, for that was their way ; and two or three 
 others were at work immediately, cutting him open for 
 their cookery, while the other victim was left standing by 
 himself till they should be ready for him. In that very mo- 
 ment, this poor wretch seeing himself a little at liberty, 
 nature inspired him with hopes of life, and he started away 
 from them, and ran along the sands with incredible swift- 
 
G6 SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAND , 
 
 ness dire ctly towards me ; I mean towards that part of tlio 
 coast where my habitation was. 
 
 I was dreadfully frighted (that I must acknowledge) 
 when I perceived him to run my way ; and especially when, 
 as I thought, I saw him pursued by the whole body. There 
 was between them and my castle the creek, which I men- 
 tioned often at the first part of my story, when I landed 
 my cargoes out of the ship ; and this I knew he must ne- 
 cessarily swim over, or the poor wretch would be taken 
 there ; but when the savage escaping came thither, he made 
 nothing of it, though the tide was then up ; but plunging 
 in, swam through in about thirty strokes or thereabouts, 
 landed, and ran on with exceeding strength and swiftness. 
 When the three pursuers came to the creek, I found that 
 two of them could swim, but the third could not, and that 
 he, standing on the other side, looked at the others, but 
 went no farther, and soon after went softly back again ; 
 which, as it happened, was very well for him in the main. 
 
 I observed that the two who swam were yet more than 
 twice as long swimming over the creek than the fellow was 
 that fled from them ; it came now very warmly upon my 
 thoughts, and indeed irresistibly, that now was my time to 
 get me a servant, and perhaps a companion or assistant, 
 and that I was called plainly by Providence to save this 
 poor creature’s life. I immediately got down the ladder 
 with all possible expedition, fetched my two guns, for they 
 were both at the foot of the ladder, as I observed above ; 
 and getting up again with the same haste to the top of the 
 hill, I crossed towards the sea ; and, having a very short 
 cut, and all down hill, clapped myself in the way between 
 the pursuers and the pursued, hallooing aloud to him that 
 fled, who looking back, was at first perhaps as much fright 
 ened at me as at them ; but I beckoned with my hand to 
 
AND OBTAINS A SERVANT. 
 
 67 
 
 him to come back ; and in the meantime I slowly advanced 
 towards the two that followed ; then rushing at once upon 
 the foremost, I knocked him down with the stock of my 
 piece : I was loath to fire, because I would not have the rest 
 hear ; though at that distance it would not have been easily 
 heard ; and being out of sight of the smoke too, they would 
 not have easily known what to make of it. Having knocked 
 this fellow down, the other who pursued him stopped, as if 
 he had been frightened, and I advanced a pace towards 
 him ; but as I came nearer, I perceived presently he had a 
 bow and arrow, and was fitting it to shoot at me ; so I was 
 then necessitated to shoot at him first, which I did, and 
 killed him at the first shot. The poor savage w T ho fled but 
 had stopped, though he saw both his enemies fallen and 
 killed (as he thought), yet was so frighted with the fire and 
 noise of my piece, that he stood stock-still, and neither 
 came forward nor went backward, though he seemed rather 
 inclined to fly still than to come on. I hallooed again to 
 him and made signs to come forward, which he easily un- 
 derstood, and came a little way, then stopped again, and 
 then a little farther, and then stopped again ; and I 
 could then perceive that he stood trembling, as if he had 
 been taken prisoner, and had just been to be killed, as his 
 two enemies were. I beckoned him again to come to me, 
 and gave him all the signs of encouragement that I could 
 think of ; and he came nearer and nearer, kneeling down 
 every ten or twelve steps, in token of acknowledgment for 
 saving his life. I smiled at him and looked pleasantly, and 
 beckoned to him to come still nearer. At length he came 
 close to me, and then he kneeled dow r n again, kissed the 
 ground, and laid his head upon the ground, and taking me 
 by the foot, set my foot upon his head : this, it seems, was 
 in token of swearing to be my slave for ever T took him 
 
63 
 
 HE SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAND , 
 
 up, and made much of him. and encouraged him all I could 
 But there was more work to do yet ; for I perceived the 
 savage whom I knocked down was not killed, but stunned 
 with the blow, and began to come to himself ; so I pointed 
 to him, and showed him the savage, that he was not dead ; 
 upon this he spoke some words to me, and though I could 
 not understand them, yet I thought they were pleasant to 
 hear, for they were the first sound of a man’s voice that I had 
 heard (my own excepted) for above five-and-twenty years : 
 but there was no time for such reflections now : the savage 
 who was knocked down recovered himself so far as to sit 
 up upon the ground ; and I perceived that my savage be- 
 gan to be afraid ; but when I saw that, I presented my 
 other piece at the man, as if I would shoot him ; upon this 
 my savage, for so I call him now, made a motion to me to 
 lend him my sword, which hung naked in a belt by my 
 side ; so I did : he no sooner had it but he runs to his 
 enemy, and at one blow cut off his head so cleverly, no ex- 
 ecutioner in Germany could have done it sooner or better ; 
 which I thought it very strange for one who, I had reason 
 to believe, never saw a sword in his life before, except their 
 own wooden swords ; however, it seems, as I learned after- 
 wards, they made their wooden swords so sharp, so heavy, 
 and the wood is so hard, that they will cut off heads even 
 with them, ay, and arms, and that at one blow too. When 
 he had done this, he comes laughing to me in sign of 
 triumph, and brought me the sword again ; and with abun- 
 dance of gestures, which I did not understand, laid it down, 
 with the head of the savage that he had killed just before me. 
 
 But that which astonished him most was, to know how 
 I had killed the other Indian so far off : so pointing to him, 
 he made signs to me to let him go to him : so I bade him 
 go as well as I could. When he came to him he stood like 
 
AND OBTAINS A SERVANT. 
 
 69 
 
 one amazed, looking at him ; turning him first on one side, 
 then on the other ; looked at the wound the bullet had 
 made, which, it seems, was just in his breast, where it had 
 made an hole, and no great quantity of blood had followed ; 
 but he had bled inwardly, for he was quite dead. Then 
 lie took up liis bow and arrows, and came back ; so I turned 
 to go away, and beckoned to him to follow me, making signs 
 to him, that more might come after them. 
 
 Upon this he signified to me, that he should bury them 
 with sand, that they might not be seen by the rest, if they 
 followed ; and so I made signs again to him to do so. He 
 fell to work, and in an instant he had scraped an hole in the 
 sand with his hands big enough to bury the first in, and 
 then dragged him into it, and covered him ; and did so also 
 by the other. I believe he had buried them both in a 
 quarter of an hour. Then calling him away, I carried him, 
 not to my castle, but quite away to my cave, on the farther 
 part of the island. 
 
 Here I gave him bread, and a bunch of raisins to eat, 
 and a draught of water, which I found he was indeed in 
 great distress for by his running ; and having refreshed 
 himself, I made signs for him to go lie down and sleep, 
 pointing to a place where I had laid a great parcel of rice 
 straw, and a blanket upon it, which I used to sleep upon 
 myself sometimes ; so the poor creature lay down, and 
 went to sleep. 
 
 He was a comely, handsome fellow, perfectly well-made, 
 with straight long limbs, not too large, tall, and well- 
 shaped ; and, as I reckon, about twenty-six years of age. 
 He had a very good countenance, not a fierce and surly 
 aspect, but seemed to have something very manly in his 
 face, and yet he had all the sweetness and softness of an 
 European in his countenance too, especially when he smiled ; 
 
70 
 
 HE SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAND , 
 
 his hair was long and black, not curled like wool ; his fore- 
 head very high and large, and a great vivacity and spark- 
 ling sharpness in his eyes. The colour of his skin was not 
 quite black, but very tawny and yet not of an ugly, yellow, 
 nauseous tawny, as the Brazilians, and Virginians, and other 
 natives of America are, but of a bright kind of a dun olive 
 colour, that had something in it very agreeable, though not 
 very easy to describe. His face was round and plump, his 
 nose small, not flat like the Negroes; a very good mouth, 
 thin lips, and his teeth fine, well set, and white as ivory. 
 After he had slumbered rather than slept, about half an 
 hour, he waked again, and comes out of the cave to me, for 
 I had been milking my goats, which I had in the inclosure 
 just by. When he espied me, he came running to me, lay- 
 ing himself down again upon the ground, with all the possi- 
 ble signs of an humble thankful disposition, making many 
 antick gestures to show it. At last lie lays his head flat 
 upon the ground, close to my foot, and sets my other foot 
 upon his head, as he had done before ; and after this, made 
 all the signs to me of subjection, servitude, and submission 
 imaginable, to let me know how much he would serve me as 
 long as he lived. I understood him in many things, and let 
 him know I was very well pleased with him. In a little 
 time I began to speak to him, and teach him to speak to 
 me ; at first I made him know his name should be Friday, 
 which was the day I saved his life, and I called him so in 
 memory of the time. I likewise taught him to say, 61 Mas- 
 ter,” and then let him know that was to be my name ; I 
 likewise taught him to say Yes and No, and to know the 
 meaning of them ; I gave him some milk in an earthen pot, 
 and let him see me drink it before him, and sop my bread 
 in it, and I gave him a cake of bread to do the like, which 
 he quickly complied with, and made signs that it was very 
 good for him. 
 
AND OBTAINS A SERVANT. 
 
 71 
 
 I kept there with him all that night, but as soon as it 
 was day, I beckoned him to come with me, and let him 
 know I would give him some clothes, at which he seemed 
 very glad, for he was stark-naked. As he went by the 
 place where he had buried the two men, he pointed exactly 
 to the spot, and showed me the marks that he had made to 
 find them again, making signs to me that he would dig them 
 ip again and eat them ; at this I appeared very angry, ex 
 pressed my abhorrence of it, made as if I would vomit at 
 the thoughts of it, and beckoned with my hand to him to 
 come away, which he did immediately with great submis- 
 sion. I then led him up to the top of the hill, to see if his 
 enemies were gone ; and pulling out my glass, I looked, and 
 saw plainly the place where they had been, but no appear- 
 ance of them or their canoes ; so that it was plain that they 
 were gone, and had left their two comrades behind them, 
 without any search after them. 
 
 But I was not content with this discovery ; but having 
 now more courage, and consequently more curiosity, I took 
 my man Friday with me, giving him the sword in his hand, 
 with the bow and arrows at his back, which I found he 
 could use very dexterously, making him carry one gun for 
 me, and I two for myself, and away we marched to the 
 place where these creatures had been ; for I had a mind 
 now to get some fuller intelligence of them. When I came 
 to the place, my very blood ran chill in my veins, and my 
 heart sunk within me at the horror of the spectacle. Indeed 
 it was a dreadful sight ; at least it was so to me, though 
 Friday made nothing of it. The place was covered with 
 human bones, the ground dyed with the blood, great pieces 
 of flesh left here and there half eaten, mangled, and 
 scorched ; and in short, all the tokens of the triumphant 
 feast they had been making there, after a victory over their 
 
72 
 
 HE SEES SAVAGES ON THE ISLAND . 
 
 enemies. I saw three skulls, five hands, and the bones of 
 three or four legs and feet, and abundance of other parts of 
 the bodies ; and Friday, by his signs, made me understand, 
 that they brought over four prisoners to feast upon ; that 
 three of them were eaten up, and that he (pointing to him- 
 self) was the fourth ; that there had been a great battle 
 between them and their next king, whose subjects, it seems, 
 he had been one of ; and that they had taken a great num- 
 ber of prisoners, all which were carried to several places by 
 those that had taken them in the fight, in order to feast 
 upon them, as was done here by these wretches upon those 
 they brought hither. 
 
 I caused Friday to gather all the skulls, bones, flesh, and 
 whatever remained, and lay them together on an heap, and 
 make a great fire upon it and burn them all to ashes. I found 
 Friday had still a hankering stomach after some of the flesh, 
 and was still a cannibal in his nature ; but I discovered so 
 much abhorrence at the very thoughts of it, and at the least 
 appearance of it, that he durst not discover it ; for I had, by 
 some means, let him know, that I would kill him if he offered 
 it. 
 
 When we had done this, we came back to our castle, and 
 there I fell to work for my man Friday. 
 
'prttr Minus's Bisrnnmi nf a /h|ing iUmnau 
 
 The Life and Adventures of Peter Wilkins , a Cornish man , is the 
 only imitation of Robinson Crusoe that has stood its ground, with the 
 exception of the inferior, but still not unmeritorious History of Philip 
 Quarll. It is a Crusoe with the novelty of a Flying people ; as Quarll 
 is another, with the substitution of an affectionate ape, or Chimpanzee, 
 for Man Friday. The modest author, who seems to have taken no 
 steps to make either himself or his book known, has been but lately 
 discovered ; if indeed the receiver of the money for its copyright was 
 the same person. And it is most likely he was, the initials by which 
 the dedication of the work is signed being those of the receiver’s name. 
 The circumstances of the discovery is thus stated in the latest edition, 
 published by Mr. Smith of Fleet Street. 
 
 “In the year 1835, Mr. Nicol, the planter, sold by auction a number 
 of books and manuscripts in his possession, which had formerly be- 
 longed to the well-known publisher Dodsley ; and in arranging them 
 for sale, the original agreement for the sale of the manuscript of ‘Peter 
 Wilkins,’ by the author, ‘Robert Pultock of Clement’s Inn,’ to Dodsley, 
 was discovered. From this document it appears, that Mr. Pultock 
 received twenty pounds, twelve copies of the work, and ‘ cuts of the 
 first impression,’ i. e a set of proof impressions of the fanciful engrav- 
 ings that professed to illustrate the first edition, as the price of the 
 entire copyright. This curious document was sold to John Wilks, 
 Esq., M. P., on the 17th of December, 1835.” 
 
 The reader will observe, that the words “by the author,” in this 
 extract, are not accompanied by marks of quotation. The fact, how- 
 ever, is stated as if he knew it for such, by the quoter of the document. 
 
 The Dedication is to Elizabeth, Countess of Northumberland, the 
 
74 
 
 PETER WILKINS'S DISCOVERY 
 
 lady to whom Percy addressed his Reliques of Ancient English Poetry 
 She was a Wriothesley, descended of Shakspenre’s Earl of South- 
 ampton, and appeal's to have been a very amiable woman. “R. P.” 
 professes himself to be under obligations to her; and says, that it was 
 after the pattern of her virtues that he drew the “mind” of hi* 
 Youwarkee. 
 
 It is interesting to fancy “R. P.,” or “Mr. Robert Pultock of 
 Clement’s Inn,” a gentle lover of books, not successful enough perhaps 
 as a barrister to lead a public or profitable life, but eking out a little 
 employment, or a bit of a patrimony, witb literature congenial to him, 
 and looking oftener to Purchases Pilgrims on his shelves than to Coke 
 upon Littleton. We picture him to ourselves, with Robinson Crusoe 
 on one side of him, and Gaudentio di Lucca on the other, hearing the 
 pen go over his paper in one of those quiet rooms in Clement’s Inn, 
 that look out of its old-fashioned buildings into the little garden with 
 the dial in it, held by the negro; one of the prettiest corners in London, 
 and extremely fit for a sequestered fancy that cannot get any farther. 
 There he sits, the unknown, ingenious, and amiable Mr. Robert Pultock, 
 thinking of an imaginary beauty for want of a better; and creating 
 her for the delight of posterity, though his contemporaries were to 
 know little or nothing of her. We shall never go through the place 
 again, without regarding him as its crowning interest. 
 
 Peter Wilkins is no common production in any respect, though it is 
 far inferior to Crusoe in contrivance and detail ; and falls off, like all 
 these imaginary works, in the latter part, when they begin laying 
 down the law in politics and religion. It has been well observed too, 
 that the author has not made his Flying People in general light and 
 airy enough, or of sufficiently unvulgar materials, either in body or 
 mind, to warrant the ethereal advantages of their wings. And it may 
 be said on the other hand, that the kind of wing, the graundee, or 
 elastic natural drapery, which opens and shuts at pleasure, however 
 ingeniously and even beautifully contrived, would necessitate a crea- 
 ture,. whose modifications of humanity, bodily and mental, though 
 ne.ver so good after their kind, might have startled the inventor had 
 he been more of a naturalist; might have developed a being very 
 different from the feminine, sympathizing, and lovely Youwarkee. 
 Muscles and nerves, not human, must have been associated with 
 inhuman wants and feelings; probably have necessitated talons and a 
 beak! At best* the wornae would have been wilder; more elvish, 
 
OF THE FLYING WOMAN. 
 
 75 
 
 capricious, and unaccountable. She would haye ruffled her whale- 
 bones when angry ; been horribly intimate perhaps with birds’ nests, 
 and fights with eagles; and frightened Wilkins out of his wits with 
 dashing betwixt rocks, and pulling the noses of seals and gulls. So far 
 the book is wanting in verisimilitude and imagination. 
 
 But then how willing we are to gain the fair winged creature at 
 the expense of Zoonomy ! and after all, how founded in nature itself is 
 the human desire to fly! We do so in dreams: we all long for the 
 power when children : we think of it in poetry and in sorrow. “ Oh 
 that I had the wings of a dove ! then would I fly away and be at rest.” 
 Wilkins fled away into a beautiful twilight country, far from his un- 
 resting self and vulgar daylight; and not being able to give himself 
 wings, he invented a wife that had them instead. Now a sweeter 
 creature is not to be found in books; and she does him immortal 
 honour. She is all tenderness and vivacity ; all born good taste and 
 blessed companionship. Her pleasure consists but in his : she prevents 
 all his wishes ; has neither prudery nor immodesty ; sheds not a tear 
 but from right feeling ; is the good of his home, and the grace of his 
 fancy. It is a pity the account of his bridal cannot be given ; for never 
 were love and purity better united; but to draw it forth from the 
 general history, might give it in too ljiany eyes a freedom which does 
 not belong to it. We must content ourselves with extracting the 
 account of the charmer’s discovery, and of the way in which Peter 
 first became acquainted with her powers of flight. The voices which 
 he hears at night, the fall of some unknown weight at his door, the 
 puzzle about the graundee that has been slit, and the first movements 
 of the winged beauty over the lake, are all points particularly well-felt 
 and interesting. 
 
 The reader is to understand, that Peter had by this time settled 
 himself, d la Crusoe , in his solitary abode ; which is in a cavern by the 
 side of a lake, into which he had been drifted through a long subter- 
 raneous passage from the sea. It was a very beautiful place, but so far 
 out of the ordinary course of the sun, that “the brightest daylight 
 never exceeded that of half an hour after sunset in the summer-time in 
 England, and little more than just reddened the sky.” In consequence 
 of this nature of her climate, .Youwarkee was in all respects a very 
 tender-eyed thing, and could not bear a strong light. 
 
76 
 
 PETER WILKIE S' S DISCOVERY 
 
 I II AD now well stored my grotto with all sorts of winter 
 provisions ; and feeling the weather grow very cold, I 
 expected, and waited patiently for, the total darkness. I 
 went little abroad, and employed myself within doors, en- 
 deavouring to fence against the approaching extremity of 
 the cold. For this purpose I prepared a quantity of rushes, 
 which being very dry, I spread them smoothly on the floor 
 of my bed-chamber a good thickness, and over them I laid 
 my mattress : then I made a double sheet of the boat’s awn- 
 ing, or sail, that I had brought to cover my goods ; and 
 having skewered together several of the jackets and clothes 
 I found in the chest, of them I made a coverlid ; so that I 
 lay very commodiously, and made very long nights of it. 
 now the dark season was set in. 
 
 As I lay awake one night, or day, I know not whether, 
 I very plainly heard the sound of several human voices, and 
 sometimes very loud ; but though I could easily distinguish 
 the articulations, I could not understand the least word that 
 was said ; nor did the voices seem at all to me like such as 
 I had anywhere heard before, but much softer and more 
 musical. This startled me, and I rose immediately, slip- 
 ping on my clothes and taking my gun in my hand (which 
 I always kept charged, being my constant travelling com- 
 panion), and my cutlass. Thus equipped, I walked into my 
 antechamber, wdiere I heard the voices much plainer ; till, 
 after some little time, they quite died away. After watch- 
 ing here, and hearkening a good while, hearing nothing, I 
 walked back into the grotto, and laid me down again on my 
 bed. I was inclined to open the door of my antechamber, 
 but I own I was afraid ; beside, I considered, that if I did, 
 I could discover nothing at any distance, by reason of the 
 thick and gloomy wood that enclosed me. 
 
OF TEE FLYING WOMAN. 
 
 77 
 
 I had a thousand different surmises about the meaning 
 of this odd incident ; and could not conceive how any human 
 creature should be in my kingdom (as I called it) but my- 
 self, and I never yet see them or any traces of their habita- 
 tion. But then again I reflected, that though I had sur- 
 rounded the whole lake, yet I had not traced the outbounds 
 of the wood, next the rock, where there might be innumer- 
 able grottos like mine ; nay, perhaps some as spacious as 
 that I had sailed through to the lake ; and that though I 
 had not perceived it yet, this beautiful spot might be very 
 well peopled. But, says I again, if there be any such beings 
 as I am fancying here, surely they don’t skulk in their dens, 
 like savage beasts, by daylight, and only patrol for prey by 
 night ; if so, I shall probably become a delicious morsel for 
 them ere long, if they meet with me. This kept me still 
 more within doors than before, and I hardly ever stirred out 
 but for water or firing. At length, hearing no more voices, 
 or seeing any one, I began to be more eomposeel in my mind, 
 and at last grew persuaded it was all a mere delusion, and 
 only a fancy of mine without any real foundation ; and some- 
 times, though I was sure I was fully awake when I heard 
 them, I persuaded myself I had rose in my sleep upon a 
 dream of voices, and recollected with myself the various 
 stories I had heard when a boy of walking in one’s sleep, 
 and the surprising effects of it ; so the whole notion was 
 now blown over. 
 
 I had not enjoyed mj tranquillity above a week, before 
 my fears were roused afresh, hearing the same sound of 
 voices twice the same night, but not many minutes at a 
 time. What gave me most pain w r as, that they were at such 
 a distance, as I judged by the languor of the sound, that 
 if I had opened my door I could not have seen the utterers 
 through the trees, and I was resolved not to venture out ; 
 
78 
 
 PETER WILKINS'S DISCOVERY 
 
 but then I determined, if they should come again, anything 
 near my grotto, to open the door, see who they were, and 
 stand upon my own defence, whatever came of it. For, says 
 I, my entrance is so narrow and high, that more than one 
 cannot come at a time ; and I can with ease dispatch 
 twenty of them, before they can secure me, if they should 
 be savages ; but if they prove sensible human creatures, it 
 will be a great benefit to me to join myself to their society. 
 Thus had I formed my scheme, but I heard no more of 
 them for a great wdiile ; so that at length beginning to grow 
 
 ashamed of my fears, I became tranquil again. 
 
 # # # # 
 
 I passed the summer, though I had never yet seen the 
 sun’s body, very much to my satisfaction, partly in the 
 work I have been describing [he had taken what he calls 
 some “ beast-fish” and got a great quantity of oil from 
 them], partly in building me a chimney in my antechamber, 
 of mud and earth burnt on my own hearth ‘into a sort of 
 brick ; in making a window at one end of the above said 
 chamber, to let in what little light would come through the 
 trees, when I did not choose to open my door ; in moulding 
 an earthen lamp for my oil ; and finally, in providing and 
 laying in stores, fresh and salt ; for I had now cured and 
 dried many more fish against winter. These, I say, were 
 my summer employments at home, intermixed with many 
 agreeable summer excursions. But now the winter coming 
 on, and the days growing very short, or indeed there being 
 no day, properly speaking, but a kind of twilight, I kept 
 mostly in my habitation (though not so much as I had done 
 the winter before, when I had no light within doors) and 
 slept, or at least lay still, great part of my time, for 
 now my lamp was never out. I also turned two of my 
 beast-fish skins into a rug to cover my bed, and the third 
 
OF A FLYING WOMAN, 
 
 79 
 
 into a cushion, which I always sat upon ; and a very soft 
 and warm cushion it made. All this together rendered my 
 life very easy ; yea, even comfortable. 
 
 An indifferent person would now be apt to ask, what 
 w r ould this man desire more than he had ? To this I 
 answer, that I was contented while my condition was such 
 as I have been describing ; but a little while after the dark- 
 ness or twilight came on, I frequently heard the voices 
 again, sometimes a few only at a time, as it seemed, and 
 then again in great numbers. This threw me into new 
 fears, and I became as uneasy as ever, even to the degree 
 of growing quite melancholy ; though otherwise I never 
 received the least injury from anything. I foolishly at- 
 tempted several times, by looking out of window, to dis- 
 cover what these odd sounds proceeded from, though I 
 knew it was too dark to see anything there. 
 
 I was now fully convinced, by a more deliberate atten- 
 tion to them, that they could not be uttered by the beast- 
 fish, as I had before conjectured, but only by beings capable 
 of articulate speech. But then, what or where they were, 
 it galled me to be ignorant of. 
 
 At length, one night or day, I cannot say which, hearing 
 the voices very distinctly, aud praying very earnestly to be 
 either delivered from the uncertainty they had put me 
 under, or to have them removed from me, I took courage, 
 and arming myself with gun, pistols, and cutlass, I went out 
 of my grotto, and crept down the wood. I then heard them 
 plainer than before, and was able to judge from what point 
 of the compass they proceeded. Hereupon I went forward 
 towards the sound till I came to the verge of the wood, 
 where I could see the lake very well by the dazzle of the 
 water. Thereon, as I thought, I beheld a fleet of boats, 
 covering a large compass, and not far from the bridge. I 
 
 BOSTON COLLEGE LIBRARY 
 CHESTNUT HILL, MASS. 
 
SO 
 
 PETER W1L KISS'S DISCOVERY 
 
 was shocked liercat beyond expression : I could not con- 
 ceive where they came from, or whither they would go ; 
 but supposed there must be some other passage to the lake, 
 than I had found in my voyage through the cavern, and 
 that for certain they came that way, and from some place 
 of which as yet I had no manner of knowledge. 
 
 Whilst I was entertaining myself with this speculation, 
 I heard the people in the boats laughing and talking very 
 merrily, though I was too distant to distinguish the words. 
 I discerned soon after all the boats (as I still supposed them) 
 draw up, and push for the bridge ; presently after, though 
 I was sure no boat entered the arch, I saw a multitude of 
 people on the opposite shore, all marching towards the 
 bridge ; and what was the strangest of all, there was not 
 the least sign of a boat left on the lake. I then was in 
 a greater consternation than before ; but was still much 
 more so, when I saw the whole posse of people, that, as I 
 have just said, were marching towards the bridge, coming 
 over it to my side of the lake. At this my heart failed ; 
 and I was just going to run to my grotto for shelter, but 
 taking one look more, I plainly discovered, that the people, 
 leaping one after another from the top of the bridge, as if 
 into the water, and then rising again, flew in a long train 
 over the lake, the lengthways of it, quite out of sight, laugh- 
 ing, hallooing, and sporting together ; so that, looking back 
 again to the bridge and on the lake, I could neither see 
 person, boat, or anything else, nor hear the least noise or stir 
 afterwards for that time. 
 
 I returned to iny grotto brim-full of this amazing adven- 
 ture, bemoaning my misfortune in being at a place where I 
 was likely to remain ignorant of what was doing about me. 
 For, says I, if I am in a land of spirits, as now I have little 
 room to doubt, there is no guarding against them. I am 
 
. OF A FLYING WOMAN. 
 
 81 
 
 never safe, even in my grotto ; for that can be no security 
 against such beings as can sail on the water in no boats, and 
 fly in the air on no wings (as the case now appears to me), 
 who can be here and there, and wherever they please. What a 
 miserable state, I say, am I fallen to ! I should have been 
 glad to have had human converse, and to have found inhabit- 
 ants in this place ; but there being none, as I supposed, 
 hitherto, I contented myself with thinking I was at least 
 safe from all those evils mankind in society are obnoxious 
 to. But now, what may be the consequence of the next 
 hour, I know not ; nay, I am not able to say, but whilst I 
 speak and show my discontent, they may at a distance con- 
 ceive my thoughts, and be hatching revenge against me for 
 my dislike of them. 
 
 The pressure of my spirits inclining me to repose, I laid 
 me down, but could get no rest ; nor could all my most se- 
 rious thoughts, even of the Almighty Providence, give me 
 relief under my present anxiety. And all this was only 
 from my state of uncertainty concerning the reality of what 
 I had heard and seen, and from the earnestness with which 
 I coveted a satisfactory knowledge of those beings who had 
 just taken their flight from me. 
 
 I really believe the fiercest wild beast, or the most 
 savage of mankind that had met me, and put me upon my 
 defence, would not have given me half the trouble that then 
 lay upon me ; and the more, for that I had no seeming 
 possibility of ever being rid of my apprehensions. So find- 
 ing I could not sleep, I got up again; but as I could not fly 
 from myself, all the art I could use with myself was but in 
 vain to obtain me any quiet. 
 
 In the height of my distress I had recourse to prayer, 
 with no small benefit ; begging, that if it pleased not the A1 
 mighty power to remove the object of my fears, at least to 
 4 * 
 
82 
 
 VETER WILKINS' S DISCOVERY 
 
 resolve my doubts about them, and to render them rathei 
 helpful than hurtful to me. I hereupon, as I always did on 
 such occasions, found myself much more placid and easy, 
 and began to hope the best, till I had almost persuaded 
 myself that I was out of danger ; and then laying myself 
 down, I rested very sweetly, till I was awakened by the 
 mpulse of the following dream : 
 
 Methought I was in Cornwall, at my wife’s aunt’s ; and 
 inquiring after her and my children, the old gentlewoman 
 informed me, both my wife and children had been d^ad 
 some time, and that my wife, before her departure, desired 
 her (that is her aunt), immediately upon my arrival, to tell 
 me she was only gone to the lake, where I should be sure 
 to see her, and be happy with her after. I then, as I fancied, 
 ran to the lake to find her. In my passage, she stopped 
 me, crying, Whither so fast, Peter ? I am your wife, your 
 Patty. Methought I did not know her, she was so altered; 
 but observing her voice, I looked more wistfully at her, she 
 appeared to me as the most beautiful creature I ever beheld. 
 I then went to seize her in my arms, and the hurry of my 
 spirits awakened me. 
 
 When I got up, I kept at home, not caring even to look 
 out at my door. My dream ran strangely in my head, and 
 I had now nothing but Patty in my mind. Oh ! cries I, 
 how happy could I be with her, though I had only her in 
 this solitude. Oh ! that this was but a reality, and not a 
 dream. I could scarce refrain from running to the lake to 
 meet my Patty. But then I checked my folly, and reason- 
 ed myself into some degree of temper again. However, I 
 could not forbear crying out, What! nobody to converse 
 with, nobody to assist, comfort, or counsel me ! this is a 
 melancholy situation indeed. Thus I ran on lamenting, till 
 I was almost weary ; when, on a sudden, I again heard the 
 
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 
 
 83 
 
 voices. Hark ! says I, here they come again. Well, I 
 am now resolved to face them ; come life come death. It 
 is not to be alone I thus dread ; but to have company about 
 me, and not know who or wliat, is death to me, worse 
 than I can suffer from them, be they who or what they 
 will. 
 
 During my soliloquy the voices increased, and then by 
 degrees diminished as usual ; but I had scarce got my gun 
 in my hand, to pursue my resolution of showing myself to 
 those who uttered them, when I felt such a thump upon the 
 roof of my antechamber as shook the whole fabric, and set 
 me all over into a tremor ; I then heard a sort of shriek ; 
 and a rustle near the door of my apartment, all which to 
 gether seemed very terrible. But I, having before deter- 
 mined to see what and who it was, resolutely opened my 
 door and leaped out. I saw nobody ; all was quite silent, 
 and nothing, that I could perceive, but my own fears a-mov- 
 ing. I went then softly to the corner of the building, and 
 there, looking down by the glimmer of my lamp, which 
 stood in the window, I saw something in human shape lying 
 at my feet. I gave the word, Who’s there ? — Still no one 
 answered. My heart was ready to force a way through my 
 side. I was for a while fixed to the earth like a statue. 
 At length recovering, I stepped in, fetched my lamp, and 
 returning, saw the very beautiful face my Patty appeared 
 under in my dream ; and not considering that it was only a 
 dream, I verily thought that I had my Patty before me, 
 but she seemed to be stone dead. Upon viewing her other 
 parts — for I had never yet removed my eyes from her face 
 — I found she had a sort of brown chaplet, like lace, round 
 her head, under and about which her hair was tucked up 
 and twined ; and she seemed to me to be clothed in a thin 
 hair-coloured silk garment which, upon trying to raise her. 
 
84 
 
 PETER WILKINS'S DISCOVERY 
 
 I found to be quite warm, and therefore hoped there was 
 life in the body it contained. I then took her into my 
 arms, and treading a step backwards with her, I put out 
 my lamp; however, having her in my arms, I conveyed her 
 through the doorway in the dark into my grotto ; here I 
 laid her upon my bed, and then ran out for my lamp. 
 
 This, thinks I, is an amazing adventure. How could 
 Patty come here, and dressed in silk and whalebone, too ! 
 sure that is not the reigning fashion in England now. 
 But my dream said she was dead. Why truly, says I, so 
 she seems to be. But be it so, she is warm. Whether this 
 is the place for persons to inhabit after death or not, I can- 
 not tell (for I see there are people here, though I do not 
 know them) ; but be it as it will, she feels as flesh and 
 blood ; and if I but bring her to stir and act again as my 
 wife, wdiat matters it to me what she is ! It will be a great 
 blessing and comfort to me, for she never would have come 
 to this very spot but for my good. 
 
 Top-full of these thoughts, I re-entered my grotto, shut 
 my door, and lighted my lamp ; when going to my Patty, 
 (as I delighted to fancy her), I thought I saw her eyes stir 
 a little. I then set the lamp further off, for fear of offend- 
 ing them if she should look up ; and warming the last glass 
 I had reserved of my Madeira, I carried it to her, but she 
 never stirred. I now supposed the fall had absolutely 
 killed her, and w r as prodigiously grieved, when laying my 
 hand on her breast I perceived the fountain of life had 
 some motion. This gave me infinite pleasure ; so not des- 
 pairing, I dipped my finger in the wine, and moistened her 
 lips with it two or three times, and I imagined they opened 
 a little. Upon this methought me, and taking a teaspoon, 
 gently poured a few drops of wine by that means into her 
 mouth. Finding she swallowed it, I poured in another 
 
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 
 
 85 
 
 spoonful, and another, till I brought her to herself so well 
 as to be able to sit up. All this I did by a glimmering 
 light, which the lamp afforded from a distant part of the 
 room where I had placed it, as I have said, out of her 
 sight. 
 
 I then spoke to her and asked her divers questions, as 
 if she had really been Patty, and understood me ; in return 
 of which she uttered a language I had no idea of, though in 
 the most musical tone, and with the sweetest accent I had 
 ever heard. It grieved me I could not understand her. 
 However, thinking she might like to be upon her feet, I 
 went to lift her off the bed, when she felt to my touch in 
 the oddest manner possible ; for while in one respect it was 
 as though she had been cased in whalebone, it was as soft 
 and warm as if she had been naked.* 
 
 I then took her in my arms and carried her into my 
 antechamber again ; where I would fain have entered into 
 conversation with her, but found' she and I could make noth- 
 ing of it together, unless we could understand one another’s 
 speech. It is very strange my dream should have prepos- 
 sessed me so much of Patty, and of the alteration of her 
 countenance, that I could by no means persuade myself the 
 person I had with me was not she ; though, upon a delibe- 
 rate comparison, Patty, as pleasing as she always was to my 
 taste, would no more come up to this fair creature, than a 
 coarse ale-wife would to Venus herself. 
 
 * The flying apparatus of Wilkins’s newly discovered people was called 
 a graundee , and consisted of a natural investment like delicate silk and 
 whalebone, which flew open at pleasure, and thus furnished its possessor 
 with wings or a dress, according to the requirement of the moment. Pe- 
 ter’s future wife had been sporting in the air with some other young dam- 
 sels, one of whom happening to brush too strongly against her, as they 
 stooped among some trees, had occasioned the accident which was the 
 '•Ruse of his good fortune. 
 
86 
 
 PETER WILKINS'S DISCOVERY 
 
 You may imagine we stared heartily at each other, and 
 I doubted not but she wondered as much as I by what 
 means we came so near each other. I offered her every- 
 thing in my grotto which I thought might please her, some 
 of which she gratefully received, as appeared by her looks 
 and behaviour. But she avoided my lamp, and always 
 placed her back towards it. I observing that, and ascrib- 
 ing it to her modesty, in my company, let her have her will, 
 and took care to set it in such a position myself as seemed 
 agreeable to her, though it deprived me of a prospect I very 
 much admired. 
 
 After we had sat a good while, now and then, I may say, 
 chattering to one another, she got up and took a turn or two 
 about the room. When I saw her in that attitude, her 
 grace and motion perfectly charmed me, and her shape was 
 incomparable ; but the strangeness of her dress put me to 
 my trumps, to conceive either what it was, or how it was 
 put on. 
 
 Well, we supped together, and I set the best of every- 
 thing I had before her, nor could either of us forbear speak- 
 ing in our own tongue, though we were sensible neither of 
 us understood the other. After supper I gave her some of 
 my cordials, for which she showed great tokens of thankful- 
 ness, and often, in her way, by signs and gestures, which 
 were very far from being insignificant, expressed her grati- 
 tude for my kindness. When supper had been some time 
 over, I showed her my bed and made signs for her to go to 
 it ; but she seemed very shy of that, till I showed her where 
 I meant to lie myself, b^ pointing to myself, then to that, 
 and again pointing to her and to my bed. When at length 
 I had made this matter intelligible to her, she lay down 
 very composedly ; and after I had taken care of my fire, and 
 set the things we had been using for supper in their places, 
 
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 
 
 8 ? 
 
 I laid myself down too ; for I could have no suspicious 
 thoughts, or fear of danger from a form so excellent. 
 
 I treated her for some time with all the respect imagi- 
 nable, and never suffered her to do the least part of my 
 work. It was very inconvenient to both of us only to know 
 each other’s meaning by signs ; but I could not be other- 
 wise than pleased to see, that she endeavoured all in her 
 power to learn to talk like me. Indeed I was not behind- 
 hand with her in that respect, striving all I could to imitate 
 her. What I all the while wondered at was, she never 
 showed the least disquiet at her confinement ; for I kept my 
 door shut at first, through fear of losing her, thinking she 
 would have taken an opportunity to run away from me. for 
 little did I then think she could fly. 
 
 After my new love had been with me a fortnight, find- 
 ing my water ran low, I was greatly troubled at the thought 
 of quitting her at any time to go for more ; and having 
 hinted it to her with seeming uneasiness, she could not for 
 awhile fathom my meaning ; but when she saw me much 
 confused, she came at length, by the many signs I made, to 
 imagine it was my concern for her which made me so ; 
 whereupon she expressively enough signified I might be 
 easy, for she did not fear anything happening to her in my 
 absence. On this, as well as I could declare my meaning, 
 I entreated her not to go away before my return. As soon 
 as she understood what I signified to her by actions, she sat 
 down with her arms across, leaning her head against the 
 wall to assure me she would not stir. However, as I had 
 before nailed a cord to the outside of the door, I tied that 
 for caution’s sake to a tree, for fear of the worst ; but I be- 
 lieve she had not the least design of removing. 
 
 I took my boat, net, and water-cask, as usual ; desirous 
 of bringing her home a fresh-fish dinner ; and succeeded so 
 
88 
 
 PETER WILKINS'S DISCOVERY 
 
 well as to catch enough for several good meals, and to spare 
 What remained I salted, and found she liked that better 
 than the fresh, after a few days’ salting : though she did not 
 so well approve of that I had formerly pickled and dried. 
 As my salt grew very low, though I had used it very spar- 
 ingly, I now resolved to try making some ; and the next 
 summer I effected it. 
 
 Thus we spent the remainder of the winter together, till 
 the days began to be light enough for me to walk abroad a 
 little in the middle of them : for I was now under no appre- 
 hension of her leaving me ; as she had before this time so 
 many opportunities of doing so, but never once attempted it. 
 
 When the weather cleared up a little, by the lengthen- 
 ing of daylight, I took courage one afternoon to invite her 
 to walk with me to the lake ; but she sweetly excused her- 
 self from it whilst there was such a frightful glare of light, 
 as she said ; but, looking out of the door, told me if I would 
 not go out of the wood she would accompany me : so we 
 agreed to take a turn only there. I first went myself over 
 the stile at the door, and thinking it rather too high for her, 
 I took her in my arms* and lifted her over. But even when 
 I had her in this manner, I knew not what to make of her 
 clothing, it sat so true and close ; but seeing her by a stead- 
 ier and truer light in the grove, though a heavy gloomy one, 
 than my light had afforded, I begged she would let me know 
 of what silk or other composition her garment was made. 
 She smiled and asked me if mine was not the same under 
 my jacket. u No, lady,” says I, u I have nothing but my 
 skin under my clothes.” a Why what do you mean ?” re- 
 plies she, somewhat tartly ; u but indeed I was afraid some- 
 thing was the matter, by that nasty covering you wear, that 
 you might not be seen. Are not you a glumm ?”* u Yes,’ 
 
 * A man. 
 
OF A FLYING WOMAN 
 
 89 
 
 says I, “ fair creature.” (Here, though you may conceive 
 she spoke part English, part her own country tongue, and I 
 the same, as we best understood each other, yet I shall give 
 you our discourse word for word in plain English.) c: Then,” 
 says she, “I am afraid you must have been a very bad man, 
 and have been crashee,* which I should be -very sorry to 
 hear.” I told her I believed we were none of us so good as 
 
 e might be, but I hoped my faults had not at most exceeded 
 other men’s ; but I had suffered abundance of hardships in 
 my time, and that at last Providence having settled me in 
 this spot, from whence I had no prospect of ever departing, 
 it was none of the least of its mercies to bring to my know- 
 ledge and company the most exquisite piece of all his works 
 in her, which I should acknowledge as long as I lived. She 
 was surprised at this discourse, and asked me (if I did not 
 mean to impose upon her, and was indeed an ingcrasliee 
 gluminf), why I should tell her I had no prospect of depart- 
 ing from hence ? u Have not you,” says she, u the same 
 prospect that I or any other person has of departing? Sir,” 
 added she, 66 you don’t do well, and really I fear you are slit, 
 or you would not wear this nasty cumbersome coat (taking 
 hold of my jacket sleeve), if you were not afraid of showing 
 the signs of a bad life upon your natural clothing.” 
 
 I could not for my heart imagine what way there was to 
 get out of my dominions ; but certainly, thought I, there 
 must be some way or other, or she would not be so peremp- 
 tory. And as to my jacket, and showing myself in my 
 natural clothing, I profess she made me blush ; and, but for 
 the shame, I would have stripped to the skin to have satisfied 
 her. u But, madam,” says I, u pray pardon me, for you really 
 are mistaken ; I have examined every nook and corner of 
 
 * Slit ; — a punishment inflicted on the wings, or graundee , of criminals. 
 
 f A man whose wings had not been slit. 
 
90 
 
 VETER WILKINS'S DISCOVERY 
 
 this new world in which we now are, and can find no possi- 
 ble outlet ; nay, even by the same way I came in, I am sure 
 it is impossible to get out again.” Why,” says she,” what 
 outlets have you searched for, or what way can you expect 
 out but the way you came in? and why is that impossible 
 to return by again ? If you are not slit, is not the air open 
 to you ? will not the sky admit you to patrol in it as well as 
 other people ? I tell you, sir, I fear you have been slit for 
 your crimes ; and though you have been so good to me that 
 I cannot help loving of you heartily for it, yet, if I thought 
 you had been slit, I would not, nay, could not, stay a mo- 
 ment longer with you ; no, though it should break my heart 
 to leave you !” 
 
 I found myself now in a strange quandary, longing to 
 know what she meant by being slit, and had a hundred 
 strange notions in my head whether I was slit or not ; for 
 though I knew what the word naturally signified well enough, 
 yet in what manner, or by what figure of speech she applied 
 it to me, I had no idea of. But seeing her look a little 
 angrily upon me, “ Pray, madam,” says I, “ do not be offended 
 if I take the liberty to ask you what you mean by the word 
 crashee, so often repeated by you, for I am an utter stranger 
 to what you mean by it ?” “ Sir,” says she, “ pray answer 
 
 me first how came you here ?” u Madam,” replied I, 16 will 
 you please to take a walk to the verge of the wood, and I 
 will show you the very passage ?” “ Sir,” says she, Cl I per- 
 
 fectly know the range of the rocks all around, and by the 
 least description, without going to see them, can tell from 
 which you descended.” u In truth,” said I, u most charming 
 lady, I descended from no rock at all ; nor would I for a 
 thousand worlds attempt what could not be accomplished 
 but by my destruction.” “ Sir,” says she, in some anger. 
 u it is false, and you impose on me.” u I declare to you,” 
 
OF A FLYING WOMAN 
 
 91 
 
 says I, “ madam, what I tell you is strictly true ; I never 
 was near the summit of any of the surrounding rocks or any- 
 thing like it ; but as you are not far from the verge of the 
 wood, be so good as to step a little further, and I will show 
 you my entrance in hither.” “ Well”’ says she, “ now this 
 odious dazzle of light is lessened, I do not care if I do go 
 with you.” 
 
 When we came far enough to see the bridge, “ There 
 madam,” says I, “ there is my entrance, where the sea pours 
 into this lake from yonder cavern.” “ It is not possible,” 
 says she ; “ this is another untruth ; and as I see you would 
 deceive me and are not to be believed, farewell, I must be 
 gone. But hold,” says she, “ let me ask you one thing more, 
 that is, by what means did you come through that cavern ? 
 you could not have used to have come over the rock.” “ Bless 
 me, madam,” says I, “ do you think I and my boat could 
 fly? Come over the rock, did you say? No, madam, I 
 sailed from the great sea, the- main ocean, in my boat, 
 through that cavern into this very lake here.” “ What do 
 you mean by your boat ?” says she ; “ you seem to make 
 two things of your boat you say you sailed with, and your- 
 self.” “ I do so,” replied I, “for, madam, I take myself to 
 be good flesh and blood, but my boat is made of wood and 
 other materials.” “ Is it so?” says she; “and pray where 
 is this boat that is made of wood and other materials ? under 
 your jacket?” “ Lord, madam,” says I, “you put me in fear 
 that you were angry, but now I hope you only joke with me : 
 what, put a boat under my jacket ! no, madam, my boat is 
 in the lake.” “What! more untruths?” says she. “No, 
 madam,” I replied ; “ if 'you would be satisfied of what I 
 say, every word of which is as true as that my boat now is 
 in the lake, pray walk with me thither, and make your own 
 eyes judges what sincerity I speak with.” To this she 
 
02 
 
 PETER WILKINS* S DISCOVERY 
 
 agreed, it growing dusky ; but assured me, if I did not give 
 her good satisfaction, I should see her no more. 
 
 We arrived at the lake, and going to my wet doclf, 
 “ Now, madam,” says I, “pray satisfy yourself whether I 
 spake true or not.” She looked at my boat, but could not 
 yet frame a proper notion of it. Says I, “ Madam, in this 
 very boat I sailed from the main sea through that very 
 cavern into this lake ; and shall at last think myself the 
 happiest of all men, if you continue with me, love me, and 
 credit me ; and I promise you I will never deceive you, but 
 think my life happily spent in your service.” I found she 
 was hardly content yet to believe what I told her of my 
 boat to be true, until I stepped into it, and pushing from 
 the shore, took my oars in my hand, and sailed along the 
 lake by her as she walked on the shore. At last she seemed 
 so well reconciled to me and my boat, that she desired I 
 would take her in. I immediately did so, and we sailed a 
 good way ; and as we returned to my dock, I described to 
 her how I procured the water we drank, and brought it to 
 shore in that vessel. 
 
 “ Well,” says she, “ I have sailed, as you call it, many a 
 mile in my lifetime, but never in such a thing as this. I 
 own it will serve very well where one has a great many 
 things to carry from place to place ; but to be labouring 
 thus at an oar when one intends pleasure in sailing, is, in 
 my mind, a most ridiculous piece of slavery.” “ Why, pray, 
 madam, how would you have me sail ; for getting into the 
 boat only will not carry us this way or that, without using 
 some force.” “ But,” says she, “ pray where did you get 
 this boat, as you call it?” “ Oh ! madam,” says I, “ that is 
 too long and fatal a story to begin upon now ; this boat was 
 made many thousand miles from hence, among a people 
 coal black, a quite different sort from us ; and when I first 
 
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 
 
 93 
 
 had it, I little thought of seeing this country ; hut I will 
 make a faithful relation of all to you when we come home.” 
 Indeed I began to wish heartily we were there, for it grew 
 into the night ; and having strolled so far without my gun, 
 I was afraid of what I had before seen and heard, and 
 hinted our return ; but I found my motion was disagreeable 
 to her, and so I dropped it. 
 
 I now perceived, and wondered at it, that the later it 
 grew, the more agreeable it seemed to her ; and as I had 
 now brought her into a good humour again by seeing and 
 sailing in my boat, I was not willing to prevent its increase. 
 I told her, if she pleased we would land, and when I had 
 docked my boat, I would accompany her where and as long 
 as she liked. As we talked and walked by the lake, she 
 made a little run before me, and jumped into it. Perceiv- 
 ing this, I cried out ; whereupon she merrily called on me 
 to follow her. The light was then so dim as prevented my 
 having more than a confused sight of her, when she jumped 
 in ; and looking earnestly after her, I could discern nothing- 
 more than a small boat on the water, which skimmed along 
 at so great a rate that I almost lost sight of it presently ; 
 but running along the shore for fear of losing her, I met 
 her gravely walking to meet me, and then had entirely lost 
 sight of the boat on the lake. li This,” says she, accosting 
 me with a smile, u is my way of sailing, which I perceive 
 by the fright you were in, you are altogether unacquainted 
 with ; and as you tell me you came from so many thousand 
 miles off, it is possible you may be made differently from 
 me ; but surely we are the part of the creation which has 
 had most care bestowed upon it ; and I suspect from all your 
 discourse, to which I have been very attentive, it is possible 
 you may no more be able to fly than to sail as I do.” “ No, 
 charming creature,” says I, “ that I cannot, I will assure 
 
94 
 
 PETER WILKINS'S DISCOVERY 
 
 you.” She then, stepping to the edge of the lake, for the 
 advantage of a descent before her, sprang up into the air, 
 and away she went, further than my eyes could follow her. 
 
 I was quite astonished. So, says I, then all is over, all 
 a delusion which I have so long been in, a mere phantom ! 
 better had it been for me never to have seen her, than thus 
 to lose her again. But what could I expect had she staid ? 
 for it is plain she is no human composition. But, says I, 
 she felt like flesh too, when I lifted her out at the door. I 
 had but very little time for reflection ; for in about ten 
 minutes after she had left me in this mixture of grief and 
 amazement, she alighted just by me on her feet. 
 
 Her return, as she plainly saw, filled me with a trans- 
 port not to be concealed, and which, as she afterwards told 
 me, was very agreeable to her. Indeed, I was some mo- 
 ments in such an agitation of mind, from these unparalleled 
 incidents, that I was like one thunderstruck ; but coming 
 presently to myself, and clasping her in my arms w T ith as 
 much love and passion as I was capable of expressing, 
 “ Are you returned again, kind angel,” said I, “ to bless a 
 wretch who can only be happy in adoring you ? Can it be 
 that you, who have so many advantages over me, should 
 quit all the pleasures that nature has formed you for, and 
 all your friends and relations, to take an asylum in my 
 arms ? But I here make you a tender of all I am able to 
 bestow — my love and constancy.” “ Come, come,” says she, 
 no more raptures. I find you are a worthier man than I 
 thought I had reason to take you for ; and I beg your par- 
 don for my distrust, whilst I was ignorant of your perfec- 
 tions ; but now I verily believe all you said is true ; and I 
 promise you, as you have seemed so much to delight in me, 
 I will never quit you, till death or other as fatal accident 
 shall part us. But we will now, if you choose, go home ; for 
 
OF A FLYING WOMAN. 
 
 95 
 
 I know you have been some time uneasy in this gloom, though 
 agreeable to me. For, giving my eyes the pleasure* of 
 looking eagerly on you, it conceals my blushes from your 
 sight.” 
 
 In this manner, exchanging mutual endearments and 
 soft speeches, hand in hand, we arrived at the grotto. 
 
<®il 3Mas null tljt 'gitrasitt 
 
 FROM LE SAGE. 
 
 Gil Blas is a book which makes a great impression in youth with par- 
 ticular passages ; becomes thoroughly appreciated only by the maturest 
 knowledge; and remains one of the greatest of favourites, with old people 
 who are wise and good-natured. Every body knows the Robbers’ Cave, 
 the Beggar who asks alms with a loaded musket, the Archbishop who 
 invited a candour which he could not bear, the dramatic surprise and 
 exquisite lesson of the story transcribed into the present volume ; and 
 perhaps we all have a general, entertaining recollection of authors, and 
 actresses, and great men. But the hundreds of delicate strokes at 
 every turn, the quiet, arch reference (never failing) to the most hidden 
 sources of action and nicest evidences of character, require an ex- 
 perienced taste and discernment to do them justice. When they obtain 
 this, they complete the charm of the reader by flattering his under- 
 standing. The hero (strange critical term for individuals the most un- 
 heroical!) is justly popular with all the world, because he resembles 
 them in their mixture of sense and nonsense, craft and credulity, 
 selfishness and good qualities. We have a sneaking regard for him on 
 our weak side ; while we flatter ourselves we should surpass him on 
 the strong. Then how pleasant the hypocrisy of the false hermit 
 Lamela, reconciled to us by his animal spirits; how consolatory (if 
 extension of evil can console) the bile and melancholy of the great 
 minister, the Count-Duke, who always sees a spectre before him ; and 
 how charming, as completing the round of its universality, the alterna- 
 tions from town to country, from solitudes to courts, and the settlement 
 of the once simple Gil Bias, now Signior de Santillane, in his comforta-^ 
 ble farm at Lirias, over the door of which was to be written a farewell 
 to vicissitude : — 
 
GIL BIAS AND THE PARASITE. 
 
 97 
 
 Inveni portum. Spes et Fortuna, valete. 
 
 Sat me lusisti : luclite nunc alios. 
 
 My port is found. Farewell, ye freaks of chance ; 
 
 The dance ye led me, now let others dance. 
 
 Le Sage is accused, like Moliere, of haying stolen all his good things 
 from Spain. Do not believe it. Rest assured, that -whatever he stole 
 he turned to the choicest account with his own genius ; otherwise the 
 Spaniards would have got the fame for his works, and not he. Xobody 
 stole Cervantes. Le Sage was a good, quiet man, very deaf, who lived 
 in a small house at Boulogne with a bit of trellised garden at the back, 
 in which he used to walk up and down while he composed. He had a 
 son, a celebrated actor, who came to live with him; and these two 
 were as fast friends, as they were honest and pleasant men. 
 
 But if every body knows the adventure of Gil Bias with the 
 Parasite, why, it may be asked, repeat it? For the reason given in the 
 Preface, — because there are passages in books which readers love to see 
 repeated, for the very sake of their intimacy with them. It is with 
 fine passages in books as with songs. Some we like, because they are 
 good and new ; and some, because they are veiy good indeed, and old 
 acquaintances. Besides, there are hundreds of readers who only just 
 recollect them well enough to desire to know them better. 
 
 It is to be borne in mind, that our hero has just set out in life ; and 
 that this is his first journey since he left school at Oviedo. 
 
 T ARRIVED in safety at Pennaflor, and halting at the 
 gate of an inn that made a tolerable appearance, I no 
 sooner alighted, than the landlord came out, and received 
 me with great civility ; he untied my portmanteau with his 
 own hands, and throwing it on his shoulder, conducted me 
 into a room, while one of his servants led my mule into the 
 stable. This innkeeper, the greatest talker of the Asturias, 
 and as ready to relate his own affairs without being asked, 
 as to pry into those of another, told me his name was 
 Andrew Corcuelo ; that he had served many years in the 
 king’s army in quality of a serjeant ; and had quitted the 
 service fifteen months ago to marry a damsel of Castropol, 
 5 
 
98 
 
 GIL 2) LAS AND THE PARASITE. 
 
 who (though she was a little swarthy) knew very well how 
 to turn the penny. lie said a thousand other things, which 
 I could have dispensed with the hearing of; but after 
 having made me his confidant, he thought he had a right 
 to exact the same condescension of me, and accordingly 
 asked whence I came, whither I w T as going, and what I was. 
 I was obliged to answer article by article ; for he accom- 
 panied every question by a profound bow, and begged me 
 to excuse his curiosity with such a respectful air, that I 
 could not fefuse to satisfy him in every particular. This 
 engaged me in a long conversation with him, and gave me 
 occasion to mention my design, and the reason I had foi 
 disposing of my mule, that I might take the opportunity 
 of a carrier. He approved of my intention, though not in 
 a very succinct manner; for he represented all the trouble- 
 some accidents that might befall me on the road : he re- 
 counted many dismal stories of travellers ; and I began to 
 be afraid he would never have done. He concluded at 
 length however with telling me, that if I had a mind to 
 sell my mule, he w~as acquainted with a very honest jockey 
 who would buy her. I assured him he would oblige me in 
 sending for him ; upon which he went in quest of him im- 
 mediately with great eagerness. It was not long before he 
 returned with his man. whom he introduced to me as a 
 person of exceeding honesty, and we went into the yard all 
 together, where my mule was produced, and passed and 
 repassed before the jockey, who examined her from head to 
 foot, and did not fail to speak very disadvantageous^ of 
 her. I own there was not much to be said in her praise ; 
 but, however, had it been the pope’s mule, he would have 
 found some defects in her. He assured me, that she had 
 all the defects a mule could have ; and to convince me of 
 his veracity, appealed to the landlord, who, doubtless, had 
 
GIL BIAS AND TIIE PARASITE. 
 
 99 
 
 his reasons for supporting his friend’s assertions. “ Well/ 
 said the dealer with an air of indifference, “ how much 
 money do you expect for this wretched animal After the 
 eulogium he had bestowed on her, and the attestation of 
 Signior Corcuelo, whom I believed to be a man of honesty 
 and understanding, I would have given my mule for noth- 
 ing; and therefore told him I would rely on his integrity; 
 bidding him appraise the beast in his own conscience, and 
 I would stand to the valuation. Upon this he assumed the 
 man of honour ; and replied, that in engaging his con- 
 science I took him on the weak side. In good sooth, that 
 did not seem to be his strong side ; for instead of valuing 
 her at ten or twelve pistoles, as my uncle had done, he fix- 
 ed the price at three ducats ; which I accepted with as 
 much joy as if I had made an excellent bargain. 
 
 After having so advantageously disposed of my mule, 
 the landlord conducted me to a carrier, who was to set out 
 the next day for Astorga. This muleteer let me know that 
 he should set out by day-break, and promised to awake me 
 in time, after we had agreed upon the price, as Wcdl for the 
 hire of a mule, as my board on the road ; and when every- 
 thing was settled between us, I returned to the inn with 
 Corcuelo, who, by the way, began to recount the carrier’s 
 history. He told me every circumstance of his character 
 in town ; in short, was going to stupify me again with his 
 intolerable loquacity, when, luckily for me, a man of pretty 
 good appearance prevented my misfortune, by accosting him 
 with great civility. I left them together, and went on, with- 
 out suspecting that I had the least concern in their conver- 
 sation. 
 
 When I arrived at the inn, I called for supper ; and it 
 being g meagre day, was fain to put up with eggs ; which 
 while they got ready, I made up to my landlady, whom I 
 
100 
 
 GIL BIAS AND THE PARASITE. 
 
 had not seen before. She appeared handsome enough ; and 
 withal so sprightly and gay, that I should have concluded (even 
 if her husband had not told me so) that her house was pret- 
 ty well frequented. When the omelet I had bespoken was 
 ready, I sat down to table by myself ; and had not yet 
 swallowed the first mouthful, when the landlord came in, 
 followed by the man who had stopt him in the street. This 
 cavalier, who wore a long sword, and seemed to be about 
 thirty years of age, advanced towards me with an eager air, 
 saying, “ Mr. Student, I am informed that you are that Signior 
 Gil 131as of Santillane, who is the link of philosophy, and 
 ornament of Oviedo ! Is it possible that you are that mir- 
 ror of learning, that sublime genius, whose reputation is so 
 great in this country? You know not,” continued he, ad- 
 dressing himself to the innkeeper and his wife, “ you know 
 not what you possess ! You have a treasure in your house! 
 Behold in this young gentleman, the eighth wonder of the 
 world !” Then turning to me, and throwing his arms about 
 my neck, “ Forgive,” cried he, “ my transports ! I cannot 
 contain the joy that your presence creates.” 
 
 I could not answer for some time, because he locked me 
 so close in his arms, that I was almost suffocated for want 
 of breath ; and it was not till I had disengaged my head 
 from his embrace, that I replied u Signior Cavalier, I did 
 not think my name was known at Penaflor.” “ How ! 
 known !” resumed he in his former strain, u we keep a reg- 
 ister of all the celebrated names within twenty leagues of 
 us. You in particular are looked upon as a prodigy ; and I 
 don’t at all doubt, that Spain will one day be as proud of 
 you, as Greece was of her Seven Sages.” These words were 
 followed by a fresh hug, which I was forced to endure, 
 though at the risk of strangulation. With the little expe- 
 rience I had, I ought not to have been the dupe of his pro- 
 
GIL BIAS AND THE PARASITE, 
 
 101 
 
 fessions and hyperbolical compliments. I ought to have 
 known, by his extravagant flattery, that he was one of those 
 parasites which abound in every town, and who, when a 
 stranger arrives, introduce themselves to him, in order to 
 All their bellies at his expense. But my youth and vanity 
 made me judge otherwise. My admirer appeared to me so 
 much of a gentleman, that I invited him to take a share of 
 my supper. u Ah, with all my soul/’ cried he ; 4 1 am too 
 much obliged to my kind stars for having thrown me in the 
 way of the illustrious Gil Bias, not to enjoy my good for- 
 tune as long as I can ! I have no great appetite,” pursued 
 he, u but I will sit down to bear you company, and eat a 
 mouthful purely out of complaisance.” 
 
 So saying, my panegyrist took his place right over 
 against me ; and a cover being laid for him, attacked the 
 omelet as voraciously as if he had fasted three whole days. 
 By his complaisant beginning I foresaw that our dish would 
 not last long ; and therefore ordered a second ; which they 
 dressed with such dispatch, that it was served just as we — 
 or rather he — had made an end of the first. He proceeded 
 on this with the same vigour ; and found means, without 
 losing one stroke of his teeth, to overwhelm me with praises 
 during the whole repast, which made me very well pleased 
 with my sweet self. He drank in proportion to his eating ; 
 sometimes to my health, sometimes to that of my father 
 and mother, whose happiness in having such a son as me 
 he could not enough admire. All the while he plied me 
 with wine, and insisted upon my doing him justice, while I 
 toasted health for health ; a circumstance which, together 
 with his intoxicating flattery, put me into such good 
 humour, that seeing our second omelet half devoured, I 
 asked the landlord if he had no fish in the house. Signior 
 Corcuelo, who in all likelihood had a fellow-feeling with the 
 
102 
 
 GIL LILAS AND THE PARASITE. 
 
 parasite, replied, “ I have a delicate trout ; but those who 
 eat it must pay for the sauce ; — ’tis a bit too dainty for your 
 palate, I doubt.” “ What do you call too dainty?” said the 
 sycophant, raising his voice ; u you’re a wiseacre, indeed ! 
 Know, that there is nothing in this house too good for 
 Signior Gil Bias de Santillane, who deserves to be enter- 
 tained like a prince.” 
 
 I was pleased at his laying hold of the landlord’s last 
 words, in which he prevented me ; who finding myself 
 offended, said with an air of disdain, u Produce this trout 
 of yours, Gaffer Corcuelo, and give yourself no trouble 
 about the consequence.” This was what the innkeeper 
 wanted. He got it ready, and served it up in a trice. At 
 sight of this new dish, I could perceive the parasite’s eye 
 sparkle with joy; and he renewed that complaisance — I 
 mean for the fish — which he had already shown for the 
 eggs. At last, however, he was obliged to give out, for 
 fear of accident, being crammed to the very throat. Hav- 
 ing, therefore, eaten and drank his bellyfull, he thought 
 proper to conclude the farce, by rising from table, and ac- 
 costing me in these words : — “ Signior Gil Bias, I am too 
 well satisfied with your good cheer, to leave you without 
 offering an important advice, which you seem to have great 
 occasion for. Henceforth beware of praise, and be upon 
 your guard against everybody you do not know. You may 
 meet with other people inclined to divert themselves with 
 your credulity, and perhaps to push things still further; but 
 don’t be duped again, nor believe yourself (though they 
 should swear it) the eighth wonder of the world.” So say- 
 ing, he laughed in my face, and stalked away. 
 
 I was as much affected by this bite as I have since been 
 by misfortunes of far greater consequence. I could not for- 
 give myself for having been so grossly imposed upon ; or 
 
GIL BLAS AND THE PARASITE. 
 
 103 
 
 rather, I was shocked to find my pride so humbled. 
 “ How ! (said I to myself) has the traitor, then, made a jest 
 of me ? His design in accosting my landlord in the street 
 was only to pump him ; or perhaps they understand one 
 another. Ah ! simple Gil Bias ! Go hang thyself for 
 shame, for haying given such rascals an opportunity of 
 turning thee into ridicule ! I suppose they’ll trump up a 
 fine story of this affair, which will reach Oviedo, and doubt* 
 less do thee a great deal of honour, and make thy parents 
 repent their having thrown away so much good counsel on 
 an ass. Instead of exhorting me not to wrong anybody, 
 they ought to have cautioned me against the knavery of the 
 world.” 
 
 Chagrined with these mortifying reflections, and in- 
 flamed with resentment, I locked myself in my chamber 
 and went to bed, where, however, I did not sleep ; for 
 before I could close my eyes, the carrier came to let me 
 know he was ready to set out, and only waited for me. I 
 got up instantly ; and while I put on my clothes, Corcuelo 
 brought me a bill, in which, I assure you, the trout was not 
 forgotten ; and I was not only obliged to gratify his exor- 
 bitance, but I had also the mortification to perceive, while 
 I counted the money, that the sarcastic knave remembered 
 my adventure. After having paid sauce for a supper which 
 I had so ill digested, I went to the muleteer with my bags, 
 wishing the parasite, the innkeeper, and bis inn, at the 
 
Xtitanitn in tljc ISannhit Clinmkr. 
 
 FROM THE MYSTERIES OF UDOLPIIO. 
 
 Mrs. Radcliffe, a beautiful little woman of delicate constitution and 
 sequestered habits, as fond, as her own heroines, of lonely sea-shores, 
 picturesque mountains, and poetical meditations, perfected that dis- 
 covery of the capabilities of an old house or castle for exciting a 
 romantic interest, which lay ready to be made in the mind of every 
 child and poet, but which (if Gray did not put it into his head) first 
 suggested itself to the feudal dilletanteism of Horace Walpole. Horace 
 had more genius in him than his contemporaries gave him credit for ; 
 but the reputation which his wit obtained him, the material philosophy 
 of the day, and the pursuit of fashionable amusement, did it no good. 
 He lost sight of the line to be drawn between the imposing and the in- 
 credible ; and though there is real merit in the Castle of Otranto , and 
 even grandeur of imagination, yet the conversion of dreams into gross 
 daylight palpabilities, which nothing short of iron-founders could 
 create — swords that take a hundred men to lift them, and supernatural 
 yet substantial helmets, big as houses and actually serving for prisons 
 — turns the sublime into the ridiculous, and has completely spoilt an 
 otherwise interesting narrative. Mrs. Radcliffe, frightened perhaps by 
 Walpole’s failure (for this great mistress of Fear was too often a servant 
 of it), went to another extreme ; and except in what she quoted from 
 other story-tellers, resolved all her supernatural effects into common- 
 place causes. Those effects, however, while they lasted, and every 
 thing else capable of frightening people out of their wits — old haunted 
 houses and corridors, mysterious music, faces behind curtains, cowled 
 and guilty monks, inquisitors, nuns, places to comuxit murders in, and 
 the murders themselves — she understood to perfection. To dress these 
 in appropriate circumstances, she possessed also the eye of a painter as 
 
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 105 
 
 well as the feeling of a poetess. She conceived to a nicety the effect of 
 a storm on a landscape, the playing of a meteor on the point of a spear, 
 and the sudden appearance of some old castle to which travellers have 
 been long coming, and which they have reasons to fear living in. It 
 has been objected to her that she is too much of a melodramatic writer, 
 and that her characters are inferior to her circumstances; the back- 
 ground (as Hazlitt says) of more importance than the figures. This in 
 a great measure is true; but she has painted characters also, chiefly 
 weak ones, as in the querulous duped aunt in Udolpho , and the victim 
 of error, St. Pierre, in the Romance of the Forest. It must be consider- 
 ed, however, that her effects, however produced, are successful, and 
 greatly successful ; and that Nature herself deals in precisely such 
 effects, leaving men to be operated upon by them passively, and not 
 to play the chief parts in the process by means of their characters. 
 Mrs. Radcliffe brings on the scene Fear and Terror themselves, the 
 grandeurs of the known world, and the awes of the unknown ; and if 
 human beings become puppets in her hands, it is as people in storm 
 and earthquake are puppets in the hands of Nature. 
 
 The following passage, from the Mysteries of Udolpho , is one of the 
 most favourite in her writings. Mr. Hazlitt thinks the Provencal tale in 
 it “ the greatest treat which Mrs. Radcliffe’s pen has provided for the 
 lovers of the marvellous and terrible.” Sir Walter Scott says, “The 
 best and most admired specimen of her art is the mysterious disappear- 
 ance of Ludovico, after having undertaken to watch for a night in a 
 haunted apartment; and the mind of the reader is finely wound up for 
 some strange catastrophe, by the admirable ghost-story which he is 
 represented as perusing to amuse his solitude, as the scene closes upon 
 him. Neither can it be denied, that the explanation afforded of this 
 mysterious accident is as probable as romance requires, and in itself 
 completely satisfactory.” 
 
 What that explanation is, the reader will find at the close of the 
 extract. 
 
 T HE count gave orders for the north apartments to be 
 opened and prepared for the reception of Ludovico ; but 
 Dorothee, remembering what she had lately witnessed there, 
 feared to obey ; and not one of the other servants daring to 
 venture thither, the rooms remained shut up till the time 
 
106 
 
 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 when Ludovico was to retire thither for the night, an hour 
 for which the whole household waited with the greatest im- 
 patience. 
 
 After supper, Ludovico, by the order of the count, at- 
 tended him in his closet, where they remained alone for near 
 half an hour, and on leaving which his lord delivered to him 
 a sword. 
 
 44 It has seen service in mortal quarrels,” said the count, 
 jocosely, 44 you will use it honourably no doubt in a spiritual 
 one. To-morrow let me hear that there is not one ghost 
 remaining in the chateau.” 
 
 Ludovico received it with a respectful bow. 44 You shall 
 be obeyed, my lord,” said he ; “I will engage that no spectre 
 shall disturb the peace of the chateau after this night.” 
 
 They now returned to the supper-room, where the count’s 
 guests awaited to accompany him and Ludovico to the north 
 apartments ; and Dorothee, being summoned for the keys, 
 delivered them to Ludovico, who then led the way, followed 
 by most of the inhabitants of the chateau. Having reached 
 the back staircase, several of the servants shrunk back and 
 refused to go further, but the rest followed him to the top 
 of the staircase, where a broad landing-place allowed them 
 to flock round him, w r hile he applied the key to the door, 
 dnring which they wafched him with as much eager curiosity 
 as if he had been performing some magical rite. 
 
 Ludovico, unaccustomed to the lock, could not turn it, 
 and Dorothee, who had lingered far behind, was called for- 
 ward, under whose hand the door opened slowly, and her 
 eye glancing within the dusky chamber, she uttered a sud- 
 den shriek and retreated. At this signal of alarm the 
 greater part of the crowd hurried down, and the count, 
 Henri, and Ludovico were left alone to pursue the inquiry, 
 who instantly rushed into the apartment, Ludovico with a 
 
LUDOVICO IN TEE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 107 
 
 drawn sword, which he had just time to draw from the scab- 
 bard, the count with a lamp in his hand, and Henry carry- 
 ing a basket containing provision for the courageous ad- 
 venturer. 
 
 Having looked hastily round the first room, where no- 
 thing appeared to justify alarm, they passed on to the second; 
 and here too all being quiet, they proceeded to a third in a 
 more tempered step. The count had now leisure to smile 
 at the discomposure into which he had been surprised, and 
 to ask Ludovico in which room he designed to pass the 
 night. 
 
 u There are several chambers beyond these, your excel- 
 lenza,” said Ludovico, pointing to a door, “ and in one of 
 them is a bed, they say. I will pass the night there ; and 
 when I am weary of watching, I can lie down.” 
 
 “ Good,” said the count ; “ let us go on. You see, these 
 rooms show nothing but damp walls and decaying furniture. 
 I have been so much occupied since I came to the chateau, 
 that I have not looked into them till now. Remember, 
 Ludovico, to tell the housekeeper to-morrow to throw open 
 these windows. The damask hangings are dropping to 
 pieces ; I will have them taken down, and this antique 
 furniture removed.” 
 
 “ Dear sir,” said Henri, “here is an arm-chair so massy 
 with gilding, that it resembles one of the state chairs in the 
 Louvre more than anything else.” 
 
 “Yes,” said the count, stopping a moment to survey it, 
 “ there is ‘a history belonging to that chair, but I have not 
 time to tell it ; let us pass on. This suite runs to a greater 
 extent than I imagined ; it is many years since I was in 
 them. But where is the bed-room you speak of, Ludovico ? 
 these are only ante-chambers to the great drawing-room. I 
 remember them in their splendour.” 
 
10S 
 
 LUDOVICO IN TIIE HAUNTED CHAMBER . 
 
 “ The bed, my lord,” replied Ludovico, u they told me 
 was in a room that opens beyond the saloon and terminates 
 the suite.” 
 
 “ 0, here is the saloon,” said the count, as they entered 
 the spacious apartment in which Emily and Dorothee had 
 rested. He here stood for a moment, surveying the reliques 
 of faded grandeur which it exhibited, the sumptuous tapestry, 
 the long and low sofas of velvet with frames heavily carved 
 and gilded, the floor inlaid with small squares of fine marble^ 
 and covered in the centre with a piece of rich tapestry work, 
 the casements of painted glass, and the large Venetian mir- 
 rors of a size and quality «uch as at that period France could 
 not make, which reflected on every side the spacious apart- 
 ment. These had also formerly reflected a gay and brilliant 
 scene, for this had been the state room of the chateau, and 
 here the marchioness had held the assemblies that made 
 part of the festivities of her nuptials. If the wand of a ma- 
 gician could have recalled the .vanished groups — many of 
 them vanished even from the earth ! — that once had passed 
 over these polished mirrors, what a varied and contrasted 
 picture would they have exhibited with the present ! Now, 
 instead of a blaze of lights, and a splendid and busy crowd, 
 they reflected only the rays of the one glimmering lamp 
 which the count held up, and which scarcely served to show 
 the three forlorn figures that stood surveying the room, and 
 the spacious and dusky walls around them. 
 
 u Ah . !” said the count to Henri, awaking from his deep 
 reverie, “ how the scene is changed since last I saw it ! I 
 was a young man then, and the marchioness was alive and 
 in her bloom ; many other persons were here too, who are 
 now no more. There stood the orchestra, here we tripped 
 in many a sprightly maze — the walls echoing to the dance. 
 Now they resound only one feeble voice, and even that will. 
 
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER . 
 
 109 
 
 ere long, be heard no more. My son, remember that I was 
 once as young as yourself, and that you must pass away like 
 those who have preceded you — like those who, as they sung 
 and danced in this most gay apartment, forgot that years 
 are made up of moments, and that every step they took 
 carried them nearer to their graves. But such reflections 
 are useless — I had almost said criminal — unless they teach 
 us to prepare for eternity, since otherwise they cloud our 
 present happiness without guiding us to a future one. But 
 enough of this — let us go on.” 
 
 Ludovico now opened the door of the bed-room, and 
 the count, as he entered, was struck with the funeral ap- 
 pearance which the dark arras gave to it. He approached 
 the bed with an emotion of solemnity, and, perceiving it to 
 be covered with a pall of black velvet, paused. “ What can 
 this mean V 7 said he, as he gazed upon it. 
 
 u I have heard, my lord,” said Ludovico, as he stood at 
 the feet, looking within the canopied curtains, “ that the 
 Lady Marchioness de Yilleroi died in this chamber, and 
 remained here till she was removed to be buried ; and this, 
 perhaps., signor, may account for the pall.” 
 
 The count made no reply, but stood for a few moments 
 engaged in thought, and evidently much affected. Then, 
 turning to Ludovico, he asked him with a serious air, 
 whether he thought his courage would support him through 
 the night. u If you doubt this,” added the count, “ do not 
 be ashamed to own it ; I will release you from your en- 
 gagement without exposing you to the triumphs of your 
 fellow-servants.” Ludovico paused ; pride and something 
 very like fear seemed struggling in his breast : pride, 
 however, was victorious ; — he blushed, and his hesitation 
 ceased. 
 
 u No, my lord,” said he, “ I will go through with what 
 
110 
 
 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 I have begun ; and I am grateful for your consideration. 
 On that hearth I will make a fire ; and with the good cheer 
 in this basket, I doubt not I shall do well.” 
 
 “ Be it so,” said the count ; “ but how will you beguile 
 the tediousness of the night, if you do not sleep ?” 
 
 u When I am weary, my lord,” replied Ludovico, u I 
 shall not fear to sleep ; in the meanwhile, I have a book 
 that will entertain me.” 
 
 “ Well,” said the count, “ I hope nothing will disturb 
 } T ou ; but if you should be seriously alarmed in the night, 
 come to my apartment. I have too much confidence in 
 your good sense and courage to believe you will be alarmed 
 on slight grounds, or suffer the gloom of this chamber, or 
 its remote situation, to overcome you with ideal terrors. 
 To-morrow I shall have to thank you for an important 
 service ; these rooms shall then be thrown open, and my 
 people will then be convinced of their error. Good-night, 
 Ludovico ; let me see you early in the morning, and remem- 
 ber what I lately said to you.” 
 
 “ I will, my lord. Good-night to your excellenza — let 
 me attend you with the light.” 
 
 He lighted the count and Henri through the chambers 
 to the outer door. On the landing-place stood a lamp, which 
 one of the affrighted servants had left ; and Henri, as he 
 took it up, again bade Ludovico “ good-night,” who, having 
 respectfully returned the wish, closed the door upon them 
 and fastened it. Then, as he retired to the bed-chamber, 
 he examined the rooms through which he passed with more 
 minuteness than he had done before ; for he apprehended 
 that some person might have concealed himself in them for 
 the purpose of frightening him. No one, however, but him- 
 self was in these chambers ; and leaving open the doors 
 through which he passed, he came again to the great draw* 
 
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 Ill 
 
 ing-room, whose spaciousness and silent gloom somewhat 
 startled him. For a moment he stood looking back through 
 the long suite of rooms he had just quitted ; and as 
 he turned, perceiving a light and his own figure reflected in 
 one of the large mirrors, he started. Other objects, too 
 were seen obscurely on its dark surface, but he paused not 
 to examine them, and returned hastily into the bed-room, 
 as he surveyed which, he observed the door of the Oriel, 
 and opened it. All within was still. On looking round, 
 his eye was caught by the portrait of the deceased mar- 
 chioness, upon which he gazed for a considerable time with 
 great attention and some surprise ; and then, having ex- 
 amined the closet he returned into the bed-room, where he 
 kindled a wood fire, the bright blaze of which revived his 
 spirits, which had begun to yield to the gloom and silence 
 of the place ; for gusts of wind alone broke at intervals this 
 silence. He now drew a small table and a chair near the 
 fire, took a bottle of wine and some cold provision out of 
 his basket, and regaled himself. When he had finished his 
 repast he laid his sword upon the table, and not feeling 
 disposed to sleep, drew from his pocket the book he had 
 spoken of. It was a volume of old Provencal tales. Hav- 
 ing stirred the fire into a brighter blaze, trimmed his lamp, 
 and drawn his chair upon the hearth, he began to read j 
 and his attention was soon wholly occupied by the scenes 
 which the page disclosed. 
 
 The count, meanwhile, had returned to the supper-room, 
 whither those of the party who had attended him to the 
 north apartment had retreated upon hearing Dorothee’s 
 scream, and who were now earnest in their inquiries con- 
 cerning those chambers. The count rallied his guests on 
 their precipitate retreat, and on the superstitious inclinations 
 which had occasioned it ; and this led to the question 
 
112 
 
 LUDOVICO IN TIIE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 whether the spirit, after it has quitted the body, is ev^r 
 permitted to revisit the earth ; and if it is, whether it was 
 possible for spirits to become visible to the sense ? The 
 baron was of opinion, that the first was probable, and the last 
 was possible ; and he endeavoured to justify this opinion by 
 respectable authorities, both ancient and modern, which he 
 quoted. The count, however, was decidedly against him : 
 and a long conversation ensued, in which the usual argu- 
 ments on these subjects were on both sides brought forward 
 with skill and discussed with candour, but without convert- 
 ing either party to the opinion of his opponent. The effect 
 of their conversation on their auditors was various. Though 
 the count had much the superiority of the baron in point of 
 argument, he had fewer adherents ; for that love, so natural 
 to the human mind, of whatever is able to distend its facul- 
 ties with wonder and astonishment, attached the majority of 
 the company to the side of the baron ; and though many of 
 the count’s propositions were unanswerable, his opponents 
 were inclined to believe this the consequence of their own 
 want of knowledge on so abstracted a subject, rather than 
 that arguments did not exist which were forcible enough to 
 conquer him. 
 
 Blanche was pale with attention, till the ridicule in her 
 father’s glance called a blush upon her countenance, and 
 she then endeavoured to forget the superstitious tales she 
 had been told in the convent. Meanwhile, Emily had been 
 listening with deep attention to the discussion of what was 
 to her a very interesting question ; and remembering the 
 appearance she had seen in the apartment of the late mar- 
 chioness, she was frequently chilled with awe. Several 
 times she was on the point of mentioning what she had seen, 
 but the fear of giving pain to the count, and the dread of 
 his ridicule, restrained her ; and awaiting in anxious ex- 
 
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 1 13 
 
 pectation the event of Ludovico’s intrepidity, she deter- 
 mined that her future silence should depend upon it. 
 
 When the party had separated for the night, and the 
 count retired to his dressing-room, the remembrance of the 
 desolate scenes he had so lately witnessed in his own man- 
 sion deeply affected him, but at length he was aroused from 
 his reverie and his silence. “ What music is that I hear ?” 
 Said he suddenly to his valet. “ Who plays at this late 
 hour ?” 
 
 The man made no reply ; and the count continued to lis- 
 ten, and then added, “ That is no common musician ; he 
 touches the instrument with a delicate hand. Who is it, 
 Pierre ?” 
 
 “ My lord !” said the man, hesitatingly. 
 
 “ Who plays that instrument ?” repeated the count. 
 
 u Does not your lordship know, then ?” said the valet. 
 
 “ What mean you?” said the count somewhat sternly. 
 
 “Nothing, my lord, I mean nothing,” rejoined the man 
 submissively ; “ only — that music — goes about the house at 
 midnight often, and I thought your lordship might have 
 heard it before.” 
 
 “ Music goes about the house at midnight ! Poor fellow ! 
 Does nobody dance to the music, too ?” 
 
 “ It is not in the chateau, I believe, my lord. The sounds 
 come from the woods, they say, though they seem so very 
 near ; but then a spirit can do anything.” 
 
 “ Ah, poor fellow !” said the count, “ I perceive you are 
 as silly as the rest of them ; to-morrow you will be con- 
 vinced of your ridiculous error. But, hark ! what noise is 
 that ?” 
 
 “ Oh, my lord ! that is the voice we often hear with the 
 music.” 
 
 “ Often !” said the count ; “ how often, pray ? It is a 
 very fine one.” 
 
114 
 
 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER . 
 
 “ Why, my lord, I myself have not heard it more 
 than two or three times ; but there are those who have 
 lived here longer, that have heard it often enough.” 
 
 “ What a swell was that !” exclaimed the count, as he 
 still listened; u and now, what a dying cadence ! This is 
 surely something more than mortal.” 
 
 u That is what they say, my lord,” said the valet ; “ they 
 say it is nothing mortal that utters it ; and if I might say 
 my thoughts ” 
 
 u Peace !” said the count ; and he listened till the strain 
 died away. 
 
 u This is strange,” said he, as he returned from the win- 
 dow. Close the casements, Pierre.” 
 
 Pierre obeyed, and the count soon after dismissed him 
 but did not so soon lose the remembrance of the music, 
 which long vibrated in his fancy in tones of melting sweet- 
 ness, while surprise and perplexity engaged his thoughts. 
 
 Ludovico, meanwhile in his remote chamber, heard now 
 and then the faint echo of a closing door as the family re- 
 tired to rest ; and then the hall-clock, at a great distance, 
 struck twelve. “ It is midnight,” said he, and he looked 
 suspiciously round the spacious chamber. The fire on the 
 hearth was now nearly expiring, for his attention having 
 been engaged by the book before him, he had forgotten 
 everything besides ; but he soon added fresh wood, not 
 because he was cold, though the night was stormy, 
 but because he was cheerless ; and having again trimmed 
 the lamp, he poured out a glass of wine, drew his chair 
 nearer to the crackling blaze, tried to be deaf to the wind 
 that howled mournfully at the casements, endeavoured to 
 abstract his mind from the melancholy that was stealing 
 upon him, and again took up his book. It had been lent to 
 him by Dorothee, who had formerly picked it up in an obscure 
 
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER . 
 
 115 
 
 corner of the marquis’s library ; and who, having opened it, 
 and perceived some of the marvels it related, had carefully 
 preserved it for her own entertainment, its condition giving 
 her some excuse for detaining it from its proper station. 
 The damp corner into which it had fallen, had caused the 
 cover to be disfigured and mouldy, and the leaves to be so 
 discoloured with spots, that it was not without difficulty the 
 letters could be traced. The fictions of the Provencal wri- 
 ters, whether drawn from the Arabian legends brought by 
 the Saracens into Spain, or recounting the chivalric exploits 
 performed by crusaders whom the troubadours accompanied 
 to the East, were generally splendid, and always marvellous 
 both in scenery and incident ; and it is not wonderful that 
 Dorothee and Ludovico should be fascinated by inventions 
 which had captivated the careless imagination in every rank 
 of society in a former age. Some of the tales, however, in 
 the book now before Ludovico were of simple structure, and 
 exhibited nothing of the magnificent machinery and heroic 
 manners which usually characterized the fables of the twelfth 
 century, and of this description was the one he now hap. 
 pened to open ; which in its original style was of great 
 length, but may be thus shortly related. The reader will 
 perceive it is strongly tinctured with the superstition of the 
 times. 
 
 THE PEOVENCAL TALE. 
 
 There lived, in the province of Bretagne, a noble baron, 
 famous for his magnificence and courtly hospitalities. His 
 castle was graced with ladies of exquisite beauty, and 
 thronged with illustrious knights ; for the honour he paid 
 to feats of chivalry invited the brave of distant countries to 
 enter his lists, and his court was more splendid than those 
 of many nrinces. Eight minstrels were retained in his ser- 
 
116 
 
 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 vice, who used to sing to their harps romantic fictions taken 
 from the Arabians, or adventures of chivalry that befell 
 knights during the crusades, or the martial deeds of the 
 baron, their lord ; while he, surrounded by his knights and 
 ladies, banqueted in the great hall of the castle, where the 
 costly tapestry that adorned the walls with pictured exploits 
 of his ancestors, the casements of painted glass enriched 
 with armorial bearings, the gorgeous banners that waved 
 along the roof, the sumptuous canopies, the profusion of gold 
 and silver that glittered on the sideboards, the numerous 
 dishes that covered the tables, the number and gay liveries 
 of the attendants, with the chivalric and splendid attire of 
 the guests, united to form a scene of magnificence such as 
 we may not hope to see in these degenerate days. 
 
 Of the baron the following adventure is related : — One 
 night, having retired late from the banquet to his chamber, 
 and dismissed his attendants, he was surprised by the 
 appearance of a stranger of a noble air, but of a sorrowful 
 and dejected countenance. Believing that this person had 
 been secreted in the apartment, since it appeared impossible 
 he could have lately passed the ante-room unobserved by the 
 pages in waiting, who would have prevented this intrusion 
 on their lord, the baron, calling loudly for his people, drew 
 his sword, which he had not yet taken from his side, and 
 stood upon his defence. The stranger, slowly advancing, 
 told him that there was nothing to fear ; that he came with 
 no hostile intent, but to communicate to him a terrible 
 secret, which it was necessary for him to know. 
 
 The baron, appeased by the courteous manner of the 
 stranger after surveying him for some time in silence, re- 
 turned his sword into the scabbard, and desired him to ex- 
 plain the means by which he had obtained access to the 
 chamber, and the purpose of this extraordinary visit. 
 
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER . 
 
 117 
 
 Without answering either of these inquiries, the 
 stranger said that he could not then explain himself, but 
 that, if the baron would follow him to the edge of the forest, 
 at a short distance from the castle walls, he would there 
 convince him that he had something of importance to dis- 
 close. 
 
 This proposal again alarmed the baron, who would 
 scarcely believe that the stranger meant to draw him to so 
 solitary a spot at this hour of the night without harbouring 
 a design against his life, and he refused to go : observing 
 at the same time, that if the stranger’s purpose was an 
 honourable one, he would not persist in refusing to reveal 
 the occasion of his visit in the apartment where they stood. 
 
 While he spoke this, he viewed the stranger still more 
 attentively than before, but observed no change in his counte- 
 nance, or any symptom that might intimate a consciousness 
 of evil design. He was habited like a knight, was of a tall 
 and majestic stature, and of dignified and courteous man- 
 ners. Still, however, he refused to communicate the sub- 
 stance of his errand in any place but that he had mentioned : 
 and at the same time gave hints concerning the secret he 
 would disclose, that awakened a degree of solemn curiosity 
 in the baron, which at length induced him to consent to the 
 stranger on certain conditions. 
 
 cr Sir knight,” said he, “ I will attend you to the forest, 
 and will take with me only four of my people, who shall 
 witness our conference.” 
 
 To this, however, the knight objected. 
 u What I would disclose,” said he with solemnity, a is 
 to you alone. There are only three living persons to whom 
 the circumstance is known ; it is of more consequence to 
 you and your house than I shall now explain. In future 
 years you will look back to this night with satisfaction or re 
 
ns 
 
 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 pentancc, accordingly as you now determine. As you would 
 hereafter prosper, follow me ; I pledge you the honour of a 
 knight that no evil shall befall you. If you are contented 
 to dare futurity, remain in your chamber, and I will depart 
 as I came.” 
 
 “ Sir knight,” replied the baron ; “ how is it possible 
 that my future peace can depend upon my present deter- 
 mination ?” 
 
 u That is not now to be told,” said the stranger ; “ I 
 have explained myself to the utmost. It is late : if you 
 follow me it must be quickly ; you will do well to consider 
 the alternative.” 
 
 The baron mused, and, as he looked upon the knight, he 
 perceived his countenance assume a singular solemnity. 
 
 (Here Ludovico thought he heard a noise, and he threw 
 a glance round the chamber, and then held up the lamp to 
 assist his observation ; but not perceiving anything to con- 
 firm his alarm, he took up the book again, and pursued the 
 story.) 
 
 The baron paced his apartment for some time in silence, 
 impressed by the words of the stranger, whose extraordinary 
 request he feared to grant, and feared also to refuse. At 
 length he said, “ Sir knight, you are utterly unknown to me ; 
 tell me, yourself, is it reasonable that I should trust myself 
 alone with a stranger, at this hour, in the solitary forest ? 
 Tell me, at least, who you are, and who assisted to secrete 
 you in this chamber 'P 
 
 The knight frowned at these words, and was a moment 
 silent ; then, with a countenance somewhat stern, he said, 
 u I am an English knight : I am called Sir Bevys of Lan- 
 caster, and my deeds are not unknown at the holy city, 
 whence I was returning to my native land, when I was be* 
 nighted in the forest.” 
 
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 L 19 
 
 u Your name is not unknown to fame,” said the baron ; 
 
 I have heard of it.” (The knight looked haughtily.) 
 “ But why, since my castle is known to entertain all true 
 knights, did not your herald announce you ? Why did you 
 not appear at the banquet, where your presence would have 
 been welcomed, instead of hiding yourself in my castle, and 
 stealing to my chamber at midnight?” 
 
 The stranger frowned, and turned away in silence ; but 
 the baron repeated the questions. 
 
 “ I come not,” said the knight, “ t > answer inquiries, 
 but to reveal facts. If you would know more, follow me ; 
 and again I pledge the honour of a knight that you shall 
 return in safety. Be quick in your determination — I must 
 be gone.” 
 
 After some farther hesitation, the baron determined to 
 follow the stranger, and to see the result of his extraordi- 
 nary request ; he therefore again drew forth his sword, and, 
 taking up a lamp, bade the knight lead on. The latter 
 obeyed ; and opening the door of the chamber, they passed 
 into the ante-room, where the baron, surprised to find all 
 his pages asleep, stopped, and with hasty violence was going 
 to reprimand them for their carelessness, when the knight 
 waved his hand, and looked so expressively at the baron, 
 that the latter restrained his resentment, and passed on. 
 
 The knight, having descended a staircase, opened a 
 secret door, which the baron had believed was only known 
 to himself ; and proceeding through several narrow and 
 winding passages, came at length to a small gate that opened 
 beyond the walls of the castle. Meanwhile, the baron fol- 
 lowed in silence and amazement, on perceiving that these 
 secret passages were so well known to a stranger, and felt 
 inclined to turn back from an adventure that appeared to 
 partake of treachery as well as danger. Then, considering 
 
1:20 
 
 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 that lie was armed, and observing the courteous and noble 
 air of his conductor, his courage returned, he blushed that 
 it had failed him for a moment, and lie resolved to trace the 
 mystery to its source. 
 
 He now found himself on the heathy platform, before 
 the great gates of his castle, where, on looking up, he per- 
 ceived lights glimmering in the different casements of the 
 guests, who were retiring -to sleep ; and while he shivered 
 in the blast, and looked on the dark and desolate scene 
 around him, he thought of the comforts of his warm cham- 
 ber, rendered cheerful by the blaze of wood, and felt, for a 
 moment, the full contrast of his present situation. 
 
 (Here Ludovico paused a moment, and, looking at his 
 own fire, gave it a brightening stir.) 
 
 The wind was strong, and the baron watched his lamp 
 with anxiety, expecting every moment to see it extin- 
 guished ; but though the flame wavered, it did not expire, 
 and he still followed the stranger, who often sighed as he 
 went, but did not speak. 
 
 When they reached the borders of the forest, the knight 
 turned and raised his head, as if he meant to address the 
 baron, but then closing his lips, in silence he walked on. 
 
 As they entered beneath the dark and spreading boughs, 
 the baron, affected by the solemnity of the scene, hesitated 
 whether to proceed, and demanded how much farther they 
 were to go. The knight replied only by a gesture, and the 
 baron, with hesitating steps and a suspicious eye, followed 
 through an obscure and intricate path, till, having proceeded 
 a considerable way, he again demanded whither they were 
 going, and refused to proceed unless he was informed. 
 
 As he said this, he looked at his own sword and at the 
 knight alternately, who shook his head, and whose dejected 
 countenance disarmed the baron, for a moment, of suspicion. 
 
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER . 
 
 121 
 
 “ A little farther is the place whither I would lead you,” 
 said the stranger ; “ no evil shall befall you — I have sworn 
 it on the honour of a knight.” 
 
 The baron, reassured, again followed in silence, and 
 they soon arrived at a deep recess of the forest, where the 
 dark and lofty chestnuts entirely excluded the sky, and 
 which was so overgrown with underwood that they proceeded 
 with difficulty. The knight sighed deeply as he passed, 
 and sometimes paused ; and having at length reached a 
 spot where the trees crowded into a knot, he turned, and 
 with a terrific look, pointing to the ground, the baron saw 
 there the body of a man, stretched at its length, and welter- 
 ing in blood ; a ghastly wound was on the forehead, and 
 death appeared already to have contracted the features. 
 
 The baron, on perceiving the spectacle, started in horror, 
 looked at the knight for explanation, and was then going to 
 raise the body, and examine if there were any remains of 
 life ; but the stranger, waving his hand, fixed upon him a 
 look so earnest and mournful, as not only much surprised 
 him, but made him desist. 
 
 But what were the baron’s emotions when, on holding 
 the lamp near the features of the corpse, he discovered the 
 exact resemblance of the stranger his conductor, to whom 
 he now looked up in astonishment and inquiry ! As he 
 gazed he perceived the countenance of the knight change 
 and begin to fade, till his whole form gradually vanished 
 from his astonished sense ! While the baron stood, fixed 
 to the spot, a voice was heard to utter these words : — 
 
 (Ludovico started, and laid down the book, for he thought 
 he heard a voice in the chamber, and he looked toward the 
 bed, where, however, he saw only the dark curtain and the 
 pall. He listened, scarcely daring to draw his breath, but 
 heard only the distant roaring of the sea in the storm, and 
 6 
 
122 
 
 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER . 
 
 the blast that rushed by the casements ; when, concluding 
 that lie had been deceived by its sighings, he took up his 
 book to finish his story.) 
 
 While the baron stood, fixed to the spot, a voice was 
 heard to utter these words : — 
 
 11 The body of Sir Bevys of Lancaster, a noble knight 
 of England, lies before you. He was this night waylaid 
 and murdered, as he journeyed from the holy city towards 
 his native land, llespect the honour of knighthood, and 
 the law of humanity ; inter the body in Christian ground, 
 and cause his murderers to be punished. As ye observe or 
 neglect this, shall peace and happiness, or war and misery, 
 light upon you and your house for ever !” 
 
 The baron, when he recovered from the awe and aston- 
 ishment into w T hich this adventure had thrown him, re- 
 turned to* his castle, whither he caused the body of Sir 
 Bevys to be removed ; and on the following day it was 
 interred with the honours of knighthood, in the chapel of 
 the castle, attended by all the noble knights and ladies who 
 graced the court of Baron de Brunne. 
 
 Ludovico, having finished this story, laid aside the 
 book, for he felt drowsy ; and after putting more wood on 
 the fire, and taking another glass of wine, he reposed him- 
 self in the arm-chair on the hearth. In his dream he still 
 beheld the chamber where he really was, and once or twice 
 started from imperfect slumbers, imagining he saw a man’s 
 face looking over the high back of his arm-chair. This 
 idea had so strongly impressed him, that, when he raised 
 his eyes, he almost expected to meet other eyes fixed upon 
 his own ; and he quitted his seat, and looked behind the 
 chair before he felt perfectly convinced that no person was 
 there. 
 
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 123 
 
 Thus closed the hour. 
 
 The count, who had slept little during the night, rose 
 early, and, anxious to speak with Ludovico, went to the 
 north apartment ; but the outer door having been fastened 
 on the preceding night, he was obliged to knock loudly for 
 admittance. Neither the knocking nor his voice was heard : 
 he renewed his calls more loudly than before ; after which 
 a total silence ensued ; and the count, finding all his efforts 
 to be heard ineffectual, at length began to fear that some 
 accident had befallen Ludovico, whom terror of an imagin- 
 ary being might have deprived of his senses. He therefore 
 left the door with an intention of summoning his servants 
 to force it open, some of whom he now heard moving in the 
 lower part of the chateau. 
 
 To the count’s inquiries whether they had seen or heard 
 any thing of Ludovico, they replied, in affright, that not one 
 of them had ventured on the north side of the chateau since 
 the preceding night. 
 
 u He sleeps soundly, then,” said the count, “ and is at 
 such a distance from the outer door, which is fastened, that 
 to gain admittance to the chambers it will be necessary to 
 force it. Bring an instrument, and follow me.” 
 
 The servants stood mute and dejected, and it was not 
 till nearly all the household were assembled, that the 
 count’s orders were obeyed. In the meantime, Dorothee 
 was telling of a door that opened from a gallery leading 
 from the great staircase into the last ante-room of the 
 saloon, and this being much nearer to the bed-chamber, it 
 appeared probable that Ludovico might be easily awakened 
 by an attempt to open it. Thither, therefore, the count 
 went ; but his voice was as ineffectual at this door as it 
 had- proved at the remoter one ; and now, seriously inte- 
 rested for Ludovico, he was himself going to strike upon 
 
124 
 
 LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 the door with the instrument, when he observed its singular 
 beauty, and withheld the blow. It appeared on the first 
 glance to be of ebony, so dark and close was its grain, and 
 so high its polish ; but it proved to be only of larch-weod, 
 of the growth of Provence, then famous for its forests of 
 larch. The beauty of its polished hue, and of its delicate 
 carvings, determined the count to spare this door, and he 
 returned to that leading from the back staircase, which 
 being at length forced, he entered the first ante-room, fol- 
 lowed by Henri and a few of the most courageous of his 
 servants, the rest waiting the event of the inquiry on the 
 stairs and landing-place. 
 
 All was silence in the chambers through which the 
 count passed, and having reached the saloon, he called 
 loudly upon Ludovico ; after which, still receiving no 
 answer, he threw open the door of the bed-room, and 
 entered. 
 
 The profound stillness within confirmed his apprehen- 
 sions for Ludovico, for not even the breathings of a person 
 in sleep were heard ; and his uncertainty was not soon ter- 
 minated, since the shutters being all closed, the chamber 
 was too dark for any object to be distinguished in it. 
 
 The count bade a servant open them, who, as he crossed 
 the room to do so, stumbled over something, and fell to the 
 floor, when his cry occasioned such a panic among the few 
 of his fellows who had ventured thus far, that they instantly 
 fled, and the count and Henri were left to finish the ad- 
 venture. 
 
 Henri then sprang across the room, and, opening a 
 window-shutter, they perceived that the man had fallen 
 over a chair near the hearth, in which Ludovico had been 
 sitting ; — for he sat there no longer, nor could anywhere 
 be seen by the imperfect light that was admitted into the 
 
LUDOVICO IN THE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 125 
 
 apartment. The count, seriously alarmed, now opened other 
 shutters, that he might be enabled to examine farther \ 
 and Ludovico not yet appearing, he stood for a moment 
 suspended in astonishment, and scarcely trusting his senses, 
 till his eyes glancing on the bed, he advanced to examine 
 whether he was there asleep. No person, however, was in 
 it ; and he proceeded to the Oriel, where every thing re- 
 mained as on the preceding night ; but Ludovico was no- 
 where to be found. 
 
 The count now checked his amazement, considering 
 that Ludovico might have left the chamber during the 
 night, overcome by the terrors which their lonely desolation 
 and the recollected reports concerning them had inspired. 
 Yet, if this had been the fact, the man would naturally have 
 sought society, and his fellow-servants had all declared they 
 had not seen him ; the door of the outer room also had been 
 found fastened, with the key on the inside ; it was impos- 
 sible, therefore, for him to have passed through that ; and 
 all the outer doors of this suite were found, on examination, 
 to be bolted and locked, with the keys also within them. 
 Tbe count, being then compelled to believe that the lad 
 had escaped through the casements, next examined them : 
 but such as opened wide enough to admit the body of a 
 man were found to be carefully secured either by iron bars 
 or by shutters, and no vestige appeared of any person 
 having attempted to pass them ; neither was it probable 
 that Ludovico would have incurred the risk of breaking his 
 neck by leaping from a window, when he might have walked 
 safely through a door. 
 
 The count l s amazement did not admit of words ; but he 
 returned once more to examine the bed-room, where was 
 no appearance of disorder, except that occasioned by the 
 late overthrow of the chair, near which had stood a small 
 
126 
 
 LUDOVICO IN Tllh HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 table ; and on this Ludovico’s sword, his lamp, the book he 
 had been reading, and the remains of a flask of wine, still 
 remained. At the foot of the table, too, was the basket, 
 with some fragments of provision and wood. 
 
 Henri and the servant now uttered their astonishment 
 without reserve, and though the count said little, there was 
 a seriousness in his manner that expressed much. It ap- 
 peared that Ludovico must have quitted these rooms by 
 some concealed passage, for the count could not believe 
 that any supernatural means had occasioned this event ; 
 yet, if there was any such passage, it seemed inexplicable 
 why he should retreat through it ; and it was equally sur- 
 prising that not even the smallest vestige should appear 
 by which his progress could be traced. In the rooms, 
 everything remained as much in order as if he had just 
 walked out by the common way. 
 
 The count himself assisted in lifting the arras with 
 which the bed-chamber, saloon, and one of the ante- rooms, 
 were hung, that he might discover if any door had been 
 concealed behind it ; but after a laborious search, none 
 was found ; and he at length quitted the apartments, having 
 secured the door of the last ante-chamber, the key of which 
 he took into his own possession. He then gave orders that 
 strict search should be made for Ludovico, not only in the 
 chateau, but in the neighbourhood, and retiring with Henri 
 to his closet, they remained there in conversation for a 
 considerable time ; and whatever was the subject of it, 
 Henri from this hour lost much of his vivacity ; and his 
 manners were particularly grave and reserved, whenever 
 the topic which now agitated the count’s family with won- 
 der and alarm, was introduced.* 
 
 * The chateau had been inhabited before the count came into its pos- 
 session. He was not aware that the apparently outward walls contained 
 
LUDOVICO IN TIIE HAUNTED CHAMBER. 
 
 127 
 
 a series of passages and staircases, which led to unknown vaults under- 
 ground ; and, therefore, he never thought of looking for a door in those 
 parts of the chamber which he supposed to be next to the air. In these 
 was a communication with the room. The chateau (for we are not here 
 in Udolpho) was on the sea-shore in Languedoc; its vaults had become 
 the store-house of pirates, who did their best to keep up the supernatural 
 delusions that hindered people from searching the premises ; and these 
 pirates had carried Ludovico away. 
 
BY MRS. INCIIBALD. 
 
 <T'ljt learning. 
 
 FROM TIIE NOVEL OF “NATURE AND ART,” 
 
 Elizabeth Inciibald, an amusing dramatist, a writer of stories of the 
 highest order for sentiment and passion, and a beautiful woman, ad- 
 mirable for attractiveness of almost every kind, especially candour and 
 self-denial, was daughter of a farmer in Suffolk, of the name of Simpson. 
 She married an actor, a very worthy man, who died not long after their 
 union. She performed on the stage herself for some years, in spite of 
 an impediment in her speech, which seems to have been generally 
 under control ; and then settled down into a successful authoress, court- 
 ed by high and low, often with a view to marriage. In one or two 
 instances offers would evidently have been accepted had they been 
 made, but she was superior to all that were unconnected with the 
 heart. She maintained some relatives at the expense of personal 
 sacrifices that sometimes left her without a fire in winter; and she died 
 at a respectable lodging-house in Kensington, where she was buried in 
 the churchyard. She wrote the dramas of The Midnight Hour, The 
 Mogul Tale , Such Things Are , <fec. ; and, besides the novel from which 
 the following incident is taken, was authoress of The Simple Story, one 
 of the deepest-felt and best- written tales in the language. We had not 
 the honor of knowing Mrs. Inchbald; but we love her memory for 
 many reasons — one of which is, that a mother who possessed similar 
 virtues was fond of those novels, particularly Nature and Art , and 
 recommended it strongly to us in our boyhood. Passages more beauti- 
 ful and pathetic than those which we have selected are not to be found 
 in the whole circle of English prose. 
 
 The reader will observe that the warning is not aimed at lawyers 
 in particular. The writer would have done nothing so unjust. A 
 
THE WARNING. 
 
 129 
 
 jawyer is only selected for tlie more striking illustration of it; and as 
 the profession, generally speaking, has been as free in its way of life as 
 most others, however admirable for the final wisdom and virtue in 
 which its many-thoughted experience tends to settle it, the dreadful 
 circumstances imagined in this story are but too possible — perhaps 
 have often occurred in spirit, though not in letter. The exclamation 
 “Oh, not from you!” may rank with the finest bursts of emotion in 
 the tragic poets ; and it comes more dreadfully home to the bosom of 
 society. 
 
 T HE day at length is come on which Agnes shall have 
 a sight of her beloved William ! She who has watch- 
 ed for hours near his door, to procure a glimpse of him 
 going out or returning home ; who has walked miles to see 
 his chariot pass ; she now will behold him, and he will see 
 her, by command of the laws of his country. Those laws, 
 which will deal with rigour towards her, are in this one in- 
 stance still indulgent. 
 
 The time of the assizes at the county town in which 
 she is imprisoned, is arrived — the prisoners are demanded 
 at the shire-hall — the jail doors are opened — they go in 
 sad procession. The trumpet sounds — it speaks the arrival 
 of the judge — and that judge is William. 
 
 The day previous to her trial, Agnes had read, in the 
 printed calendar of the prisoners, his name as the learned 
 judge before whom she was to appear. For a moment she 
 forgot her perilous state in the excess of joy which the still 
 unconquerable love she bore to him permitted her to taste, 
 even on the brink of the grave! After reflection made her 
 check these worldly transports, as unfit for the present solemn 
 occasion. But, alas ! to her, earth and William were so close- 
 ly united, that, till she forsook the one, she could never 
 cease to think, without the contending passions of hope, of 
 fear, of love, of shame, and of despair, on the other. 
 
 6 * 
 
130 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 Now fear took place of her first immoderate joy ; she 
 feared that, although much changed in person since he had 
 seen her, and her real name now added to many an alias — 
 yet she feared that some well-known glance of the eye, turn 
 of the action, or accent of speech, might recall her to his 
 remembrance ; and at that idea, shame overcame all her 
 other sensations — for still she retained pride, in respect to 
 his opinion, to wish him not to know Agnes was that wretch 
 she felt she was ! Once a ray of hope beamed on her, that 
 if he knew her — if he recognised her — he might possibly be- 
 friend her cause; and life, bestowed through William’s 
 friendship, seemed a precious object ! But, again, that rig- 
 orous honour she had often Jieard him boast, that firmness 
 to his word, of which she had fatal experience, taught her 
 to know he would not, for any improper compassion, any 
 unmanly weakness, forfeit his oath of impartial justice. 
 
 In meditations such as these she passed the sleepless 
 night. 
 
 When, in the morning, she was brought to the bar, and 
 her guilty hand held up before the righteous judgment-seat 
 of William, imagination could not form two figures, or two 
 situations more incompatible with the existence of former 
 familiarity than the judge and the culprit ; and yet, these 
 very persons had passed together the most blissful moments 
 that either ever tasted ! Those hours of tender dalliance 
 were now present to her mind — his thoughts were more no- 
 bly employed in his high office ; nor could the haggard face, 
 hollow eye, desponding countenance, and meagre person of 
 the poor prisoner, once call to his memory, though her name 
 was uttered among a list of others which she had assumed, 
 his former youthful, lovely Agnes ! 
 
 She heard herself arraigned, with trembling limbs and 
 downcast looks, and many witnesses had appeared against 
 
THE WARNING. 
 
 1 3 i 
 
 her, before she ventured to lift her eyes up to her awful 
 judge; she then gave one fearful glance, and discovered 
 William, unpitying but beloved William, in every feature ! 
 It was a face she had been used to look on with delight, and 
 a kind of absent smile of gladness now beamed on her poor 
 wan visage. 
 
 When every witness on the part of the prosecutor had 
 been examined, the judge addressed himself to her — 
 
 u What defence have you to make ?” 
 
 It was William spoke to Agnes ! The sound was sweet ; 
 the voice was mild, was soft, compassionate, encouraging. 
 It almost charmed her to a love of life ! Not such a voice 
 as when William last addressed her ; when he left her un- 
 done and pregnant, vowing never to see or speak to her 
 more. 
 
 She would have hung upon the present word for ever. 
 She did not call to mind that this gentleness was the effect 
 of practice, the art of his occupation ; which, at times, is 
 but a copy, by the unfeeling, of the benevolent brethren of 
 the bench. In the present judge, tenderness was not de- 
 signed for consolation of the culprit, but for the approbation 
 of the auditors. 
 
 There were no spectators, Agnes, by your side when last 
 he parted from you ; — if there had, the awful William would 
 have been awed to marks of pity. 
 
 Stunned with the enchantment of that well-known tongue 
 directed to her, she stood like one just petrified — all vital 
 power seemed suspended. 
 
 Again he put the question, and with these additional 
 sentences, tenderly and emphatically delivered : — “ Recol- 
 lect yourself; have you no witnesses? no proof on your 
 behalf?” 
 
 A dead silence followed these questions. 
 
132 
 
 THE WA RNING . 
 
 He then mildly but forcibly added — “ What have you 
 to say?” 
 
 Here a flood of tears burst from her eyes, which she 
 fixed earnestly upon him, as if pleading for mercy, while 
 she faintly articulated — 
 
 u Nothing, my lord.” 
 
 After a short pause, he asked her in the same forcible, 
 but benevolent tone — 
 
 u Have you no one to speak to your character ?” 
 
 The prisoner answered — 
 
 “ No.” 
 
 A second gush of tears followed this reply, for she called 
 to mind by whom her character had first been blasted. 
 
 He summed up the evidence, and every time he was 
 obliged to press hard upon the proofs against her, she 
 shrunk, and seemed to stagger with the deadly blow — 
 writhed under the weight of his minute justice, more than 
 from the prospect of a shameful death. 
 
 The iury consulted but a few minutes, the verdict was — 
 “ Guilty.” 
 
 She heard it with composure. 
 
 But when William placed the fatal velvet on his head, 
 and rose to pronounce the fatal sentence, she started with a 
 kind of convulsive motion, retreated a step or two back, and 
 lifting up her hands, w T ith a scream exclaimed — 
 
 u Oh, not from you !” 
 
 The piercing shriek which accompanied these words, 
 prevented their being heard by part of the audience ; and 
 those who heard them thought little of their meaning, more 
 than that they expressed her fear of dying. 
 
 Serene and dignified, as if no such exclamation had been 
 uttered, William delivered the final speech ending with — 
 u Dead, dead, dead.” 
 
THE WARNING . 
 
 133 
 
 She fainted as he closed the period, and was carried hack 
 to prison in a swoon ; while he adjourned the court to go 
 to dinner. 
 
 If, unaffected by the scene he had witnessed, William 
 sat down to dinner with an appetite, let not the reader con- 
 ceive that the most distant suspicion had struck his mind 
 of his ever having seen, much less familiarly known, the 
 poor offender whom he had just condemned. Still this 
 forgetfulness did not proceed from the want of memory for 
 Agnes. In every peevish or heavy hour passed with his 
 wife, he was sure to think of her; yet it was self-love, 
 rather than love of her, that gave rise to these thoughts. 
 He felt the lack of female sympathy and tenderness to 
 soften the fatigue of studious labour, to soothe a sullen, a 
 morose disposition — he felt he wanted comfort for himself, 
 but never once considered what were the wants of Agnes. 
 
 In the chagrin of a barren bed he sometimes thought, 
 too, even on the child that Agnes bore him ; but whether it 
 were male or female, whether a beggar in the streets or 
 dead, various and important public occupation forbade him 
 to inquire. Yet the poor, the widow, and the orphan fre- 
 quently shared William’s ostentatious bounty. He was the 
 president of many excellent charities, gave largely, and 
 sometimes instituted benevolent societies for the unhappy ; 
 for he delighted to load the poor with obligation, and the 
 rich with praise. 
 
 There are persons like him who love to do every thing 
 good but that which their immediate duty requires. There 
 are servants that will serve every one more cheerfully than 
 their masters ; there are men who will distribute money 
 liberally to all except their creditors ; and there are wives 
 who will love all mankind better than their own husbands. 
 Duty is a familiar word which has little effect upon an ordi- 
 
134 
 
 THE WARNING . 
 
 nary mind ; and as ordinary minds make a vast majority, 
 we have acts of generosity, self-denial, and honesty, where 
 smaller pains would constitute greater virtues. Had Wil- 
 liam followed the common dictates of charity, had he 
 adopted private pity instead of public munificence, had he 
 cast an eye at home before he sought abroad for objects of 
 compassion, Agnes had been preserved from an ignominious 
 death, and he had been preserved from — remorse , the tor- 
 tures of which he for the first time proved on reading a 
 printed sheet of paper, accidentally thrown in his way a few 
 days after he had left the town in which he had condemned 
 her to die. 
 
 u March 10th, 179 — . 
 
 u The last dying words, speech, and confession, birth, 
 parentage, and education, life, character, and behaviour, of 
 Agnes Primrose, w T ho was executed this morning between 
 the hours of ten and twelve, pursuant to the sentence passed 
 upon her by the Honourable Justice Norwynne. 
 
 iC Agnes Primrose was born of honest parents, in the 
 
 village of Anfield, in the county of ” (William started 
 
 at the name of the village and county) ; “ but being led 
 astray by the arts and flattery of seducing man, she fell 
 from the paths of virtue, and took to bad company, which 
 instilled into her young heart all their evil ways, and at 
 length brought her to this untimely end. So she hopes her 
 death will be a warning to all young persons of her own sex, 
 how they listen to the praises and courtship of young men, 
 especially of those who are their betters ; for they only 
 court to deceive. But the said Agnes freely forgives all 
 persons who have done her injury or given her sorrow, from 
 the young man who first won her heart, to the jury who 
 found her guilty, and the judge who condemned her to death. 
 
THE WARNING. 
 
 135 
 
 u And she acknowledges the justice of her sentence, not 
 only in respect of her crime for which she suffers, hut in re- 
 gard to many other heinous sins of which she has been guilty, 
 more especially that of once attempting to commit a murder 
 upon her own helpless child ; for which guilt she now con- 
 siders the vengeance of God has overtaken her, to which she 
 is patiently resigned, and departs in peace and charity with 
 all the world, praying the Lord to have mercy on her part- 
 ing soul.” 
 
 POSTSCRIPT TO THE CONFESSION. 
 
 u So great was this unhappy woman’s terror of death and 
 the awful judgment that was to follow, that when sentence 
 was pronounced upon her she fell into a swoon, from that into 
 convulsions, from which she never entirely recovered, but 
 was delirious to the time of her execution, except that short 
 interval in which she made her confession to the clergyman 
 who attended her. She has left one child, a youth almost 
 sixteen, who has never forsaken his mother during all the 
 time of her imprisonment, but waited on her with true filial 
 duty j and no sooner was her final sentence passed than he 
 began to droop, and now lies dangerously ill near the prison 
 from which she is released by death. During the loss of 
 her senses, the said Agnes Primrose raved continually of 
 her child ; and, asking for pen, ink, and paper, wrote an in- 
 coherent petition to the judge, recommending the youth to 
 his protection and mercy. But notwithstanding this insanity, 
 she behaved with composure and resignation when the fatal 
 morning arrived in which she was to be launched into eter- 
 nity. She prayed devoutly during the last hour, and seemed 
 to have her whole mind fixed on the world to which she was 
 going. A crowd of spectators followed her to the fatal spot, 
 most of whom returned weeping at the recollection of the 
 
136 
 
 THE WARNING. 
 
 fervency with which she prayed, and the impression which 
 
 her dreadful state seemed to make upon her.” 
 
 #*#### 
 
 No sooner had the name of “ Anfield” struck William, 
 than a thousand reflections and remembrances flashed on 
 his mind to give him full conviction who it was he had judged 
 and sentenced. He recollected the sad remains of Agnes, 
 such as he once had known her ; and now he wondered how 
 his thoughts could have been absent from an object so piti- 
 able, so worthy of his attention, as not to give him even 
 suspicion who she was, either from her name or from her 
 person, during the whole trial. 
 
 But wonder, astonishment, horror, and every other sen- 
 sation was absorbed by — remorse. It wounded, it stabbed, 
 it rent his hard heart as it would do a tender one ; it havocked 
 on his firm inflexible mind as it would on a weak and pliant 
 brain ! Spirit of Agnes ! look down, and behold all your 
 wrongs revenged ! William feels — remorse. 
 
3 njjti 36 mtrlt. 
 
 'HE Life of John Buncle , , Esq. ; containing various Observations 
 
 JL and Refections made in several parts of the World, and many 
 Extraordinary Relations , is a book unlike any other in the language, 
 perhaps in the world ; and the introduction of passages from it into 
 the present volume must be considered as being, like itself an excep- 
 tion to rules; for it will resemble rather a notice in a review, than our 
 selections in general. John’s Life is not a classic: it contains no 
 passage which is a general favourite : no extract could be made from it 
 of any length, to which readers of good taste would not find objections. 
 Yet there is so curious an interest in all its absurdities; its jumble of 
 the gayest and gravest considerations is so founded in the actual state of 
 things ; it draws now and then such excellent portraits from life ; and 
 above all, its animal spirits are at once so excessive and so real, that 
 we defy the best readers not to be entertained with it, and having had 
 one or two specimens, not to desire more. Buncle would say, that 
 there is “cut and come again” in him, like one of his luncheons of 
 cold beef and a foaming tankard. 
 
 John Buncle, Esq., is the representative of his author, Thomas 
 Amory; of whom little is known, except that he was a gentleman of 
 singular habits and appearance, who led a retired life, was married, 
 was a vehement Unitarian, wrote another extraordinary book profess- 
 ing to be “ Lives of Several Ladies ” (in which there is a link with 
 John), and died, to the glory of animal spirits, and of rounds of bread 
 and butter (into which his good cheer seems latterly to have merged), 
 at the ripe old age of ninety-seven. He is supposed to have been bred 
 a physician. His father was a barrister, and is understood to have 
 acquired considerable property in Ireland, in consequence of becoming 
 secretary to the forfeited estates. 
 
138 
 
 JOHN BUNCLE. 
 
 John Buncle is evidently Aniory liimself. This is apparent from 
 the hits of real autobiography which are mixed with the fictitious, and 
 which constitute one of the strange jumbles in his book. Hazlitt has 
 called him the “English Rabelais;” and in point of animal spirits, love 
 of good cheer, and something of a mixture of scholarship, theology, 
 and profane reading, he may be held to deserve the title ; but he has 
 no claim to the Frenchman’s greatness of genius, freedom from bigotry, 
 and profoundness of wit and humour. lie might have done very well 
 for a clerk to Rabelais ; and his master would have laughed quite as 
 much at, as with him. John is a kind of innocent Henry the Eighth 
 “of private life,” without the other’s fat, fury, and solemnity. He is 
 a prodigious hand at matrimony, at divinity, at a song, at a loud 
 “hem,” and at a turkey and chine. He breaks with the Trinitarians 
 as confidently and with as much scorn as Henry did with the Pope ; 
 and he marries seven wives, whom he disposes of by the lawful process 
 of fever and small-pox. His book is made up of natural history, ma- 
 thematics (literally), songs, polemics, landscapes, eating and drinking, 
 and characters of singular men, all bound together by his introductions 
 to and marriages w T ith these seven successive ladies, every one of whom 
 is a charmer, a Unitarian, and cut off in the flower of her youth. Buncle 
 does not know how to endure her loss ; he shuts his eyes “ for three 
 days;” is stupified; is in despair; till suddenly he recollects that 
 Heaven does not Uke such conduct ; that it is a mourner’s business to 
 bow to its decrees ; to be devout ; to be philosophic : in short, to be 
 jolly, and look out for another dear, bewitching partner, “ on Christian 
 principles.” This is, literally, a fair account of his book; and our 
 readers are now qualified to understand the passages we proceed to 
 extract. 
 
 The “ Lives of Several Ladies ,” which preceded Buncle’s autobi- 
 ography, professed to be genuine lives, and w r ere equally manifest 
 fictions, mixed with a portion of truth. The ladies, like the wives, 
 were all Unitarians, and all charming ; and the* writer, after a certain 
 spiritual mode, fell in love w T ith them. They partook of liis zest for 
 all the pleasures of life ; had a great objection to ugly, as well as to 
 Athanasian husbands, and none in the world to a good supper. The 
 lives are addressed to a friend of the name of Jewks — a name which is 
 often apostrophized with an abrupt joviality of the most amusing kind, 
 in the midst of theological disquisitions. As the opening of this work 
 is no unfavourable specimen of the author, and furnishes a pretty 
 
JOHN B UNGLE. 
 
 139 
 
 thorough foretaste of his spirit, the reader is presented with a few 
 pages of it. 
 
 u Your letter, dear Jewks, I had the pleasure of receiv- 
 ing ; and, that you should not suspect me of neglecting 
 you, I postpone my journey to Chadson, to answer your 
 questions. To the best of my power I will give you a monu- 
 ment of my friendship, though at present my condition is 
 such, that I cannot subtract too much from the organs of 
 the intellect, to give to those of motion. You shall have all 
 I know relating to the lady you inquire after. You shall 
 have, by the way, a few occasional observations. 
 
 “ In the year 1739, I travelled many hundred miles to 
 visit ancient monuments, and discover curious things ; and 
 as I wandered, to this purpose, among the vast hills of 
 Northumberland, fortune conducted me one evening, in the 
 month of June, when I knew not where to rest, to the 
 sweetest retirement my eyes have ever beheld. This is 
 Hali-farm. It is a beautiful vale surrounded with rocks, 
 forest, and water. I found at the upper end of it the pret- 
 tiest thatched house in the world, and a garden of the most 
 artful confusion I had ever seen. The little mansion was 
 covered on every side with the finest flowery greens. The 
 streams, all round, were murmuring and falling a thousand 
 ways. All the kinds of singing birds were here collected, 
 and in high harmony on the sprays. The ruins of an abbey 
 enhance the beauties of this place ; they appear at the distance 
 of four hundred yards from the house ; and as some great 
 trees are now grown up among the remains, and a river winds 
 between the broken walls, the view is solemn, the picture fine. 
 
 t£ When I came up to the house, the first figure I saw 
 was the lady whose story I am going to relate. She had 
 the charms of an angel, but her dress was quite plain and 
 clean like a country maid. Her person appeared faultless, 
 
140 
 
 JOHN B UNCLE. 
 
 and of the middle size, between the disagreeable extremes ; 
 her face a sweet oval, and her complexion the brunette of 
 the bright rich kind ; her mouth, like a rose-bud that is just 
 beginning to blow ; and a fugitive dimple, by fits, would 
 lighten and disappear. The finest passions were always 
 passing in her face ; and in her long, even, chestnut eyes, 
 there was a fluid fire sufficient for half-a-dozen pair. 
 
 iL She had a volume of Shakspeare in her hand as I came 
 softly towards her, having left my horse at a distance with 
 my servant ; and her attention was so much engaged with 
 the extremely poetical and fine lines which Titania speaks 
 in the third act of the Midsummer Night's Dream , that she 
 did not see me till I was quite near her. She seemed then 
 in great amazement. She could not be much more sur- 
 prised if I had dropped from the clouds. But this was soon 
 over, upon my asking her if she was not the daughter of 
 Mr. John Bruce, as I supposed from a similitude of faces, 
 and informing her that her father, if I was right, was my 
 near friend, and would be glad to see his chum in that part 
 of the world. Marinda replied, c You are not wrong and 
 immediately asked me in. She conducted me to a parlour 
 that was quite beautiful in the rural way, and welcomed me 
 to Hali-farm, as her father would have done, she said, had 
 I arrived before his removal to a better world. She then 
 left me for a while, and I had time to look over the room I 
 was in. The floor was covered with rushes wrought into 
 the prettiest mat, and the walls decorated all round with 
 the finest flowers and shells. Bobins and nightingales, the 
 finch and the linnet, were in the neatest red cages of her 
 own making ; and at the upper end of the chamber, in a 
 charming little open grotto, was the finest strix capite 
 aurito , enrpore rufo , that I have seen, that is, the great 
 eagle oivl. This beautiful bird, in a niche like a ruin, looked 
 
JOHN BUNGLE. 
 
 141 
 
 vastly fine. As to the flowers which adorned this room, 
 I thought they were all natural at my first coming in, but 
 on inspection it appeared that several baskets of the finest 
 kinds were inimitably painted on the walls by Marinda’s 
 hand. 
 
 “ These things afforded me a pleasing entertainment for 
 about half an hour, and then Miss Bruce returned. One of 
 the maids brought in a supper — such fare, she said, as her 
 little cottage afforded ; and the table was covered with 
 green peas and pigeons, cream cheese, new bread and but- 
 ter. Everything was excellent in its kind. The cider and 
 ale were admirable. Discretion and dignity appeared in 
 Marinda’s behaviour; she talked with judgment; and, 
 under the decencies of ignorance, was concealed a valuable 
 knowledge.” — Yol. I.,p. 1. 
 
 This is the way in which Buncle meets with most of his ladies. 
 They are discovered in lovely places reading hooks, and are always 
 prepared for nice little suppers. Their fathers or other companions are 
 generally people to match. Jack Bruce, Marinda’s father, was an 
 excellent good fellow, disinherited by his own father for refusing to 
 sign the thirty-nine articles. He disappears in a solitude, marries a 
 farmer’s daughter (“an extraordinary beauty” with an “uncommon 
 understanding”), and becomes a farmer himself. 
 
 “ 1 Religion,’ would Jack Bruce say, as we passed an 
 evening over a little bowl of nectar — for he never taught in 
 the dry, sober method — • religion,’ &c.” 
 
 Then follows a picture of philosophic Unitarianism. 
 
 “This was a glorious faith, Jewks.” People, he says, 
 “may substitute inventive pieces in the place of true religion ; 
 and multiply their fancies into endless volumes ; such as 
 Revelation examined ivitli Candour , the most uncandid 
 
M2 
 
 JOHN £ UNCLE. 
 
 thing that ever was written; the Life of David , &c., by the 
 same author; Rogers’s Discourse of the Visible and Invisi- 
 ble Church; Waterland’s Importance , and other writings; 
 the execrable d ialogucs called Ophiomaclies ; Trapp , Web- 
 ster , and Vernon ; the miserable Answers to the Bishop oj 
 Clog her ; Dodwell , Church , and Brooks , against Middle- 
 ton ; Knowles against the Argument a Priori ; and cart- 
 loads of such religious lumber ” (these italics are the au- 
 thor’s) ; “ but, my dear Jewks, true Christianity lies in re- 
 pentance and amendment.” 
 
 Miss Bruce wins a husband by painting pictures of “Arcadia” and 
 the “Crucifixion,” and “playing on the fiddle.” Divers charming 
 young ladies come to her house by accident, and form extempore 
 never-dying friendships, in the manner of the people in the Rovers — 
 
 “ Come to my arms, my slight acquaintance.” 
 
 Among others are Mrs. Schomberg and Miss West. 
 
 u They were riding to Crawford Dyke, near Dunglass, 
 the place I intended for, and by a wrong turn in the road 
 came to Mrs. Benlow’s house, instead of going to Robin’s 
 Toad, where they designed to bait. It was between eight 
 and nine at night when they got to her door ; and as they 
 appeared, by the richness of their riding-dress, their ser- 
 vants, and the beautiful horses they rid, to be women of 
 distinction, Mrs. Benlow invited them in, and requested 
 they would lie at her house that night, as the inn they were 
 looking for was very bad. Nothing could be more grateful 
 to the ladies than this proposal. They were on the ground 
 in a moment ; and we all sat down soon after, with the 
 greatest cheerfulness, to a fine dish of trouts, roasted 
 chickens, tarts, and sparragrass. The strangers were quite 
 charmed with everything they saw. The sweet rural room 
 they were in, and the wild beauties of the garden in view. 
 
JOHN BUNGLE. 
 
 143 
 
 they could not enough admire ; and they were so struck 
 with Mrs. Benlow’s goodness, and the lively happy manner 
 she has of showing it, that they conceived immediately the 
 greatest affection for her. Felicity could not rise higher 
 than it did at this table. For a couple of hours we laughed 
 most immoderately.” — Id., p. 92. 
 
 But to quit the lives of ladies who married other men, and come to 
 John Buncle and his own. John quits his father, as Jack Bruce did, 
 on account of a religious difference, and goes about the world, seeking 
 whom he may marry. His first wife is a Miss Melmoth. He had 
 known her some time, when having been led one day into some parti- 
 cularly serious reflections on life and death by the sight of a skeleton, 
 he considered that it would be a good thing to “commence a matrimo- 
 nial relation with some sensible, good-humoured, dear, delightful girl of 
 the mountains, and persuade her to be the cheerful partner of his still 
 life.” He thought that “ nature and reason ” would then “ci’eate the 
 highest scenes of felicity, and that he should live, as it were, in the 
 suburbs of heaven.” 
 
 “ This is fine,” concludes he, in an ecstacy. u For once 
 in my life I am fortunate. And suppose this partner I 
 want in my solitude could be Miss Melmoth, one of the 
 wisest and most discreet of women, thinking a bloom and 
 good-humour itself in a human figure, then, indeed, I must 
 be happy in this silent, romantic station. This spot of 
 earth would then have all the felicities. — Resolved. Con' 
 clusum est contra Manichczos , said the great St. Austin ; 
 and with a thump of his fist , he (St. Austin) cracked the 
 table.” — Yol. II., Edit. 1770, p. 62. 
 
 Miss Melmoth, being one of the wisest as well as loveliest of 
 women, accepts of course the hand that draws so convincing a con- 
 clusion from the fist of St. Austin. For two years they lead a life of 
 bliss ; but at the end of that time she dies of a fever, and John quits a 
 solitude which he could not bear. 
 
144 
 
 JOHN BUN OLE. 
 
 His second wife is the lovely Miss Statia Ilenley, “bright and 
 charming as Aurora,” daughter of John Henley, Esquire, of the Groves 
 of Basil. She had some fugitive notions of celibacy, which our hero 
 refutes on Christian principles; and, as in the former instance, they 
 lead a life of bliss for two years. The “illustrious Statia” then dies of 
 the small-pox, and is laid by Charlotte’s side. 
 
 “ Thus did I again become a mourner. I sat with my 
 eyes shut for three days; but at last called for my horse, to 
 try what air, exercise, and variety of objects could do.” — 
 Vol. Ill, p. 57. 
 
 Air, exercise, and a variety of objects did very well ; for Mr. 
 Buncle misses his way into the house and grounds of the exquisite Miss 
 Antonia Cramer, “a heaven-born maid” and “innocent beauty,” whom 
 he marries of course. But her, also, alas ! he loses of the small-pox, at 
 the end of two — no, three years. “Four” days, too, he sits with his 
 eyes shut, which is a day more than he gave to Statia ; and then he 
 left the lodge once more, “to live, if he could, since his religion 
 ordered him so to do, and see what he w T as next to meet with in the 
 world.” 
 
 “Nota bene,” says our author at this place. “As I 
 mention nothing of any children by so many wives, some 
 readers may perhaps wonder at this ; and therefore, to give 
 a general answer, once for all, I think it sufficient to ob- 
 serve, that I had a great many to carry on the succession ; 
 but as they never were concerned in any extraordinary 
 affairs, nor ever did any remarkable things, that I ever 
 heard of ; — only rise and breakfast, read and saunter, drink 
 and eat, it would not be fair, in my opinion, to make any 
 one pay for their history.” — P. 151. 
 
 This kind of progeny, by the way, hardly does credit to our hero’s 
 very exquisite marriages. But as extremes meet, and fair play must 
 be seen to the mass of the community, we suppose the young Buneles 
 were dull, in consideration of the vivacity of the parents. 
 
JOHN B UNCLE. 
 
 145 
 
 Mr. Buncle having laid his beloved Antonia by the side of his 
 Charlotte and his Statia, now goes to Harrogate ; and while there, “ it 
 :s liis fortune to dance with a lady who had the head of an Aristotle, 
 the heart of a primitive Christian, and the form of a Yenus de Medicis.” 
 
 “ This was Miss Spence, of Westmoreland. I was not 
 many hours in her company,” says he, u before I became 
 most passionately in love with her. I did all I could to 
 win her heart, and at last asked her the question. But be- 
 fore I inform my readers what the consequence of this was, 
 I must take some notice of what I expect from the Critical 
 Reviewers. These gentlemen will attempt to raise the 
 laugh. Our moralist (they will say) has buried three wives 
 running, and they are hardly cold in their graves before 
 he is dancing like a buck at the Wells, and plighting vows 
 to a fourth girl, the beauty Miss Spence. An honest fellow, 
 this Suarez, as Pascal says of that Jesuit, in his Provincial 
 Letters. 
 
 “ To this I reply, that I think it unreasonable and 
 impious to grieve immoderately for the dead. A decent and 
 proper tribute of tears and sorrow humanity requires ; but 
 when that duty has been paid, we must remember, that to 
 lament a dead woman is not to lament a wife ! A wife 
 must be a living woman.” — Yol. III., p 4 180. 
 
 He argues furthermore, that it would be sinful to behave on such 
 occasions as if Providence had been unjust. The lady has been lent 
 but for a term ; and we must bow to the limitation. Besides, she is in 
 Heaven ; and therefore it would be senseless to continue murmuring, 
 and not make the most of the world that remains to us, while she is 
 “breathing the balmy air of Paradise,” and being “beyond description 
 happy.” 
 
 Miss Spence, however, is a little coy. She is a very learned as well 
 as charming young lady. She quotes Virgil, discourses with her lover 
 on fluxions and the Differential Calculus, and is not to be won quite so 
 fast as he wishes. Nevertheless, he wins her at last ; loses her in six 
 
 7 
 
146 
 
 JOHN B UNCLE. 
 
 months of n malignant fever and four doctors; and in less than three 
 mouths afterwards, marries the divine Miss Emilia Turner, of Skelsmore 
 Yale — alas! for six weeks only. A chariot and four runs away with 
 them, and his “charmer is killed.” She lives about an hour, repeats 
 some consolatory verses to him out of a Latin epitaph, and bids him 
 adieu with “the spirit of an old Roman.” 
 
 John’s next “intended” (for the marriage did not take place in due 
 order) was the enchanting Miss Dunk, famous for “ exact regularity of 
 beauty, and elegant softness of propriety.” This elegant softness of 
 propriety does not hinder the fair Agnes from running away with him 
 from her father’s house; but she lias scarcely arrived at the village 
 where they are to be married, when she falls sick, is laid out for dead, 
 and is buried in the next churchyard. Not long afterwards the un 
 happy lover meets her, alive, laughing, and taking no notice , in the 
 character of the wife of Dr. Stanvil, an amiable anatomist. The word 
 will explain the accident that brought the charmer into the doctor’s 
 hands. Buncle, vexed as he owns himself to lose her, could not but 
 see the reasonableness of the result and the folly of making an “up- 
 roar ;” so he gallantly imitates the lady’s behaviour, and rides off to fall 
 in with that “fine creature” Julia Fitzgibbons, as charming for a be- 
 witching negligence, as Miss Dunk w T as for a divine self-possession. 
 John studies physic under her father; marries her in the course of two 
 years ; and at the end of ten months loses her in a river while they are 
 fishing. He sits with his eyes shut ten days (so highly do his wives 
 increase in value); and then calls his man “to bring out the horses,” 
 and is off, on Christian principles, for wife the seventh. 
 
 Who should this be but Miss Dunk ? His friend, Dr. Stanvil, her 
 husband, drops down ctead of an apoplexy on purpose to oblige him. 
 The widow lets him know that her reserve had not proceeded a bit 
 from dislike ; quite the contrary. She marries him ; they lead a bliss- 
 ful life for a year and a half, during which he is reconciled with his 
 father, who has become a convert to Unitarianism ; and then the lady 
 goes the way of all Buncle’s Avives, dying of his favourite uxoricide, the 
 small-pox; and John, after diverting himself at sea, retires to a “little 
 flowery retreat,” in the neighbourhood of London, to hear purling 
 streams on the one hand, and news on the other, and write verses 
 about going to Heaven. 
 
 The reader is to bear in mind, that all these marriages are inter 
 spersed with descriptions, characters, adventures of other sorts, natural 
 
JOHN BUNGLE. 
 
 147 
 
 history, and, above all, with polemics full of the most ridiculous 
 beggings of the question, and the most bigoted invectives against 
 bigotry. A few specimens of the table of contents will show him 
 what sort of reading he has missed : — 
 
 “ The History of Miss Noel. 
 
 “ A Conversation in relation to the Primaevifcy of the 
 Hebrew Tongue. 
 
 “ Of Mrs. O’Hara’s and Mrs. Grafton’s Grottoes. 
 
 “ Miss Noel’s Notion of Hutchinson’s Cherubim. 
 
 “ The Origin of Earthquakes — of the Abyss, &c. 
 
 u An Account of Muscular Motion. 
 
 “ An Account of Ten Extraordinary Country Girls. 
 
 “ A'llule to -Determine the Tangents of Curved Lines. 
 
 “ What a Moral Shekinah is. 
 
 “ Of Mr. Macknight’s Harmony (of the Gospels). 
 
 u Description of a Society of Protestant Married Friars. 
 
 “ The Author removes to Oilfield Spaw, on account of 
 Indisposition occasioned hy Hard Drinking ; and his De- 
 flections on Hard Drinking. 
 
 u A Discourse on Fluxions between Miss Spence and 
 the Author. 
 
 “ Of the Athanasian Creed. 
 
 “ What Phlogiston is. • 
 
 “ Picture and Character of Cur 11, the Bookseller.” (He 
 says he was “ very tall, thin, ungainly, goggle-eyed, white- 
 faced, splay-footed, and baker-kneed ; very profligate, but not 
 ill-natured.”) 
 
 It is impossible to be serious with John Bunele, Esquire, jolly dog, 
 Unitarian, and Blue Beard ; otherwise, if we were to take him at his 
 word, we should pronounce him, besides being a jolly dog, to be one of 
 a very selfish description, with too good a constitution to correct him, a 
 prodigious vanity, no feeling whatever, and a provoking contempt for 
 everything unfortunate, or opposed to his whims. He quarrels with 
 
148 
 
 JOHN BUNGLE. 
 
 bigotry, and is a bigot; with abuse, and riots in it. He hates the cruel 
 opinions held by Athanasius, and sends people to the devil as an Arian. 
 lie kills off seven wives out of pure incontinence and love of change, 
 yet cannot abide a rake or even the poorest victim of the rake, unless 
 both happen to be his acquaintances. The way in which he tramples 
 n the miserable wretches in the streets, is the very rage and triumph 
 of liard-heartedness, furious at seeing its own vices reflected on it, 
 unredeemed by the privileges of law, divinity, and success. But the 
 truth is, John is no more responsible for his opinions than health itself, 
 or a high-mettled racer. He only “thinks he’s thinking.” He does, 
 in reality, nothing at all but eat, drink, talk, and enjoy himself. 
 Amory, Buncle’s creator, ^vas in all probability an honest man, or he 
 would hardly have been innocent enough to put such extravagances 
 on paper. What Mrs. Amory thought of the seven wives does not 
 appear. Probably he invented them before he knew her ; perhaps 
 was not anxious to be reminded of them afterwards. When he was in 
 the zenith of his health and spirits, he must have been a prodigious 
 fellow over a bottle and beefsteak. 
 
 It is hardly necessary to say, that by the insertion of passages from 
 this fantastical book no disrespect is intended to the respectable sect of 
 Unitarians; who, probably, care as little for Buncle’s friendship as the 
 Trinitarians do for his enmity. There is apt to be too little real 
 Christianity in polemics of any kind ; and John is no exception to the 
 remark. He contrives to be so absurd, even when most reasonable, 
 that the charms of Nature herself and of animal spirits would suffer 
 under his admiration and example, if readers could not easily discern 
 the difference ; and even the youngest need scarcely be warned against 
 overlooking it. Our volumes are intended to include all the phases of 
 humanity that can be set before them without injury ; and among 
 these were not to be omitted the eccentric. 
 
Mgljts nf I'oaks nf CrancL 
 
 FROM "WILLIAM DE RUBRUQUIS, MARCO POLO, LED YARD, AND MUNGO PARK, 
 
 In an old house, or new house, or any house, hut particularly in a 
 house in the country, where there are storms at night, and the wind is 
 thundering in the trees, and the rain comes dashing against the win- 
 dows in the gusts of it, who does not think of men at sea, of disasters 
 by shipwreck, of husbands and sons far away, struggling perhaps in 
 breakers on the shore, or clinging to icy shrouds, while we are lying in 
 the safe and warm bed ? It seems as if none of us ought to be com- 
 fortable on such occasions ; and yet, provided we do our duty to the 
 unfortunate, we ought to be as much so as we can ; for, in the first place, 
 none of our friends may be in danger ; and, secondly, Nature, in the 
 course of her harshest but always beneficent operations, never desires 
 more suffering to be inflicted than can be helped. 
 
 Now, homes have always a tendency to make us think of remote 
 places ; comfortable beds remind us of travellers by night ; and com- 
 fortable books, of travellers at all hours who cannot get any ; but of 
 all books, those which are written by travellers themselves give us a 
 quintessence of all these feelings : and the older the books are, and the 
 remoter the countries they treat of, the completer becomes our satisfac- 
 tion, because the antiquity itself has become a sort of reverend novelty, 
 and danger is over with all parties except in the happy shuddering 
 sense of it on the part of the reader. 
 
 “ With many a tempest had his beard been shaken,” 
 
 says Chaucer of his seaman. It had been shaken, observe. So have 
 all the beards of travellers of old ; and the older or more ancient they 
 were, the more bearded one fancies them. An old folio book of ro- 
 
150 
 
 DELIGHTS OF HOOKS OF TRAVEL. 
 
 mantic yet credible voyages and travels to read, au old bearded travel- 
 ler for its hero, a fireside in an old country-house to read it by, curtains 
 drawn, and just wind enough stirring out of doors to make an accom- 
 paniment to the billows or forests we are reading of, this surely is one 
 of the perfect moments of existence. 
 
 English reading of this kind, we mean the reading of books of 
 travels in the English language, may be said to commence with the 
 travels of good old William de Rubruquis and accomplished Marco 
 Polo. See how instinctively our good friend Dr. John Harris, thorough 
 disinterested bookworm, and one of the fathers of these collections of 
 knowledge, intimates their superiority over their precursors, in the 
 Table of Contents prefixed to his huge folio volumes, one of which is 
 now before us: — 
 
 “An account of the Several Passages to the Indies, both by sea 
 and land, that have been attempted, discovered, or practised by the 
 Ancients. 
 
 “An account of the Travels of two Mahommedans through India 
 and China in the ninth century. 
 
 “The Travels of Rabbi Benjamin, the son of Jonas of Tudela, 
 through Europe, Asia, and Africa, from Spain to China, from the year 
 of our Lord 1160 to 11*73 ; from the Latin versions of Benedict Arias 
 Montanufl, and Constantine l’Empereur, compared with other Transla- 
 tions into different languages.” 
 
 “The remarkable Travels of William de Rubruquis, a monk, sent • 
 by Louis IX., king of France, commonly styled St. Louis, ambassador 
 into different parts of the East, particularly into Tartary and China, 
 a.d. 1253, containing abundance of curious Particulars relating to those 
 Countries, written by the Ambassador, and addressed to his Royal 
 Master King Louis. 
 
 “The curious and remarkable Voyages and Travels of Marco Polo, a 
 gentleman of Venice, who, in the middle of the thirteenth century, 
 passed through a great part of Asia, all the dominions of the Tartars, 
 and returned home by sea through the Islands of the East Indies; 
 taken chiefly from the accurate edition of Ramusio, compared with an 
 original manuscript in His Prussian Majesty’s library, and with most of 
 the translations hitherto published.” 
 
 The very tables of contents in these good folio writers, who give 
 “full measure, pressed down and running over,” are a kind of books 
 in themselves, and save us the trouble of stating who their heroes 
 
DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TEA VEL. 
 
 151 
 
 were. Only, for the pleasure of the thing, we may add, that these two 
 fine old voyagers, from whom we are about to make some extracts, 
 were, the one as simple, honest, truth-telling, and intelligent a soul 
 withal as ever took monkery for a good thing ; and the other, a man 
 of as proved a credibility in his way, a noble, trading, and accomplish- 
 ed Venetian, though he may have leant his ear a little too much to 
 reports. He dealt in such very large and prosperous matters, both 
 of jewellery and government, and saw such heaps of countries, and 
 cities, and populations, and revenues, that although he fairly overbore 
 the incredulity of his astounded countrymen with the bushels of 
 diamonds and precious stones which he poured forth before their eyes 
 (in a scene which our readers will meet with), he left behind him the 
 nickname of Marco Milione ; and a worthy epitomiser of his book in- 
 forms us, that the Venetians in their carnival entertainments long had 
 a character of that name, whose “ chief jest lay in describing cities 
 with a million of bridges, husbands with a million of wives, birds with 
 a million of wings, beasts with a million of legs,” <fcc.* But if Marco 
 had come to life again, he might have retorted by personifying a 
 buffoon populace possessed of a million of ignorances. Marco, like 
 Bruce, has outlived misconception. Every fresh traveller has tended 
 to confirm the relations both of him and Rubruquis; and as those 
 relations chiefly concern one of the largest, most curious, and most 
 unchanging countries and people on the face of the earth, they present 
 • a singular combination of modern with ancient interest. The Tartars 
 are still nomade rovers in one part of their vast possessions, and 
 Chinese rulers in the other. Their dresses are the same as of old, their 
 faces the same ; they still exhibit the same mixture of great and civiliz- 
 ed, yet clumsy, undertakings ; and if in their joint character of Tartar 
 and Chinese, their philosopher, Confucius, has rendered them a far 
 wiser and more thinking people than i3 supposed even by the thinking 
 
 * Vide Mr. MacFarlane, himself a traveller, and very shrewd and entertaining 
 observer, in a publication entitled the Romance of Travel. , vol. i., p. 239 {Knight'd 
 Weekly Volumes). We have read Mr. MacFarlane's first two little books with the 
 greatest pleasure ; but though not wanting in curious extract as well as abridgment, 
 he is too summary for the purpose of the present book. Our extracts from Marco 
 Polo and Rubruquis are taken from the revised republication of Harris ; — Navigan- 
 tium atque Intinerantium Bibliotheca ; or , a Complete Collection of Voyages 
 and Travels , consisting of above six hundred of the most authentic writers, <&c., 
 two volumes folio, 1764. Harris includes Ilackluyt and Purchas, and translations 
 from the best authorities in other languages. 
 
152 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL . 
 
 European (himself not so free from prejudice and foolisli custom as lie 
 fancies), their jealousy of innovation is a remnant of the old Tartar 
 pride, as well as an instinct of security. The greatest innovation in 
 China, next to philosophy, was tea ; which, however, appears to be of 
 older date than the times of Polo and Rubruquis, though Mr. MacFar- 
 lane has observed the curious fact of their making no mention of it. 
 There are no three ideas which we associate more strongly with the 
 two great portions of the East, than tea with the Chinese, and coffee 
 and smoking with the Turks and Persians ; yet tea is not alluded to 
 by the oldest Chinese writers, and the use of coffee and tobacco by 
 mankind dates no further back than a few centuries. There is no 
 mention of smoking in the Arabian Nights ; nor was there of coffee, 
 till Mr. Lane found it in one of his additional stories. The Mussul- 
 man’s drink was sherbet ; and instead of smoke, he chewed dates and 
 tarts. 
 
 This honesty on the part of our two good old travellers is, in 
 fact, a virtue belonging emphatically to the best travellers, ancient and 
 modern. Herodotus, the first authentic traveller, was an honest man. 
 Near clius, Alexander’s admiral, the first authentic voyager, w r as an 
 honest man. The great Columbus was one ; Drake was one ; Dampier, 
 Bernier, Cook, Bell of Antimony, Niebuhr, Pocock, Park, Ledyard, the 
 other explorers of Africa, and the heroical men who adorn our own 
 days, the Franklins, Richardsons, and Backs. Bruce’s fault was not 
 dishonesty, but ostentation. It is impossible indeed to conceive men of 
 this kind unpossessed of great virtues. Nothing less could animate or 
 support them. Hence, in reading the best books of travels, w T e have 
 the double pleasure of feeling ourselves to be in the company of the 
 brave and the good. 
 
 In selecting the following extracts from some of the most interest- 
 ing of these writers, we have gone upon the principle of exemplifying 
 the chief points of attraction in books of voyages and travels ; to wit, 
 remoteness and obscurity of place, difference of custom, marvellousness 
 of hearsay, surprising but conceivable truth, barbaric or civilized 
 splendour, savage or simple contentment, personal danger, courage 
 and suffering, and moral enthusiasm. 
 
WANDERING TARTARS. 
 
 153 
 
 WILLIAM DE RUBRUQUIS. 
 
 And first for a taste of William de Rubruquis. It is to be borne in 
 mind, tbat he was sent into the East by the French king and crusader 
 Louis IX., in the middle of the thirteenth century. The crusades had 
 opened up a new Christian interest all over that quarter of the world. 
 Enterprising monks, and remnants of Christian churches in Turkey 
 and Armenia, had occasioned exaggerated notions of the state of the 
 faith in various parts of it ; and Louis had heard of the famous Prester 
 John , or imaginary Christian presbyter and king, reigning somewhere 
 over Christian subjects, who is supposed to have meant the king of 
 Abyssinia. Louis had sent some monks to look out for this royal 
 brother in vain; and now he sent three more, to find him in the 
 person of a Tartar king of the name of Sartach. One of these was our 
 good monk William, who seem3 to have been a Brabanter, and who 
 had Latinized his name, after the fashion of those times, from Ruys- 
 brock or Rysbruck into De Rubruquis. The servant of the church 
 militant went rejoicing on his perilous mission, armed with a Bible 
 and prayer-book, with a few lowly presents of wine, dried fruit, and 
 biscuits, which the Tartars plundered and laughed at, and with a heap 
 of bad arguments in divinity, which Sartach appears to have laughed 
 at still more. As to Prester John, William could hear not a word 
 about him, except from a few Xestorian Christians, who had nothing 
 to show for the existence of such a personage. Prester John was 
 eternally sitting on his throne somewhere; but it was always in some 
 other place. 
 
 Of Sartach the reader will find little in our extracts, the glory of 
 the sight of him having been prejudiced by that of his brother chief 
 and vagabond, Zagatai, whom Rubruquis saw first, and of whose state 
 and presence he gives a more particular account. All the statements 
 of Rubruquis are full of the life of truth. The appearance of Zagatai’s 
 carts with their houses on them, moving towards the traveller as if “a 
 great city came to him,” is particularly striking; and Zagatai’s consort, 
 with her lovely noseless face, has a virtue of repulsion in her, beyond 
 all the foreign beauties we ever read of. 
 
 7 
 
154 
 
 WANDERING TART A RS. 
 
 WANDERING TARTARS AND TIIEIR CHIEF ZAGATAI, IN THE THIR- 
 TEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 FROM THE TRAVELS OF WILLIAM DE RUBRUQUIS. 
 
 fpiIE third day after we were departed out of these pre- 
 JL cincts of Soldaia, we found the Tartars, amongst whom 
 being entered, methought I was come into a new world, 
 whose life and manners I will describe unto your highness 
 as well as I can. 
 
 They have no settled habitation, neither know they to- 
 day where they shall lodge to-morrow. 
 
 They have all Scythia to themselves, which stretcheth 
 from the River Danube to the utmost extent of the East. 
 Each of their captains, according to the number of his people, 
 knows the bounds of his pastures, and where he ought to feed 
 his cattle winter and summer, spring and autumn ; for in 
 the winter they remove into warm regions southward, and 
 in the summer they go up into the cold regions northward. 
 In winter, when snow lies upon the ground, they feed their 
 cattle in pastures where 4here is no water, because then they 
 use snow instead of water. Their houses in which they 
 sleep they raise upon a round foundation of wickers artifi- 
 cially wrought and compacted together, the roof consisting of 
 wickers also meeting above in one little roundell, out of 
 which there rises upwards a neck like a chimney, which they 
 cover with white felt ; and often they lay mortar or white 
 earth upon the felt with the powder of bones, that it may 
 shine and look white : sometimes also they cover their houses 
 with black felt. This cupola of their house they adorn with 
 variety of pictures. 
 
 Before the door they hang a felt curiously painted over, 
 for they spend all their coloured felt in painting vines, trees, 
 birds, and beasts thereupon. These houses they make so 
 
WANDERING TARTARS . 
 
 155 
 
 large that they contain thirty feet in breadth ; for measur- 
 ing once the breadth between the wheel-ruts of one of their 
 carts or wains, I found it to be twenty feet over, and when 
 the house was upon the cart it stretched over the wheels on 
 each side five feet at least. I told two-and-twenty oxen in 
 one draught, drawing an house upon a cart, eleven in one 
 row according to the breadth of the cart, and eleven more 
 on the other side. The axle-tree of the cart was of an huge 
 bigness like the mast of a ship, and a fellow stood in the 
 door of the house upon the forestall of the cart, driving the 
 oxen. They likewise make eertain four square baskets of 
 slender twigs, as big as great chests ; and afterwards from 
 one side to another they frame an hollow lid or cover of 
 such -like twigs, and make a door in it before. Then they 
 cover the said chest or house with black felt, rubbed over 
 with tallow or sheep’s milk, to keep the rain from soaking 
 through, which they likewise adorn with painting or white 
 feathers. Into these chests they put their whole house- 
 hold stuff, or treasure, and bind them upon other carts which 
 are drawn by camels, that they may pass through rivers ; 
 neither do they ever take down these chests from their carts. 
 
 When they take down their dwelling-houses, they turn 
 the doors always to the south, and next they place the carts 
 laden with chests here and there within a stone’s cast of 
 the house, insomuch that the house standeth between two 
 ranks of carts, as it were between two walls. 
 
 The women make themselves (adorn?) beautiful carts, 
 which I am not able to describe to your majesty but by 
 pictures only. I would willingly have painted all things 
 for you, had my skill being great enough in that art. A 
 rich Tartar hath a hundred or two such carts with chests. 
 Baatu hath sixteen wives, every one of which hath one great 
 house besides other little houses, which they place behind 
 
156 
 
 WANDERING TARTARS. 
 
 the great one, being as it were chambers for their women 
 to dwell, and to eacli of the houses belong two hundred 
 carts. When they take their houses off their carts, the 
 principal wife placeth her court on the west, and so all the 
 rest in order ; so that the last wife’s house is on the east 
 frontier, and the court of each wife is distant from another 
 about a stone’s cast. 
 
 Hence it is that the court of a rich Tartar will appear 
 like a very large village, few men being to be seen therein. 
 One woman will guide twenty or thirty carts at once, for 
 their country is very flat, and they fasten the carts with 
 camels or oxen one behind another. A wench sits in the 
 foremost cart driving the oxen, and all the rest of them- 
 selves follow at a like pace. When they come to a place 
 which is a bad passage, they loose them, and guide them 
 one by one, for they go at a slow pace, and not much faster 
 than an ox can walk. 
 
 On my arrival among these barbarous people I thought, 
 as I before observed, that I was come into a new world ; 
 for they came flocking about us on horseback, after they 
 had made us wait for them in the shade under the black 
 carts. The first question they asked was, whether we had 
 ever been with them heretofore or not ; and on our answer- 
 ing that we had not, they began impudently to beg our 
 victuals from us. We gave them some of our biscuit and 
 wine, which we had brought with us from the town of Sol- 
 dai ; and having drunk off one flaggon of our wine, they 
 demanded another, telling us that a man does not go into a 
 house with one foot. We gave them no more, however, ex- 
 cusing ourselves that we had but little. Then they asked 
 us whence we came, and whither we were bound. I answered 
 them in these words, That we had heard concerning their 
 Prince Sartach, that he was become a Christian, and that 
 
WANDERING TARTARS. 
 
 157 
 
 unto him our determination was to travel, having your 
 majesty’s letter to deliver unto him. They were very in- 
 quisitive to know if I came of mine own accord, or whether 
 I was sent. I answered that no man compelled me to come, 
 neither had I come unless I had keen willing ; and that 
 there I was come, according to my own will and that of my 
 superior. I took the utmost care never to say I was your 
 majesty’s ambassador. Then they asked what we had in 
 our carts, whether it were gold, silver, or rich garments to 
 take to Sartach. I answered that Sartach should see what 
 we had brought when we were come unto him ; that they 
 had nothing to do to ask such questions, but rather ought 
 to conduct me unto their captain ; and that he, if he thought 
 proper, should cause me to be directed to Sartach — if not, 
 that I would return ; for there was in the same province 
 one of Baatu’s kinsmen, called Zagatai, to whom the Em- 
 peror of Constantinople had written letters to suffer me to 
 pass through his territories. 
 
 With this answer of ours they were satisfied, giving us 
 horses and oxen and two men to conduct us. But before 
 they would allow us these necessaries, they made us wait a 
 long while, begging our bread for their brats, wondering at 
 all things they saw about our servants, as their knives, 
 gloves, purses, and points, and desiring to have them. I 
 excused myself, saying we had a long way to travel, and we 
 could not deprive ourselves of things necessary to finish so 
 long a journey. They said I was a niggardly scoundrel. 
 It is true they took nothing by force from me, but they will 
 beg all they see very importunately ; and if a man bestows 
 anything upon them, it is but lost ; for they are thankless 
 wretches. They esteem themselves lords , and think that 
 nothing should be denied them by any man. If a man 
 gives them nothing, and afterwards stands in need of their 
 
158 
 
 WANDERING TARTARS. 
 
 assistance, they will do nothing for him. They gave us of 
 their cows 7 milk to drink after their butter was churned 
 out of it, which was very sour, which they call Apram ; so 
 we departed from them ; and indeed it seemed to me that 
 wc were escaped out of the hands of devils. The next day 
 we were introduced to their captain. From the time where- 
 in we departed from Soldai till we arrived at the court of 
 Sartach, which was the space of two months, we never lay 
 in house or tent, but always under the canopy of heaven, 
 and in the open air, or under our carts ; neither saw we any 
 village, or heard of any building where any village had been ; 
 but the graves of the Comanians.we saw in great abun- 
 dance. 
 
 We met the day following with the carts of Zagatai, 
 laden with houses, and I really thought that a great city 
 came to meet me. I wondered at the multitudes of drove3 
 of oxen and of horses, and droves of sheep ; I could see but 
 few men that guided all these, upon which I inquired how 
 many men he had under him, and they told me that he had 
 not above five hundred in all. and that one-half of this num- 
 ber never lay in another lodging. Then the servant, which 
 was our guide, told me that I must present somewhat to 
 Zagatai, and so he caused us to stay, going themselves 
 before to give notice of our coming. By this time it was 
 past three, and they unladed their houses near a river, and 
 there came unto us his interpreter, who, being informed by 
 us that we were never there before, demanded some of our 
 victuals, and we granted his request. He also required of 
 us some garment as a reward, because he was to interpret 
 our message to his master. We excused ourselves as well 
 as we could. Then he asked us what we would prefer to 
 his lord, and we took a flaggon of wine, and filled a basket 
 with biscuit, and a salver with apples and other fruits ; but 
 
WANDERING TARTARS : 
 
 159 
 
 he was not contented therewith, because we brought him 
 not some rich garment. 
 
 We were however admitted into his presence with fear 
 and bashfulness. He sat on his bed, holding a musical 
 instrument in his hand, and his wife sat by him, who, in my 
 opinion, had cut and pared her nose between the eyes that 
 she might seem to be more flat-nosed ; for she had left her- 
 self no nose at all in that place, having anointed the very 
 scar with black ointment, as she also did her eyebrows, 
 which sight seemed to us most ugly. Then I repeated to 
 him the same words which I had done in other places ; for 
 we were directed in this circumstance by some that had 
 been amongst the Tartars, that we should never vary in our 
 tale. I besought him that he would accept this small gift 
 at our hands, excusing myself that I was a monk, and that 
 it was against our profession to possess gold, silver, or pre- 
 cious garments, and therefore that T had not any such thing 
 to give him, unless he would receive some part of our 
 victuals instead of a blessing. He caused thereupon our 
 present to be received, and immediately distributed the 
 same amongst his men, who were met together for that pur- 
 pose, to drink and make merry. I delivered also to him 
 the Emperor of Constantinople’s letters, eight days after 
 the feast of Ascension, and he sent them to Soldai to have 
 them interpreted there ; for they were written in Greek, 
 and he had none about him that was skilled in the Greek 
 tongue. 
 
 He asked us if we could drink any Cosmos — that is to 
 say, mare’s milk, for those that are Christians among them, 
 as the Russians, Grecians, and Alans, who keep their own 
 laws very strictly, will not drink thereof, for they account 
 themselves no Christians after they have once drank of it ; 
 and their priests reconcile them to the church, as if they 
 
100 
 
 WANDERING TARTARS . 
 
 had renounced the Christian faith. I answered, that as yet 
 we had sufficient of our own to drink, and that when it 
 failed us we should be constrained to drink such as should 
 be given us. lie inquired also what was contained in the 
 letters your majesty sent to Sartach. I answered they were 
 sealed up, and nothing contained in them but friendly 
 words. And he asked what words we would deliver unto 
 Sartach. I answered the words of Christian Faith. He 
 asked again what those words were, for he was very desirous 
 to hear them. Then I expounded to him, as well as I 
 could by my interpreter, who was a very sorry one, the 
 Apostle’s Creed, which after he had heard he shook his head. 
 
 Here endeth (as far as our pages are concerned) good William de 
 Rubruquis ; and here beginneth the good Signor Jeweller and noble 
 Venetian, Messer Marco Polo. 
 
 MAKCO POLO. 
 
 Harris suffered his pen to slip in his table of contents when h< 
 described Marco Polo travelling in the middle of the twelfth century 
 That was the date of the father and uncle of Marco, who went intc 
 China and Tartary before him. Marco, however, includes the history 
 of their travels in his own, so that Harris’s date does not violate the 
 spirit of the truth. The father and uncle, Niccolo and Maffeo Polo, 
 had had better luck than Rubruquis. They saw not only the wild and 
 roving Tartars, but the civilized ; those who lived in great cities, not. 
 of houses on carts, but of magnificent palaces, descendants of the con- 
 querors under Genghis Khan, lord of India, Persia, and Northern 
 China, whose descendant Kubla (Coleridge’s Kubla) was now reigning 
 
 “ In Cambalu, seat of Cathaian Khan.” 
 
 Paradise Lost. 
 
 Milton had seen him before Coleridge, in the pages of Marco Polo. The 
 
MARCO POLO. 
 
 161 
 
 great poet had also seen the Tartars of William de Rubruquis, and the 
 subsequent Chinese improvements on their carts : — 
 
 “As when a vulture on Imaus bred, 
 
 Whose snowy ridge the roving Tartar bounds, 
 
 Dislodging from a region scarce of prey 
 To gorge the flesh of lambs or yeanling kids 
 On hills where flocks are fed, flies tow'rds the springs 
 Of Ganges or Ilydaspes, Indian streams. 
 
 But in his way lights on the barren plains 
 
 Of Sericana, where Chineses drive 
 
 With sails and wind their cany waggons light; 
 
 So on this windy sea of land the Fiend 
 Walk’d up and down alone, bent on his prey.” 
 
 Id., Book III. 
 
 The reader will also find Milton presently with Marco Polo in the 
 desert. He was fond of the East and South, from Tartary down to 
 Morocco, from the red and white complexions of the conical-hatted 
 sons of Hologou down to the 
 
 “ Dusk faces with white silken turbans wreath’d.” 
 
 But what poet is not ? Chaucer got his * Squire's Tale , nobody knows 
 how, from 
 
 “ Sarra, in the land of Tartary.” 
 
 Other old English poets confounded, or chose to confound, 
 
 “ the loathly lakes of Tartary” 
 
 with those of Tartarus ; at least, one word with the other. They thought 
 both the places so grim and remote, as to deserve to have the same 
 appellation. 
 
 Niccolo and Maffeo Polo went into the East to trade in jewels. 
 They entered the service of Kubla, assisted him in his wars with their 
 knowledge of engineering, and became agents for religious affairs be- 
 tween the Pope and their master, who (with a liberality which is apt 
 to be more honourable to the person who is willing to hear, than to 
 the zealots who assume that they are qualified to teach him) was desir- 
 ous to understand what a people so clever in the affairs of this world 
 had to tell him respecting the world unknown. On their return to the 
 Khan (which terminated in nothing to that end), they brought with 
 them the younger Polo Marco, who also entered the Khan’s service, 
 
162 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TEA VEL. 
 
 and who subsequently became the most enterprising traveller of all 
 three, and the relater of their adventures. lie told the history to a 
 friend, who took it from his mouth ; and hence it is, that he is always 
 spoken of in the third person. 
 
 The reader must conceive Marco in full progress for the court of the 
 Great Khan, and about to pass over the terrible desert of Lop or Kobi, 
 whc*re he (or Dr. Harris) has omitted, however, what we could swear 
 we once beheld in it, by favour of some other account ; to wit, a dread- 
 ful unendurable face , that used to stare at people as they went by. 
 Polo’s account, deprived of this rich bit of horror, is comparatively 
 tame ; but still the sounds, and the invisible host of passengers, are 
 much ; and the poetic reader will trace the footsteps of Milton, who 
 has clearly been listening, in this same desert of Lop, to the ghastly 
 calling of people’s names — to 
 
 “ Voices calling in the dead of night, 
 
 And airy tongues that syllable men’s names 
 On sands and shores and desert wildernesses.” 
 
 He has another line in the same passage about “ghastly fury’s appari- 
 tion,” which we cannot but think was suggested by our friend, the 
 dreadful face. 
 
 MARCO POLO PASSES THE DESERT OF LOP. 
 
 C ASCIAN is subject to the Tartars; the name of the 
 province and chief city is the same ; it hath many cities 
 and castles, many precious stones are found there in the 
 rivers, especially jasper and chalcedons, which merchants 
 carry quite to Ouaback to sell and make great gain ; from 
 Piem to this province, and quite through it also, is a sandy 
 soil with many bad waters and few good. When an army 
 passes through the province, all the inhabitants thereof, with 
 their wives, children, cattle, and all their house stuff fly two 
 days’ journey into the sands, where they know that great 
 waters are, and stay there, and carry their corn thither, 
 also to hide it in the sand after harvests from the like fears. 
 
MARGO POLO PASSES THE DESERT OF LOP . 163 
 
 The wind doth so deface their steps in the sand, that their 
 enemies cannot find their way. 
 
 Departing from this province, you are to travel five days’ 
 journey through the sands, where no other water almost 
 than that which is bitter is anywhere to be found, until you 
 come to the city called Lop, which is a great city from 
 which is the entrance of a great desert, called also the wil- 
 derness of Lop, seated between the east and the north-east. 
 The inhabitants are Mahommedans, subject to the Great 
 Khan. 
 
 In the city of Lop, merchants who desire to pass over 
 the desert, cause all necessaries to be provided for them, 
 and when victuals begin to fail in the desert, they kill their 
 asses and camels, and eat them. They make it mostly their 
 choice to use camels, because they are sustained with little 
 meat, and bear great burthens. They must provide victuals 
 for a month to cross it only, for to go through it lengthways 
 would require a year’s time. They go through the sands 
 and barren mountains, and daily find water ; yet it is some- 
 times so little that it will hardly suffice fifty or a hundred 
 men with their beasts : and in three or four places the water 
 is salt and bitter. The rest of the road, for eight-and-twenty 
 days, is very good. In it there are not either beast, or birds ; 
 they say that there dwell many spirits in this wilderness, 
 which cause great and marvellous illusions to travellers, and 
 make them perish ; for if any stay behind, and cannot see 
 his company, he shall be called by his name, and so going 
 out of the way, is lost. In the night they hear as it were 
 the noise of a company, which taking to be theirs they per- 
 ish likewise. Concerts of music-instruments are sometimes 
 heard in the air, likewise drums and noise of armies. They 
 go therefore close together, hang bells on their beasts' necks, 
 and set marks if any stray. 
 
104 
 
 DELIGHTS OF HOOKS OF TRAVEL. 
 
 We must now suppose our traveller arrived at the dwelling ot 
 KUBLA KIIAN. 
 
 This magnificent Tartar prince has always been an object of inter- 
 est with readers of the old travellers. A tine poet has noticed him, 
 and rendered him a hundred times more so. Coleridge was reading an 
 account of one of his structures in Purchas’s Pilgrimage , when he fell 
 into a sleep occasioned by opium, during which, he tells us, he poured 
 forth some hundreds of lines, of which an accident deprived us of more 
 than the divine fragment known under the title of Kubla Khan , or a 
 Visioji in a Dream. Opium takers are said to have such visions ; but 
 only such an opium taker as Coleridge ever had one, w r e suspect, so 
 thoroughly fit and poetical, or related it in such exquisite music. It is 
 impossible to refer to it, and not repeat it. The reader shall first have 
 not only the words which the poet quotes from Purchas as having occa- 
 sioned it, but the original of Purchas from Marco Polo. He will then 
 see what a poet can do, even for a book of old travels and a king of 
 kings. 
 
 Coleridge says he fell asleep while reading “ the following sentence, 
 or words of the same substance,” from Purchas’s book : — “ Here the 
 Khan Kubla commanded a palace to be built, and a stately garden 
 thereunto ; and thus ten miles of fertile ground were enclosed with a 
 wall.” “The author,” he proceeds, “continued for about three hours 
 m a profound sleep, at least of the external senses, during which he 
 has the most vivid confidence that he could not have composed less 
 than from two to three hundred lines ; if that indeed can be called com- 
 position in which all the images rose up before him as things, with a 
 parallel production of the corresponding expressions, without any sen- 
 sation, or a consciousness of effort. On awaking, he appeared to him- 
 self to have a distinct recollection of the whole ; and taking his pen, 
 ink, and paper, instantly and eagerly wrote down the lines that are 
 here preserved. At this moment he was unfortunately called out by a 
 person on business from Porlock, and detained by him above an hour ; 
 and on his return to his room, found to his no small surprise and mor- 
 tification, that though he still retained some vague and dim recollec- 
 tion of the general purport of the vision, yet, with the exception of 
 some eight or ten scattered lines and images, all the rest had passed 
 away like the images on the surface of a stream into which a stone had 
 been cast ; but, alas ! without the after restoration of the latter.” 
 
KUBLA KHAN'S PALACE AT XANADU. 
 
 165 
 
 The veracity of this statement has been called in question ; by what 
 right of superior knowledge to the poet’s own, we cannot say. For 
 our parts, we devoutly believe it. We know very little of opium ; but 
 perhaps every writer of verse has experienced what it is to pour forth 
 poetry in dreams, though he may have been as unable to call his pro- 
 duction to mind, as Scarlatti was his famous “ Devil’s Sonata.” Cole- 
 ridge, by some process perhaps of the mysterious herb which had set 
 him to sleep, had the ability given him ; perhaps he had not been 
 asleep at all in the ordinary sense of the word, but in some state of what 
 is called coma, vigil. At all events, the poem, exquisite as it is, is no 
 finer than he could have written awake ; and what he could have writ- 
 ten awake, he might have conceived asleep, especially under the pre- 
 ternatural kind of excitement to which opiates give rise. 
 
 The following is Marco Polo’s account of the structure alluded to. 
 We give it, however, not from Harris, but from the later and better 
 pages of Mr. Murray, who published not long ago the completest ver- 
 sion of the travels of Marco Polo. The “ Shandu ” of Mr. Murray is 
 the “ Xanadu” of Coleridge. 
 
 KUBLA khan’s PALACE AT XANADU. 
 
 At Shandu in Tartary, near the western frontier of 
 China, he has built a very large palace of marble and other 
 valuable stones. The halls are gilded all over, and won- 
 derfully beautiful, and a space sixteen miles in circuit is 
 surrounded by a wall within which are fountains, rivers, and 
 meadows. He finds stags, deer, and wild-goats, to give for 
 food to the falcons and ger-falcons, which he keeps in cages, 
 and goes out once a week to sport with them. Frequently 
 he rides through that enclosure, having a leopard on the 
 crupper of his horse, which, whenever he is inclined, he lets 
 go, and it catches a stag, deer, or wild-goat, which is given 
 to the ger-falcons in the cage. In this park, too, the mon- 
 arch has a large palace framed of cane, in interior gilded 
 all over, having pictures of beasts and birds most skilfully 
 worked on it. The roof is of the same material, and so 
 
DELIGHTS Ob' BOOKS OF TRAVELS. 
 
 IGo 
 
 richly varnished that no water can penetrate. I assure you 
 that these canes are more than three palms thick, and from 
 ten to fifteen paces long. They are cut lengthways, from 
 one knot to the other, and then arranged so as to form the 
 roof. The whole structure is so disposed that the Khan, 
 when he pleases, can order it to be taken down, for it is 
 supported by more than two hundred cords of silk. His 
 majesty remains there three months of the year, June, July, 
 and August, the situation being cool and agreeable ; and 
 during this period his palace of cane is set up, while all the 
 rest of the year it is down. On the 28th of August, he 
 departs thence, and for the following purpose : — there are 
 a race of mares white as snow, with no mixture of any other 
 colour, and in number 10,000, whose milk must not be 
 drunk by any one who is not of imperial lineage. Only one 
 other race of men can drink it, called Boriat, because they 
 gained a victory for Gengis Khan. When one of these 
 white animals is passing, the Tartars pay respect to it as a 
 great lord, standing by to make way for it. 
 
 Now for the architecture and landscape gardening of the po^ ; — 
 
 In Xanadu did Kubla Khan 
 A stately pleasure-dome decree, 
 
 Where Alpli, the sacred river, ran 
 Through caverns measureless to man 
 Down to a sunless sea. 
 
 So twice five miles of fertile ground 
 With walls and towers were girded round : 
 
 And here were gardens bright with sinuous rills, 
 
 Where blossomed many an incense-bearing tree j 
 And here were forests ancient as the hills, 
 
 Enfolding sunny spots of greenery. 
 
KUBLA KHAN'S PALACE AT XANADU. 
 
 16 
 
 But, oh ! that deep romantic chasm which slanted 
 Down the green hill athwart a cedarn cover ! 
 
 A savage place ! as holy and enchanted 
 As e’er beneath a waning moon was haunted 
 By woman wailing for her demon lover ! 
 
 And from this chasm with ceaseless turmoil seething. 
 As if this earth in fast thick pants were breathing, 
 
 A mighty fountain momently was forced : 
 
 Amid whose swift half-intermitted burst 
 Huge fragments vaulted like rebounding hail, 
 
 Or chaffy grain beneath the thresher’s flail : 
 
 And ’mid these dancing rocks at once and ever 
 It flung up momently the sacred river. 
 
 Five miles, meandering with a mazy motion, 
 
 Through wood and dale the sacred river ran, 
 
 Then reached the caverns measureless to man, 
 
 And sank in tumult to a lifeless ocean : 
 
 And ’mid this tumult Kubla heard from far 
 Ancestral voices prophesying war ! 
 
 The shadow of the dome of pleasure 
 Floated midway on the waves ; 
 
 Where was heard the mingled measure 
 From the fountain and the caves. 
 
 It was a miracle or rare device, 
 
 A sunny pleasure-dome with caves of ice ! 
 
 A damsel with a dulcimer 
 In a vision once I saw ; 
 
 It was an Abyssinian maid, 
 
 And on her dulcimer she play’d, 
 
 Singing of Mount Abora. 
 
 Could I revive within me 
 
168 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TEA VEL. 
 
 Her symphony and song. 
 
 To such a deep delight ’t would win me 
 That with music loud and long 
 I would build that dome in air, 
 
 That sunny dome ! those caves of ice ! 
 
 And all who heard should see them there, 
 
 And all should cry — beware ! beware ! 
 
 His flashing eyes, his floating hair ! 
 
 Weave a circle round him thrice, 
 
 And close your lips with holy dread. 
 
 For he on honey dew hath fed, 
 
 And drank the milk of Paradise. 
 
 Neither Marco Polo, nor Rubruquis, no, nor Raleigh himself, nor any 
 traveller that existed, ever saw a vision like that ! 
 
 But we must hasten out of its divine company. Marco resumes 
 with an account of 
 
 KUBLA khan’s PERSON AND STATE. 
 
 The Great Khan, lord of lords, named Kublai, is of a 
 fine middle size, neither too tall nor too short ; he has a 
 beautiful fresh complexion, and well-proportioned limbs. 
 His colour is fair and vermeil like the rose, his eyes dark 
 and fine, his nose well formed and placed. He has four 
 ladies, who always rank as his wives ; and the eldest son, 
 born to him by one of them, succeeds as the rightful heir 
 of the empire. They are named empresses ; each bears his 
 name, and holds a court of her own ; there is not one who 
 has not three hundred beautiful maidens, with eunuchs, and 
 many other male and female attendants, so that some of the 
 courts of these ladies contain 10,000 persons. 
 
 Kubla resides in the vast city of Kambalu, three months 
 in the year, December, January, and February, and has here 
 his great palace, which I will now describe. 
 
KUBLA KHAN\S PERSON AND STATE. 
 
 169 
 
 The floor rises ten palms above the ground, and the roof 
 is exceedingly lofty. The walls of the chambers and stairs 
 are all covered with gold and silver, and adorned with pic- 
 tures of dragons, horses, and other races of animals. The 
 hall is so spacious that 6000 can sit down to banquet ; and 
 the number of apartments is incredible. The roof is exter- 
 nally painted with red, blue, green, and other colours, and is 
 so varnished that it shines like crystal, and is seen to a great 
 distance around. 
 
 The Tartars celebrate a festival on the day of their na- 
 tivity. The birthday of the Khan is on the 28th of Septem- 
 ber, and is the greatest of all, except that at the beginning 
 of the year. On this occasion he clothes himself in robes 
 of beaten gold, and his twelve barons and 12,000 soldiers 
 wear, like him, dresses of a uniform color and shape ; not 
 that they are so costly, but similarly made of silk, gilded, 
 and bound by a cincture of gold. ' Many have their robes 
 adorned with precious stones and pearls, so as to be worth 
 10,000 golden bezants. The Great Khan, twelve times in 
 the year, presents to those barons and knights robes of the 
 same colour with his own ; and this is what no lord in the 
 world can do. 
 
 And now I will relate a most wonderful thing, namely, 
 that a large lion is led into his presence, which as soon as 
 it sees him, drops down, and makes a sign of deep humility, 
 owning him for its lord, and moving about without any 
 chain. 
 
 Chaucer had certainly read of Kubla. He has described him sitting, 
 as above, at his table, 
 
 “ Harking his minstrell6s their thinges play 
 Before him at his board, deliciously.'” 
 
 And so, leaving him in this proper imperial attitude with his minstrelsy, 
 8 
 
J 70 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TEA VEL. 
 
 his lords, and his lion, we take leave of Marco and his mighty Khan 
 Nations in those times appear to have tried what they could do to ag- 
 gravate the welfare and importance of a single man. It was a very 
 absurd though a very amusing endeavour. The single man, at his peril, 
 at least in Europe, must now try what he can do to aggravate the wel- 
 fare and importance of the people. 
 
 We must not quit, however, the old times of travels, and the most 
 authentic of their illustrators, without quoting some passages in the 
 narratives of Mandeville, Oderico, and others, whose names, though not 
 worthy to stand beside the former, are associated with those regions of 
 wild and preternatural interest which lie between truth and liction ; 
 places, of which more is truly related than the narrators have been 
 given credit for, but with such colouring from the reports of others, 
 and from their own excited imagination, as give us leave to doubt or to 
 believe just as much as may be suitable to the frame of mind in which 
 we read them. The dreadful or delightful sounds, for instance, which 
 these old travellers heard in deserts, have been reasonably attributed 
 to winds and other natural causes ; and the terrible “faces” which they 
 saw, to robbers or gigantic sculpture. But what care we for “ pure 
 reason,” when we desire romance ? There is enough mystery in every- 
 thing, however commonplace, to leave its causes inexplicable ; and if 
 we choose to have our mysterious music or our terrible face without 
 the alloy of explanation, “ neat as imported,” we have all the right in 
 the world, whether as boys or sages, to have the wish indulged. 
 
 FRIAR ODERIc’S RICH MAN WHO WAS FED BY FIFTY VIRGINS. 
 
 While in the province of Mangi, or Southern China, I 
 passed by the palace of a rich man, who is continually at- 
 tended upon by fifty young virgins, who feed him at every 
 meal as a bird feeds her young ; and all the time they are 
 so employed, they sing to him most sweetly. The revenues 
 of this man are thirty tomans of tagars of rice, each toman 
 being 10,000 tagars, and one tagar is the burthen of An ass. 
 His palace is two miles in circuit, and is paved with alter- 
 nate layers of gold and silver. Near the wall of his palace 
 there is an artificial mould of gold and silver, having turrets 
 
OF T11E OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 171 
 
 and steeples and other magnificent ornaments, contrived for 
 the solace and recreation of this great man. 
 
 The personal title of the following tremendous old gentleman 
 (called “ Senex” by the first translator of Oderico) means nothing more, 
 with the “reasonable,” than Sheik, or Elder. He is a kind of dreadful 
 Alderman. But who would part with the words “ Old Man of the 
 Mountain,” — their wrinkled old vigour and reverend infamy ? He is 
 first* cousin of the shocking old fellow in Sinbad, the Old Man of the 
 Sea, who rode upon the shoulders of that voyager like a nightmare, 
 and stuck his knees in his sides. It is proper to retain the “ Of ” in the 
 old heading of the story. “ Of the old man,” Ac., is much more an- 
 cient and mysterious than the modern custom of beginning with “ The F 
 
 OF THE OLD MAN OF THE MOUNTAIN. 
 
 Proceeding on my travels towards the south, I arrived 
 at a certain pleasant and fertile country, called Melistorte, 
 in which dwells a certain aged person called the Old Man 
 of the Mountain. This person had surrounded two moun- 
 tains by a high wall, within which he had the finest gardens 
 and finest fountains in the world, inhabited by great numbers 
 of most beautiful virgins. It was likewise supplied with fine 
 horses, and every article that could contribute to luxury and 
 delightful solace ; on which account it was called by the 
 people of the country, the terrestrial paradise. Into this 
 delightful residence the old man used to entice all the young 
 and valiant men he could procure, where they were initiated 
 into all the delights of the earthly paradise, in which milk 
 and wine flowed in abundance, through certain hidden con- 
 duits. When desirous of assassinating any prince or noble- 
 man, who had offended him, the old man would order the 
 governor of his paradise to entice into that place some ac- 
 quaintance or servant of the prince or baron whom he wished 
 to slay. Allowing this person to take a full taste of the 
 
172 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TEA VEL. 
 
 delights of the place, we was cast into a deep sleep by means 
 of a strong potion, in which state he was removed from para- 
 dise ; on recovering from his sleep, and finding himself ex- 
 cluded from the pleasures of paradise, he was brought before 
 the old man, whom he entreated to restore him to the place 
 from whence he had been taken. He was then told, that if 
 he would slay such or such a person, he should not only be 
 permitted to return into paradise, but should remain there 
 for ever. 
 
 By these means the old man used to get all those mur- 
 dered against whom he had conceived any displeasure ; on 
 which account all the kings and princes of the east stood in 
 awe of him and paid him tribute. 
 
 When the Tartars had subdued a large portion of the 
 earth, they came into the country of the old man, and took 
 from him his paradise. Being greatly incensed at this, he 
 sent out many of his resolute and desperate dependents, by 
 whom numbers of the Tartar nobles were slain. Upon this 
 the Tartars besieged the city of the old man of the moun- 
 tain ; and making him prisoner, they put him to a cruel and 
 ignoble death. 
 
 The famous Prester John must by no means be omitted in the list 
 of these remote personages who sit “throned” in old books. Prester, 
 that is to say, Presbyter, or Priest John, has generally been thought in 
 later times to mean the Christian King of Abyssinia ; but the most 
 recent investigators are inclined to restore him his old locality, and con- 
 sider him as a Tartar king, probably a Mongol of the name of Whang, 
 who was supposed to have been converted to the Christian faith by 
 Kestorian missionaries. Whang is almost identical with the pronuncia- 
 tion of the Spanish form of John — Juan; which is very unlike what 
 we call it in England. The imagination is to consider Prester John as 
 a compound of priest and sovereign, an eastern pope or Christian 
 Grand Lama, sitting clothed in white, and holding a cross instead of a 
 sceptre. He is a Christian Tartar, subjugating the nations around him, 
 
no W PRESTER JOHN E HUNT UP HIS ENEMIES. 1 73 
 
 till he is conquered by the more famous Zinghis Khan. Little, how- 
 ever, is known of him beyond his name. The most wonderful anec- 
 dote we can find of him is one that is related by Friar John de Carpini, 
 who was sent ambassador to the Tartars by Pope Innocent IV., in the 
 middle of the thirteenth century. It seems to anticipate the appear- 
 ance of artillery in Europe. 
 
 HOW PRESTER JOHN BURNT UP HIS ENEMY r S MEN AND HORSES. 
 
 When Zinghis and his people had rested some time after 
 their conquest of Cathay, he divided his army, and sent one 
 of his sons, named Thosut Khan, against the Comainans, 
 whom he vanquished in many battles, and then returned 
 into his own country. Another of his sons was sent with 
 an army against the Indians, w T ho subdued the Lesser India. 
 These Indians are the Black Saracens, who are also named 
 Ethiopians. From thence the Mongol army marched to 
 fight against the Christians dwelling in the greater part of 
 India ; and the king of that country, known by the name of 
 Prester John, came forthwith his army against them. This 
 prince caused a number of hollow copper figures to be made, 
 resembling men, which were stuffed with combustibles and 
 set upon horses, each having a man behind on the horse, 
 with a pair of bellows to stir up the fire. When approach- 
 ing to give battle, these mounted images were first sent for- 
 wards against the enemy, and the men w T ho rode behind set 
 fire by some means to the combustibles, and blew strongly 
 with their bellows ; and the Mongol men and horses were 
 burnt with wild-fire, and the air was darkened with smoke. 
 Then the Indians charged the Mongols, many of whom were 
 wounded and slain, and they were expelled from the country 
 in great confusion, and we have not heard that they ever 
 ventured to return. 
 
174 
 
 DELIGHTS OF HOOKS OF TllA VEL. 
 
 It is a pity we cannot give a hundred other romantic particulars out 
 of these old travellers, from the times of Herodotus downwards ; hut 
 our limits will not permit us. AVe must pass, with a due amount of 
 delight or horror, his semi-annual sleepers and pious cannibals ; the isle 
 of Nearchus, from which no one returned; the accounts of Gog and 
 Magog, and the wall of Doolkarnien ; the one-eyed and one-legged peo- 
 ple of Mandeville, the latter of whom make an umbrella of their foot ; 
 isles of giants and rivers of gems ; goblets of wine that came to the 
 drinker of their ow T n accord ; and the Region of Darkness where there 
 never appeared sun, moon, or star, <fcc. Sindbad or Ulysses could not 
 beat them; sometimes had the same identical experiences, as in valleys 
 of diamonds and raw-men-eating giants. We must escape from old fic- 
 tions founded on truth, to modern narratives full of truth and more 
 touching than fiction. And first for honest, admirable 
 
 LEDYAKD. 
 
 Ledyard’s touching praise of women and of the kindness which he 
 ever experienced at their hands, has been repeated in many a book of 
 selections ; but who shall be the first person to leave it out ? Certainly 
 not the compiler of this. Ledyard was a man who possessed every 
 qualification for a traveller of the highest order, except a little more 
 composure of purpose. He had health, strength, observation, reflec- 
 tion, integrity, undauntedness, enthusiasm, but was somewhat too rest- 
 less and impatient ; and this single flaw in his perfections probably 
 tended to shorten his career and leave him without a great practical 
 name. He was an American, and intended for a missionary ; but he 
 could not bear to remain at school. He became a sailor, a marine, cir- 
 cumnavigated the world with Cook (who respected and made use of 
 him), and finally went to Africa under the auspices of the association 
 for making discoveries, but died prematurely in Egypt, in the year 
 1788. When he presented himself at the Institute as a candidate for 
 discovery, he was asked when he would be ready to set out. He an- 
 swered, “ To-morrow morning.” 
 
 The following passage from a letter which he wrote before embark- 
 ing for Africa, w r ill show the natural dignity and purity of his cliarac 
 ter. 
 
LED YARD'S FRAISE OF WOMEN . 
 
 175 
 
 “ I was last evening in company with Mr. Jarvis, of 
 New- York, whom I accidentally met in the city, and in- 
 vited to my lodgings. When I was in Paris in distress, he 
 behaved very generously to me, and, as I do not want 
 money at present, I had a double satisfaction in our meet- 
 ing, being equally happy to see him, and to pay him one 
 hundred livres, which I never expected to be able to do, 
 and I suppose he did not think I should. If he goes to 
 New- York as soon as he mentioned, I shall trouble him 
 with this letter to you, and with some others to your ad- 
 dress for my other friends. I wrote you last from this 
 place, nearly two years ago, but I suppose you heard from 
 me at Petersburg, by Mr. Franklin of New- York. I 
 promised to write you from the remote parts of Siberia. I 
 promise everything to those I love ; and so does fortune to 
 me sometimes, but we reciprocally prevent each other from 
 fulfilling our engagements. She left me so poor in Siberia, 
 that I could not write you, because I could not frank the 
 letter.” 
 
 Ledyard’s honest biographer, though a great and intelligent admirer 
 of his hero, finds fault with his style for its incorrectness. The fault, 
 if it existed, must be confined to passages in his journal, not given by 
 Mr. Sparks, for we cannot discover it in those which he has. To us it 
 appears admirable ; quite correct and pure ; indeed the best we ever 
 saw for sheer, unaffected eloquence from an American pen. The one 
 before us is a positive masterpiece, in style as well as feeling. 
 
 LEDYARD’S PRAISE OF WOMEN. 
 
 FROM “ MEMOIRS OF IIIS LIFE AND TRAVELS, BY JARED SPARKS.” 
 
 I HAVE observed among all nations that the women 
 ornament themselves more than the men ; that wher- 
 ever found, they are the same civil, kind, obliging, humane 
 
176 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TEA VEL. 
 
 tender beings ; that they are ever inclined to be gay and 
 cheerful, timorous and modest. They do not hesitate, like 
 man, to perform a hospitable or generous action ; not 
 haughty, nor arrogant, nor supercilious, but full of courtesy, 
 and fond of society ; industrious, economical, ingenuous , 
 more liable, in general, to err than man, but in general, also, 
 more virtuous, and performing more good actions than he. 
 I never addressed myself, in the language of decency and 
 friendship, to a woman, whether civilized or savage, without 
 receiving a decent and friendly answer. With man it has 
 often been otherwise. In wandering over the barren plains 
 of inhospitable Denmark, through honest Sweden, frozen 
 Lapland, rude and churlish Finland, unprincipled Russia, 
 and the wide spread regions of the wandering Tartar, if 
 hungry, dry, cold, wet, or sick, woman has ever been friendly 
 to me, and uniformly so ; and to add to this virtue, so 
 worthy of the appellation of benevolence, these actions have 
 been performed in so free and so kind a manner, that, if I 
 was dry, I drank the sweet draught, and if hungry, ate the 
 coarse morsel, with a double relish. 
 
 MUNGO PARK. 
 
 What Ledyard wanted to complete his character, the famous Mungo 
 Park eminently possessed. He had not so large a grasp of mind as 
 Ledyard, but he was in no need of it. He had quite enough for his 
 purpose, and not any of a doubtful sort to distract it. But who needs 
 to be told what a thorough man for his purpose he was, what sufferings 
 he went through with the simplest and most touching courage, what 
 successes he achieved, and what a provoking, mortal mischance befell 
 him after all? It was not so mortifying a one as Bruce’s, who broke 
 his neck down his own staircase ; but it was sadder by a great deal, so 
 far from home and on the threshold of the greatest of his adventures. 
 
MUNGO PANIC'S BED IN THE DESERT. 
 
 177 
 
 The reader of the following passages (which are like fine tunes in 
 the history of men, and hear endless repetition), will bear in mind, that 
 one of the objects of Park’s journey was to discover the real course of 
 the River Niger, which had been a subject of dispute for ages. 
 
 What a passage is the first one to read, when we are going to bed 
 And what a climax of suffering, fortitude, and piety is the last! 
 
 MUNGO PAEK'S BED IN THE DE8EET. 
 
 FROM HIS “TRAVELS IN AFRICA.” 
 
 I SADDLED my horse, and continued my journey. I 
 travelled over a level but more fertile country than I 
 had seen for some time, until sunset, when coming to a path 
 that took a southerly direction, I followed it until midnight, 
 at which time I arrived at a small pool of rain water ; and 
 the wood being open, I determined to rest by it for the 
 night. Having given my horse the remainder of the corn, 
 I made my bed as formerly ; but the musquitoes and flies 
 from the pool prevented sleep for some time, and I was 
 twice disturbed in the night by wild beasts, which came 
 very near, and whose howling kept \he horse in continual 
 terror. 
 
 July 4th. — At daybreak, I pursued my course through 
 the woods as formerly ; saw numbers of antelopes, wild 
 hogs, and ostriches ; but the soil was more hilly, and not so 
 fertile as I had found it the preceding day. About eleven 
 o’clock, I ascended an eminence, where I climbed a tree and 
 discovered, at about eight miles’ distance, an open part of 
 the country, with several red spots, which I concluded were 
 cultivated land ; and, directing my course that way, came to 
 the precincts of a watering-place about one o’clock. From 
 the appearance of the place, I judged it to belong to the 
 Foulahs, and was hopeful that I should meet a better 
 8 * 
 
178 
 
 DELIGHTS OF HOOKS OF TEA YEL. 
 
 reception tliad I had experienced at Shrilla. In this I was 
 not deceived ; for one of the shepherds invited me to come 
 into his tent, and partake of some dates. This was one of 
 those low Foulah tents in which is just room sufficient to sit 
 upright, and in which the family, the furniture, &c., seem 
 huddled together like so many articles in a chest. When 
 I had crept upon my hands and knees into this humble 
 habitation, I found that it contained a woman and three 
 children ; who, together with the shepherd and myself, 
 completely occupied the floor. A dish of boiled corn and 
 dates was produced, and the master of the family, as is 
 customary in this part of the country, first tasted it himself, 
 and then desired me to follow his example. Whilst I was 
 eating, the children kept their eyes fixed upon me ; and no 
 sooner did the shepherd pronounce thew T ord Nazarani, than 
 they began to cry, and their mother crept slowly towards 
 the door, out of which she sprang like a greyhound, and 
 was instantly followed by her children. So frightened 
 were they at the very name of Christian, that no entreaties 
 could induce them to approach the tent. Here I purchased 
 some corn for my horse, in exchange for some brass but- 
 tons ; and having thanked the shepherd for his hospitality, 
 struck again into the woods. At sunset I came to a road 
 that took the direction for Bambarra, and resolved to fol- 
 low it for the night ; but about eight o’clock, hearing some 
 people coming from the southward, I thought it prudent to 
 hide myself among some thick bushes near the road. As 
 these thickets are generally full of wild beasts, I found my 
 situation rather unpleasant ; sitting in the dark, holding my 
 horse by the nose with both hands to prevent him from 
 neighing, and equally afraid of the natives without and 
 the wild beasts within. My fears, however, were soon dis- 
 sipated ; for the people, after looking round the thicket and 
 
THE FIRST SIGHT OF THE NIGER. 
 
 179 
 
 perceiving nothing, went away, and I hastened to the more 
 open parts of the wood, where I pursued my journey E.S.E. 
 until midnight, when the joyful cry of frogs induced me once 
 more to deviate a little from my route, in order to quench 
 my thirst. Having accomplished this from a large pool of 
 rain water, I sought for an open spot with a single tree in 
 the midst, under which I made my bed for the night. I 
 was disturbed by some wolves towards morning, which in- 
 duced me to set forward a little before day ; and having 
 passed a small village called Wassalita, I came about ten 
 o’clock (July 5th) to a negro town. 
 
 THE FIRST SIGHT OF THE NIGER. 
 
 Hearing that two negroes were going to Sego, I was 
 happy to have their company, and we set out immediately. 
 1 was constantly taken for a Moor, and became the subject 
 of much merriment to the Bambarrans, who seeing me drive 
 my horse before me, laughed heartily at my appearance. 
 “ He has been at Mecca,” says one ; “you may see that by 
 his clothes another asked if my horse was sick ; a third 
 wished to purchase it, &c. ; so that I believe the very slaves 
 were ashamed to be seen in my company. Just before it 
 was dark, we took up our lodgings for the night at a small 
 village, where I procured some victuals for myself and some 
 corn for my horse, at the moderate price of a button, and 
 was told that I should see the Niger (which the negroes call 
 Joliba, or the great water), early the next day. The lions 
 are here very numerous ; the gates are shut a little after 
 sunset, and nobody allowed to go out. The thoughts of 
 seeing the Niger in the morning, and the troublesome buzz- 
 ing of musquitoes, prevented me from shutting my eyes 
 during the night, and I had saddled my horse, and was in 
 
180 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TEA VEL. 
 
 readiness before daylight ; but on account of the wild beasts 
 we were obliged to wait until the people were stirring and 
 the gates opened. This happened to be a market day at 
 Sego. and the roads were every where filled with people 
 carrying different articles to sell. We passed four large 
 villages, and at eight o’clock saw the smoke over Sego. 
 
 As we approached the town, I was fortunate enough to 
 overtake the fugitive Kaartans, to whose kindness I had 
 been so much indebted in my journey through Bambarra. 
 They readily agreed to introduce me to their king ; and 
 we rode together through the marshy ground, where, as I 
 was looking anxiously around for the river, one of them 
 called out geo affilli (see the water) ; and looking forwards, 
 I saw with infinite pleasure the great object of my mission, 
 the long-sought for majestic Niger, glittering to the morn- 
 ing sun, as broad as the Thames at Westminster, and flow- 
 ing slowly to the eastward. I hastened to the brink, and 
 having drank of the water, lifted up my fervent thanks in 
 prayer to the Great Ruler of all things, for having thus fai 
 crowned my endeavours with success. 
 
 KINDNESS OF A WOMAN TO HIM, AND A SONG OVER 
 HIS DISTRESS. 
 
 I waited more than two hours without having an oppor- 
 tunity of crossing the river ; during which time, the people 
 who had crossed carried information to Mansong the king, 
 that a white man was waiting for a passage, and was coming 
 to see him. He immediately sent over one of his chief 
 men, who informed me that the king could not possibly see 
 me until he knew what had brought me into this country ; 
 and that I must not presume to cross the river without the 
 king’s permission. He therefore advised me to lodge at a 
 
KINDNESS OF A WOMAN TO HIM. 
 
 181 
 
 distant village, to which he pointed, for the night ; and 
 said, that in the morning he would give me further instruc- 
 tions how to conduct myself. This was very discouraging. 
 However, as there was no remedy, I set off for the village, 
 where I found, to my great mortification, that no person 
 would admit me into his house. I was regarded with as- 
 tonishment and fear, and was obliged to sit all day without 
 victuals in the shade of a tree ; and the night threatened to 
 be very uncomfortable, for the wind rose, and there was 
 great appearance of a heavy rain ; and the wild beasts are 
 so very numerous in the neighbourhood, that I should have 
 been under the necessity of climbing up the tree and resting 
 among the branches. About sunset, however, as I was pre- 
 paring to pass the night in this manner, and had turned my 
 horse loose that he might graze at liberty, a woman, return- 
 ing from the labours of the field, stopped to observe me, 
 and perceiving that I was weary and dejected, inquired into 
 my situation, which I briefly explained to her ; whereupon, 
 with looks of great compassion, she took up my saddle and 
 bridle, and told me to follow her. Having conducted me 
 into her hut, she lighted up a lamp, spread a mat on the 
 floor, and told me I might remain there for the night. 
 Finding that I was very hungry, she said she would pro- 
 cure me something to eat. She accordingly went out and 
 returned in a short time with a very fine fish, which, having 
 caused to be half broiled upon some embers, she gave me 
 for supper. The rites of hospitality being thus performed 
 towards a stranger in distress, my worthy benefactress 
 (pointing to the mat, and telling me that I might sleep 
 there without apprehension) called to the female part of the 
 family, who had stood gazing on me all the while in fixed 
 astonishment, to resume their task of spinning cotton, in 
 which they continued to employ themselves great part of 
 
182 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TEA VEL. 
 
 the night. They lightened their labour by songs, one of 
 which was composed extempore, for I was myself the sub- 
 ject of it. It was sung by one of the young women, the rest 
 joining in a sort of chorus. The air was sweet and plain- 
 tive, and the words, literally translated, were these : — “ The 
 winds roared and the rains fell. The poor white man, faint 
 and weary, came and sat under our tree. He has no mother 
 to bring him milk ; no wife to grind his corn. Chorus . — 
 Let us pity the white man ; no mother has he, &c. &c. &c.” 
 Trifling as this recital may appear to the reader, to a per- 
 son in my situation the circumstance was affecting in the 
 highest degree ; I was oppressed by such unexpected kind- 
 ness, and sleep fled from my eyes. In the morning I pre- 
 sented my landlady with two of the four brass buttons 
 which remained on my waistcoat, the only recompense I 
 could make her. 
 
 HE PASSES A LION. 
 
 July 28th. — I departed from Nyara, and reached Nya- 
 mee about noon. This town is inhabited chiefly by Foulahs, 
 from the kingdom of Masina. The dooty (the head man 
 of the place), I know not why, would not receive me, but 
 civilly sent his son on horseback to conduct me to Modiboo ; 
 which, he assured me, was at no great distance. 
 
 We rode nearly in a direct line through the woods, but 
 in general went forwards with great circumspection. I 
 observed that my guide frequently stopped and looked 
 under the bushes. On inquiring the reason of this caution, 
 he told me that lions were very numerous in that part of 
 the country, and frequently attacked — travelling through 
 the woods. While he was speaking my horse started ; look- 
 ing round, I observed a large animal, of the cameleopard 
 
HE HASSES A LION. 
 
 183 
 
 kind, standing at a little distance. The neck and fore-legs 
 were very long ; the head was furnished with two short 
 black horns, turning backwards ; the tail, which reached 
 down to the ham joint, had a tuft of hair at the end. The 
 animal was of a mouse colour, and it trotted away from us 
 in a very sluggish manner, moving its head from side to 
 side to see if we were pursuing it. Shortly after this, as 
 we were crossing a large open plain, where there were a few 
 scattered bushes, my guide, who was a little way before me, 
 wheeled his horse round in a moment, calling out something 
 in the Foulah language which I did not understand. I in- 
 quired in Mandingo what he meant. Warra billi billi , a 
 very large lion, said he ; and made signs for me to ride 
 away. But my horse was too much fatigued ; so we rode 
 slowly past the bush from which the animal had given us 
 the alarm. Not seeing anything myself, however, I thought 
 my guide had been mistaken, when the Foulah suddenly 
 put his hand to his mouth, exclaiming, Soubah an alluhi 
 (God preserve us !) and to my great surprise I then per- 
 ceived a large red lion, at a short distance from the bush, 
 with his head couched between his fore paws. I expected 
 he would instantly spring upon me. and instinctively pulled 
 my feet from the stirrups to throw myself on the ground, 
 that my horse might become the victim rather than myself. 
 But it is probable that the lion was not hungry, for he 
 quietly suffered us to pass, though we were fairly within his 
 reach. My eyes were so rivetted upon this sovereign of the 
 beasts, that I found it impossible to remove them until we 
 were at a considerable distance. We now took a circuitous 
 route through some swampy ground, to avoid any more of 
 these disagreeable rencounters. 
 
184 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TEA VEL . 
 
 NARROW ESCAPE FROM ANOTHER LION. 
 
 In the evening I arrived at a small village called Song, 
 the surly inhabitants of which would not receive me, nor so 
 much as permit me to enter the gate ; but as lions were 
 very numerous in this neighbourhood, and I had frequently, 
 in the course of the day, seen the impression of their feet 
 on the road, I resolved to stay in the vicinity of the village. 
 Having collected some grass for my horse, I accordingly 
 lay down under a tree by the gate. About ten o’clock I 
 heard the hollow roar of a lion at no great distance, and 
 attempted to open the gate ; but the people from within 
 told me, that no person must attempt to enter the gate 
 without the dooty’s permission. I begged them to inform 
 the dooty that a lion was approaching the village, and I 
 hoped he would allow me to come within the gate. I 
 waited for an answer to this message with great anxiety ; 
 for the lion kept prowling round the village, and once ad- 
 vanced so very near me, that I heard him rustling among 
 the grass, and climbed the tree for safety. About mid- 
 night the dooty with some of his people opened the gate 
 and desired me to come in. They were convinced, they 
 said, that I was not a Moor ; for no Moor ever waited any 
 time at the gate of a village without cursing the in- 
 habitants. 
 
 THE MOSS IN THE DESERT. 
 
 Aug. 25th. — I departed from Kooma, accompanied by 
 two shepherds, who were going towards Sibidooloo. The 
 road was very steep and rocky, and as my horse had hurt 
 his feet much in coming from Bammakoo, he travelled 
 
THE MOSS IN THE DESERT. 
 
 185 
 
 slowly and with great difficulty ; for in many places the 
 ascent was so sharp, and the declivities so great, that if he 
 had made one false step, he must inevitably have been 
 dashed to pieces. The shepherds being anxious to proceed, 
 gave themselves little trouble about me or my horse, and 
 kept walking on at a considerable distance. It was about 
 eleven o’clock, as I stopped to drink a little water at a 
 rivulet (my companions being near a quarter of a mile be- 
 fore me), that I heard some people calling to each other, 
 and presently a loud screaming as from a person in great 
 distress. I immediately conjectured that a lion had taken 
 one of the shepherds, and mounted my horse to have a better 
 view of what had happened. The noise, however, ceased ; 
 and I rode slowly towards the place from whence I thought 
 it proceeded, calling out, but without receiving any answer. 
 In a little time, however, I perceived one of the shepherds 
 lying among the long grass near ihe road ; and though I 
 could see no blood upon him, concluded he was dead. But 
 when I came close to him, he whispered to me to stop, 
 telling me that a party of armed men had seized upon his 
 companion, and shot two arrows at himself as he was making 
 his escape. I stopped to consider what course to take, and 
 looking round, saw at a little distance a man sitting upon 
 the stump of a tree ; I distinguished also the heads of six 
 or seven more, sitting amongst the grass with muskets in 
 their hands. I had now no hopes of escaping, and there- 
 fore determined to ride forward amongst them. As I ap- 
 proached them, I was in hopes they were elephant-hunters, 
 and, by way of opening the conversation, inquired if they 
 had shot anything ; but, without returning an answer, one 
 of them ordered me to dismount ; and then, as if recol- 
 lecting himself, waved with his hand for me to proceed. I 
 accordingly rode past, and had with some difficulty crossed 
 
186 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL. 
 
 a deep rivulet, when I heard somebody holloa ; and looking 
 back, saw those I took for elephant-hunters now running 
 after me, and calling out to me to turn back. I stopped 
 until they were all come up, when they informed me that 
 the king of the Foulahs had sent them on purpose to bring 
 me, my horse, and everything that belonged to me, to 
 Fooladoo, and that therefore I must turn back, and go 
 along with them. Without hesitating a moment, I turned 
 round and followed them, and we travelled together near 
 a quarter of a mile without exchanging a word. When 
 coming to a dark place of the wood, one of them said, in 
 the Mandingo language, u This place will do,” and imme- 
 diately snatched my hat from my head. Though I was by 
 no means free of apprehension, yet I resolved to show as 
 few signs of fear as possible, and therefore told them, unless 
 my hat was returned to me, I should go no farther. But 
 before I had time to receive an answer, another drew his 
 knife, and seizing upon a metal button which remained upon 
 my waistcoat, cut it off, and put it in his pocket. Their in- 
 tentions were now obvious, and I thought that the easier 
 they were permitted to rob me of everything, the less I had 
 to fear. I therefore allowed them to search my pockets 
 without resistance, and examine every part of my apparel, 
 which they did with scrupulous exactness. But observing 
 that I had one waistcoat under another, they insisted that I 
 should cast them both off ; and at last, to make sure work, 
 stripped me quite naked. Even my half-boots (though the 
 sole of one of them was tied to my foot with a broken bridle- 
 rein) were narrowly inspected. Whilst they were examining 
 the plunder, I begged them with great earnestness to return 
 my pocket compass ; but when I pointed it out to them, as it 
 was lying on the ground, one of the banditti, thinking I was 
 about to take it up, cocked his musket, and swore that he 
 
THE MOSS IN THE DESERT. 
 
 187 
 
 would lay me dead on the spot if I presumed to lay my 
 hand on it. After this some of them went away with my 
 horse, and the remainder stood considering whether they 
 should leave me quite naked, or allow me something to 
 shelter me from the sun. Humanity at last prevailed ; 
 they returned me the worst of the two shirts and a pair of 
 trousers ; and, as they went away, one of them threw back 
 my hat, in the crown of which I kept my memorandums • 
 and this was probably the reason they did not wish to keep 
 it. After they were gone, I sat for some time looking around 
 me with amazement and terror ; whichever way I turned, 
 nothing appeared but danger and difficulty. I saw myself 
 in the midst of a vast wilderness in the depth of the rainy 
 season, naked and alone, surrounded by savage animals, and 
 men still more savage. I was five hundred miles from the 
 nearest European settlement. All these circumstances 
 crowded at once on my recollection j and I confess, that my 
 spirits began to fail me. I considered my fate as certain, 
 and that I had no alternative but to lie down and perish. 
 The influence of religion, however, aided and supported 
 me. I reflected, that no human prudence or foresight could 
 possibly have averted my present sufferings. I was indeed 
 a stranger in a strange land, yet I was still under the pro- 
 tecting eye of that Providence who has condescended to 
 call himself the stranger’s friend. At this moment, painful 
 as my reflections were, the extraordinary beauty of a small 
 moss in fructification irresistibly caught my eye. I mention 
 this, to show from what trifling circumstances the mind will 
 sometimes derive consolation ; for though the whole plant 
 was not larger than the tip of one of my fingers, I could not 
 contemplate the delicate conformation of its roots, leaves, 
 and capsule without admiration. Can that Being (thought 
 I) who planted, watered, and brought to perfection, in this* 
 
188 
 
 DELIGHTS OF BOOKS OF TRAVEL. 
 
 obscure part of the world, a thing which appears of so small 
 importance, look with unconcern upon the situation and 
 sufferings of creatures formed after his own image ? — surely 
 not ! r ejections like these would not allow me to despair; 
 I started up, and disregarding both hunger and fatigue, 
 travelled forwards, assured that relief was at hand ; and I 
 was not disappointed. In a short time I came to a small 
 village, at the entrance of which I overtook the two shep- 
 herds who had come with me from Kooma. They were 
 much surprised to see me, for they said they never doubted 
 that the Foulahs, when they had robbed, had murdered me. 
 Departing from this village, we travelled over several rocky 
 ridges, and at sunset arrived at Sibidooloo, the frontier 
 town of the kingdom of Manding. 
 
51. IJjijnnrErk, a #ra ^ngttgE, nnir an ‘taatotE kg !|je 
 
 mg. 
 
 Voyages, for the most part, are not so entertaining as travels. They 
 are less diversified in subject, and less conversant with flesh and blood. 
 When they are otherwise, no reading is more attractive. Voyages 
 among icebergs, and to newly discovered lands, combine the charms of 
 romance with the greatest personal interest ; and few things affect us 
 more strongly than a well-told and disastrous shipwreck. Such catas- 
 trophes, however, are in general too painful to warrant isolated extract 
 into a book of entertainment. The compiler seems almost cruel in 
 making it. It furnishes too great a contrast to the reader’s comfort* 
 without possessing the excuse of utility. 
 
 The almost universal defect of Voyages is, that they take little no 
 tice of the element on which they are made. Most people who journey 
 by sea, have no wish but to get over it as fast as possible. The “ won- 
 ders of the deep ” are, for them, as if they did not exist ; and even 
 those who are more curious, are content to see little. Geology has not 
 yet been accompanied by its proper amount of Hydrology . The ocean, 
 physically and intellectually speaking, is comparatively an unploughed 
 field, even by the English ; yet what it may produce, let the reader 
 judge who is acquainted with the narratives of the Cooks, the Scoresbys, 
 and the Humboldts. 
 
 That the perils of shipwreck, however, may not be wanting to the 
 pleasures of this our Book for a Corner, and that our inland habits may be 
 refreshed by their due contrast with a sense of being “out at sea,” we 
 have selected, in the first instance, the following brief but comprehen- 
 sive account of the loss of a Spanish vessel from the pages of Mr. Red- 
 ding’s Shipivrecks and Disasters at Sea; and in the second, with due 
 
190 
 
 SHIP WRECK OF A SPANISH VESSEL. 
 
 omissions, an abstract of Cook’s first voyage to Otaheite, because it 
 keeps the reader longer and more pleasantly on the water than most 
 such narratives, besides furnishing a singular peril by the way, and call- 
 ing to mind some of the most interesting reading of one’s childhood. 
 
 The Spanish vessel was bound from Panama to Caldera, a port in 
 New Spain; and both before and after the following mishap, the crew 
 and passengers encountered much suffering ; but the present is the most 
 interesting point of the narrative. It is remarkable for answering more 
 completely than usual to what a landsman’s imagination conceives of 
 such horrors ; that is to say, the suddenness of the danger, the noise of 
 the waters, the darkness of the night, the cutting away of masts, and 
 the frightened awakening of guilty consciences. The loud, confessing 
 voices, heard even above the loudness of the thunder, is particularly 
 dreadful. 
 
 SHIPWRECK OF A SPANISH VESSEL. 
 
 BOUT seven, one evening, the crew of a Spanish vessel 
 
 •B. of burden, with various goods, bound for Caldera, be- 
 held the desired port. All was joy in the ship. The cap- 
 tain presented the sailors with a cask of wine, and a Genoese 
 merchant on board gave them another. The men were in 
 too good a temper to postpone tasting the wine until the 
 next day. 
 
 They attacked the cask at once, headed by the pilot, and 
 it was soon emptied, but not without materially affecting 
 their heads. 
 
 The Genoese merchant, fearing the ill effects that must 
 arise from such a state of things when so near the shore, 
 posted himself, in his excess of caution, between the man at 
 the helm and the pilot, from having remarked that the pilot, 
 sitting on his seat quite drunk, worked the ship from recol- 
 lection alone, as he was close to a port perfectly well known 
 to him. The merchant placed himself in the situation al- 
 ready mentioned, to repeat with more precision the words 
 
SHIP WRECK OF A SPANISH VESSEL. 
 
 191 
 
 of the pilot to the timoneer (man at the helm), and this act 
 caused the loss of the ship. The pilot gave the word ** north- 
 west, to the north-west,’ 1 Al norueste the merchant, who 
 stammered and spoke bad Spanish, repeated the words “ Al 
 nornorueste ,” to the north-wor^-west, which is a different 
 point of the compass. The timoneer, thinking it was his 
 master’s orders, did as he was told — kept away from the 
 port and yet approached the coast. 
 
 In the meanwhile night was approaching fast. The pas- 
 sengers and the captain were in their beds wrapped in slum- 
 ber. About two in the morning, the captain was surprised by 
 hearing the waves breaking upon the rocks. He cried out 
 to the pilot, “ What is this, pilot ? are we entering the port 
 already?” The pilot, on the question being reiterated, 
 roused from his lethargy, and saw with astonishment and 
 terror that the vessel was steering right upon a rock which 
 could scarcely be seen for the obscurity. Above all a high 
 mountain towered in shadow, covered apparently with trees. 
 The pilot called out to come about, but there was now no 
 time, the vessel was close on the shore, and struck with such 
 force that one of her sides opened. 
 
 A huge wave recoiled from the rock against which it had 
 dashed, swept over the vessel, and filled her with water. 
 
 Then there was nothing heard throughout the ship but 
 clamorous cries and shrieks of horror. Lamentations suc- 
 ceeded to sounds of mirth and revelry, which had been heard 
 so short a time before. Some awaked suddenly from their 
 sleep, and cried in astonishment as they heard the others 
 do who were aware of the danger, though they knew not yet 
 any reason wherefore. 
 
 The noise of the vast waves of the Pacific thundering 
 around and over the ship, the darkness of the night, the dash- 
 ing of the sea on the rocks, increased the terror of the scene. 
 
J92 
 
 SHIP WRECK OF A SPANISH VESSEL. 
 
 What was still more extraordinary, the vessel was lost none 
 could tell how or where. This reverse of fortune was terri- 
 ble to them. They had imagined themselves close to the 
 entrance of the port. In the terror which came upon the 
 crew, some fell on their knees in prayer, making vows to 
 heaven for their safety ; others with uplifted hands de- 
 manded God’s mercy ; while many in a loud voice, heard 
 even amid the louder thundering of the waves around, re- 
 vealed their most secret sins. 
 
 The captain preserved his presence of mind. Seeing 
 that all must perish if something were not attempted speed- 
 ily for the safety of those on board, he encouraged the sailors 
 to cut away the masts, and to provide themselves with planks, 
 or any loose timber upon which there was a chance of gain- 
 ing the shore. Everything above deck contributing to the 
 breaking up of the ship by its weight, was cut away or flung 
 overboard. 
 
 In this state morning broke upon them. The captain, 
 when the vessel had opened her planks and was settling in 
 the water, seeing that the sailors would endeavour to gain 
 the shore upon anything they could seize that would swim, 
 advised several of them to fasten themselves to the ends of 
 a long rope, one at each end, so that whoever got on shore 
 first might draw r after him a second, who might not be so 
 fortunate in his attempt at reaching it. In this manner the 
 captain got the pilot safe to land, although he did. not de- 
 serve it. Nearly all the crew escaped. Five or six only, 
 who were dashed by the waves with great force against the 
 ship or the rocks head foremost, were lost. 
 
A SEA VOYAGE \ AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 193 
 
 A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTUKE BY THE WAY. 
 
 [The narrative of Cook’s voyages was drawn up by Hawkesworth, 
 author of The Adventurer. The Mr. Banks mentioned in it was after- 
 wards the well known Sir Joseph, President of the Royal Society; and 
 Dr. Solander became a distinguished botanist.] 
 
 H AYING- received my commission, which was dated the 
 25th of May, 1768, 1 went on board on the 27th, hoisted 
 the pennant, and took charge of the ship, which then lay in 
 the basin in Deptford yard. She was fitted for sea with all 
 expedition; and stores and provisions being taken on board, 
 sailed down the river on the 30th of July, and on the 13th 
 of August anchored in Plymouth Sound. 
 
 On Friday the 26th of August, the wind becoming fair, 
 we got under sail, and put to sea. On the 31st we saw 
 several of the birds which the sailors call Mother Carey’s 
 chickens, and which they suppose to be the forerunners of 
 a storm ; and on the next day we had a very hard gale, 
 which brought us under our courses, washed overboard a 
 small boat belonging to the boatswain, and drowned three 
 or four dozen of our poultry, which we regretted still more. 
 
 On Friday the 2d of September we saw land between 
 Cape Finisterre and Cape Ortegal, on the coast of Gallicia, 
 in Spain ; and on the 5th, by an observation of the sun and 
 moon, we found the latitude of Cape Finisterre to be 42° 
 53 y north, and its longitude 8° 46 7 west, our first meridian 
 being always supposed to pass through Greenwich ; varia- 
 tion of the needle 21° 4 7 west. 
 
 During this course, Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander had an 
 opportunity of observing many marine animals, of which no 
 naturalist has hitherto taken notice ; particularly a new 
 species of the oniscus , which was found adhering to the 
 
194 
 
 A SEA VOYAGE , AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 medusa pelagica ; and an animal of an angular figure, about 
 three inches long, and one thick, with a hollow passing quite 
 through it, and a brown spot on one end, which they con- 
 jectured might be its stomach ; four of these adhered to- 
 gether by their sides when they were taken, so that at first 
 they were thought to be one animal ; but upon being put 
 into a glass of water they soon separated, and swam about 
 very briskly. These animals are of a new genus, to which 
 Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander gave the name of Dagysa , from 
 the likeness of one species of them to a gem. Several speci- 
 mens of them were taken adhering together sometimes to 
 the length of a yard or more, and shining in the water with 
 very beautiful colours. Another animal of a new genus they 
 also discovered, which shone in the water with colours still 
 more beautiful and vivid, and which indeed exceeded in 
 variety and brightness anything that we had ever seen. 
 The colouring and splendour of these animals were equal to 
 those of an opal, and from their resemblance to that gem, 
 the genus was called Cardnium Opalinum . One of them 
 lived several hours in a glass of salt water, swimming about 
 with great agility, and at every motion displaying a change 
 of colours almost infinitely various. We caught also among 
 the rigging of the ship, when we were at the distance of 
 about ten leagues from Cape Finisterre, several birds which 
 have not been described by Linnaeus ; they were supposed 
 to have come from Spain, and our gentlemen called the 
 species Motacilla velijicans (sail-making), as they said none 
 but sailors would venture themselves on board a ship that 
 was going round the world. One of them was so exhausted 
 that it died in Mr. Banks’s hand almost as soon as it was 
 brought to him. 
 
 It was thought extraordinary that no naturalist had 
 hitherto taken notice of the Dagysa, as the sea abounds 
 
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 195 
 
 with them not twenty leagues from the coast of Spain ; but, 
 unfortunately for the cause of science, there are but very 
 few of those who traverse the sea, that are either desposed 
 or qualified to remark the curiosities of which nature has 
 made it the repository. 
 
 On the 12th we discovered the islands of Porto Sanko 
 and Madeira, and on the next day anchored in Funchiale 
 road, and moored with the stream-anchor : but in the night 
 the bend of the hawser of the stream-anchor slipped, owing 
 to the negligence of the person who had been employed to 
 make it fast. In the morning the anchor was heaved 
 up into the boat, and carried out to the southward ; but in 
 heaving it again, Mr. Weir, the master’s mate, was carried 
 overboard by the buoy-rope, and went to the bottom with 
 the anchor ; the people in the ship saw the accident, and 
 got the anchor up with all possible expedition, it was, how- 
 ever, too late, the body came up entangled in the buoy-rope, 
 but it was dead. 
 
 When the island of Madeira is first approached from 
 the sea, it has a very beautiful appearance ; the sides of the 
 hills being entirely covered with vines almost as high as 
 the eye can distinguish ; and the vines are green when 
 every kind of herbage, except where they shade the ground, 
 and here and there, by the sides of a rill, is entirely burnt 
 up, which was the case at this time. 
 
 The refreshments to be had here, are water, wine, fruit 
 of several sorts, onions in plenty, and some sweetmeats ; 
 fresh meat and poultry are not to be had wdthout leave from 
 the governor, and the payment of a very high price. 
 
 We took in 270 lbs. of fresh beef, and a live bullock, 
 charged at 613 lbs., 3,032 gallons of water, and ten tons of 
 wine ; and in the night, between Sunday the 18th and Mon- 
 9 
 
196 
 
 A SEA VOYAGE \ AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 day the 19th September, we set sail in prosecution of our 
 voyage. 
 
 On Friday, the 23rd of September, we saw the Peak of 
 Teneriffe bearing W. by S. \ S. Its appearance at sunset 
 was very striking; when the sun was below the horizon, and 
 the rest of the island appeared of a deep black, the moun- 
 tain still reflected his rays, and glowed with a warmth of 
 colour which no painting can express. 
 
 On the next day, Saturday the 24th, we came into the 
 north-east trade-wind, and on Friday, the 30th, saw Bona 
 Vista, one of the Cape de Verd Islands: we ranged the 
 east side if it, at the distance of three or four miles from 
 the shore, till we were obliged to haul off to avoid a 
 ledge of rocks which stretch out S. W. by W. from the 
 body, or S. E. point of the island, to the extent of a league 
 and a half. 
 
 During our course from Teneriffe to Bona Vista, we 
 saw great numbers of flying fish, which from the cabin-win- 
 dows appear beautiful beyond imagination, their sides 
 having the colour and brightness of burnished silver ; when 
 they are seen from the deck, they do not appear to so much 
 advantage, because their backs are of a dark colour. We 
 also took a shark, which proved to be the Squalus C archa- 
 rias of Linnaeus. 
 
 Having lost the trade-wind on the 3rd, in latitude 12° 
 14', and longitude 22° 10', the wind became somewhat vari- 
 able, and we had light airs and calms by turns. 
 
 On the 7th, Mr. Banks went out in the boat, and took 
 what the seamen call a Portuguese man-of-war ; it is the 
 Holvthuria Physalis of Linnaeus, a'id a species of the Mol- 
 lusca. It consisted of a small bladder about seven inches 
 long, and very much resembling the air-bladder of fishes, 
 from the bottom of which descended a number of strings of 
 
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 197 
 
 a bright blue and red, some of them three or four feet in 
 length, which, upon being touched, sting like a nettle, but 
 with much more force. On the top of the bladder is a 
 membrane which is used as a sail, and turned so as to 
 receive the wind which way soever it blows. This mem- 
 brane is marked in fine pink-coloured veins, and the 
 animal is in every respect an object exquisitely curious and 
 beautiful. 
 
 We also took several of the shell-fishes, or testaceous 
 animals, which are always found floating upon the water, 
 particularly the Helix Ianthina and Violacea ; they are 
 about the size of a snail, and are supported upon the surface 
 of the water by a small cluster of bubbles, which are filled 
 with air, and consist of a tenacious slimy substance that 
 will not easily part with its contents ; the animal is ovipa- 
 rous, and these bubbles serve also as a nidus for its eggs. 
 It is probable that it never goes down to the bottom, nor 
 willingly approaches any shore ; for the shell is exceedingly 
 brittle, and that of few fresh-water snails is so thin, Every 
 shell contains about a tea-spoonful of liquor, which it easily 
 discharges upon being touched, and which is of the most 
 beautiful red-purple that can be conceived. It dyes linen 
 cloth, and it may perhaps be worth inquiry (as the shell is 
 certainly found in the Mediterranean), whether it be not 
 the Purpura of the ancients.* 
 
 * It is quite impossible to discuss this subject here. But it may be 
 worth while to refer the learned reader for some curious information 
 about it, to the illustrious Bocliart’s work entitled Hierozoicon , part ii. 
 book v., cli. ii. There are several sorts of sea-sliells, that yield the pur- 
 ple-dye so much esteemed among the ancients. Pliny, who has written 
 on the subject, divides them into two classes, the luccinum and purpura, 
 of which the latter was most in request. According to him, the best kinds 
 were found in the vicinity of Tyre. That city was famous for the manu- 
 facture of purple. To be Tyi'io conspectus in ostro, seemed, in the estima- 
 tion of the Mantuan poet, essential to his due appearance in honour of 
 
198 
 
 A SEA VOYAGE , AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 In the evening of the 29th of October, we observed that 
 luminous appearance of the sea, which has been so often 
 mentioned by navigators, and of which such various causes 
 have been assigned ; some supposing it to be occasioned by 
 fish, which agitated the water by darting on their prey, some 
 by the putrefaction of fish and other marine animals, some 
 by electricity, and others referring it to a great variety of 
 different causes. It appeared to emit flashes of light ex- 
 actly resembling those of lightning, only not so considerable; 
 but they were so frequent that sometimes eight or ten were 
 visible almost at the same moment. We were of opinion 
 that they proceeded from some luminous animal, and upon 
 throwing out the casting-net our opinion was confirmed. It 
 brought up a species of the Medusa , which when it came 
 on board had the appearance of metal violently heated, and 
 emitted a white light. With these animals were taken 
 some very small crabs, of three different species, each of 
 which gave as much light as a glow-worm, though the crea- 
 ture was not so large by nine-tenths. Upon examination 
 of these animals, Mr. Banks had the satisfaction to find that 
 they were all entirely new.* 
 
 Augustus, Geor. 3-17. But several other places in the Mediterranean 
 afforded this precious article. Thus Horace speaks of Spartan purple, 
 
 u Nee Laconicas mihi 
 Trahunt honestae 'purpuras clientse.” 
 
 Od. lib. ii. 18. 
 
 The English reader will be much pleased with several interesting re- 
 marks as to the purple and other colours known to the ancients, given in 
 President Goguet’s valuable work on the origin of laws, arts, &c. &c., of 
 which a translation by Dr. Henry was published at Edinburgh in 1761 
 EawJcsworth. 
 
 * The reader is referred to the account of Captain Krusenstern’s cir- 
 cumnavigation, for a very satisfactory relation of an experiment on this 
 subject, which clearly proves the truth of the opinion above stated, as to 
 the cause of the shining appearance so often noticed at sea. It is too long 
 for quotation in this place. — Kerr . 
 
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 199 
 
 On the 6th of November, being in latitude 19° 3' south, 
 longitude 35° 50' west, the colour of the water was observed 
 to change, upon which we sounded, and found ground at the 
 depth of thirty-two fathoms ; the lead was cast three times 
 within about four hours, without a foot difference in the 
 depth or quality of the bottom, which was coral rock, fine 
 sand, and shells ; we therefore supposed that we had passed 
 over the tail of the great shoal which is laid down in all 
 our charts by the name of Abrothos, on which Lord Anson 
 struck soundings in his passage outwards. At four the next 
 morning we had no ground with 100 fathom. 
 
 As several articles of our stock and provisions now 
 began to fall short, I determined to put into Rio de J aneiro, 
 rather than at any port in Brazil or Falkland’s Islands, 
 knowing that it could better supply us with what we 
 wanted. 
 
 It is remarkable, that, during the last three or four days 
 of our staying in the harbour, the air was loaded with but- 
 terflies. They were chiefly of one sort, but in such numbers 
 that thousands were in view in every direction, and the 
 greatest part of them above our mast-head. 
 
 The country, at a small distance round the town, which 
 is all that any of us saw, is beautiful in the highest degree ; 
 the wildest spots being varied with a greater luxuriance of 
 flowers, both as to number and beauty, than the best ^gar- 
 dens in England. 
 
 Upon the trees and bushes sat an almost endless variety 
 of birds, especially small ones, many of them covered with 
 the most elegant plumage ; among which were the hum- 
 ming-bird. Of insects too there was a great variety, and 
 some of them very beautiful ; but they were much more 
 nimble than those of Europe, especially the butterflies, 
 most of which flew near the tops of the trees, and were 
 
200 
 
 A SEA VOYAGE \ AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 therefore very difficult to be caught, except when the sea 
 breeze blew fresh, which kept them nearer to the ground. 
 
 When the boat which had been sent on shore returned, 
 we hoisted her on board, and stood out to sea. 
 
 On the 9th of December, we observed the sea to be 
 covered with broad streaks of a yellowish colour, several of 
 them a mile long, and three or four hundred yards wide. 
 Some of the water thus coloured was taken up, and found 
 to be full of innumerable atoms pointed at the end, of a 
 Yellowish colour, and none more than a quarter of a line, or 
 the fortieth part of an inch long In the microscope they 
 appeared to be fascicula of small fibres interwoven with 
 each other, not unlike the nidus of some of the phyganeas , 
 called caddices ; but whether they were animal or vegetable 
 substances, whence they came, or for what they were de- 
 signed, neither Mr. Banks nor Dr. Solander could guess. 
 The same appearance had been observed before, when we 
 first discovered the continent of South America. 
 
 On the 3d of January, 1769, being in latitude 47o 17' 
 S. and longitude 61° 29' 45" W., we were all looking out 
 for Pepy’s island, and for some time an appearance w T as 
 seen in the east which so much resembled land, that we 
 bore away for it ; and it was more than two hours and a 
 half before we were convinced that it was nothing but what 
 sailors call a fog-bank. 
 
 The people now beginning to complain of cold, each of 
 them received what is called a Magellanic jacket, and a pair 
 of trowsers. The jacket is made of a thick woollen stuff, 
 called Fearnought , which is provided by the government. 
 We saw, from time to time, a great number of penguins, 
 albatrosses, and sheer-waters, seals, whales, and porpoises ; 
 and on the 11th, having passed Falkland’s Islands, we dis- 
 covered the coast of Terra del Fuego, at the distance oi 
 
A SEA VOYAGE , AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 201 
 
 about four leagues, extending from the W. to S.E. by S. 
 We had here five-and-thirty fathom, the ground soft, small 
 slate stones. As we ranged along the shore to the S. E. at 
 the distance of two or three leagues, we perceived smoke in 
 several places, which was made by the natives, probably as 
 a signal, for they did not continue it after we had passed by. 
 
 At two o’clock on the 15th of January, we anchored in 
 the bay of Good Success ; and after dinner I went on shore, 
 accompanied by Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander, to look for a 
 watering-place, and speak to the Indians, several of whom 
 had come in sight. We landed on the starboard side of 
 the bay near some rocks, which made smooth water and 
 good landing ; thirty or forty of the Indians soon made 
 their appearance at the end of a sandy beach on the other 
 side of the bay, but seeing our number, which was ten or 
 twelve, they retreated. Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander then 
 advanced about one hundred yards' before us, upon which 
 two of the Indians returned, and, having advanced some 
 paces towards them, sat down ; as soon as they came up, 
 the Indians rose, and each of them having a small stick in 
 his hand threw it away, in a direction both from themselves 
 and the strangers, which was considered as the renunciation 
 of weapons in token of peace. They then walked briskly 
 towards their companions, who had halted at about fifty 
 yards behind them, and beckoned the gentlemen to follow, 
 which they did. They were received with many uncouth 
 signs of friendship ; and, in return, they distributed among 
 them some beads and ribbons, which had been brought on 
 shore for that purpose, and with which they were greatly 
 delighted. A mutual confidence and good-will being thus 
 produced, our parties joined ; the conversation, such as it 
 was, became general ; and three of them accompanied us 
 back to the ship. When they came on board, one of them, 
 
202 
 
 A SEA VOYAGE , AND AN A D VENTURE. 
 
 whom we took to be a priest, performed much the same 
 ceremonies which M. Bougainville describes, and supposes 
 to be an exorcism. When he was introduced into a new 
 part of the ship, or when anything that he had not seen 
 before caught his attention, he shouted with all his force 
 for some minutes, without directing his voice either to us 
 or his companions.* 
 
 *The incident related by Bougainville, to which the allusion is made, 
 is somewhat affecting. An interesting boy, one of the savages’ children, 
 had unwarily, and from ignorance of its dangerous nature, put some bits 
 of glass into his mouth which the sailors gave him. His lips and palate, 
 &c., were cut in several places, and he soon began to spit blood, and to be 
 violently convulsed. This excited the most distressing alarm and sus- 
 picion among the savages. One of them, whom Bougainville denominates 
 a juggler, immediately had recourse to very strange and unlikely means in 
 order to relieve the poor child. He first laid him on his back, then kneel- 
 ing down between his legs, and bending himself, he pressed the child’s 
 belly as much as he could with his head and hands, crying out continually, 
 but with inarticulate sounds. From time to time he raised himself, and 
 seeming to hold the disease in his joined hands, opened them at once in- 
 to the air, blowing, as if he drove away some evil spirit. During those 
 rites, an old woman in tears howled with great violence in the child’s ears. 
 These ceremonies, however, not proving effectual, but rather, indeed, as 
 might have been expected, doing mischief, the juggler disappeared for a 
 little in order, as should seem, to procure a peculiar dress, in which he 
 might practise his exorcism with greater confidence of success, and to 
 bring a brother in the trade, similarly apparalled, to aid him in 
 his labours. But so much the worse for the wretched patient, who was 
 now pummelled and squeezed all over, till his body was completely bruised. 
 Such treatment, it is almost unnecessary to say, aggravated hi-s sufferings, 
 but accomplished no cure. The jugglers at last consented to allow the in- 
 terference of the French surgeon, but appeared to be very jealous of his 
 skill. The child became somewhat easier towards night ; however, from 
 his continual sickness, there was much room to apprehend that he had 
 swallowed some of the glass, and died in consequence ; for “ about two 
 o’clock in the morning,” says Bougainville, “we on board heard repeated 
 howls, and at break of day, though the weather was very dreadful, the 
 savages went off. They doubtless, fled from a place defiled by death, and 
 by unlucky strangers, who, they thought, were come merely to destroy 
 them.” It is very probable that the person whom Cook supposed a priest, 
 
A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE \ 203 
 
 They ate some bread and some beef, but not apparently 
 with much pleasure, though such part of what was given 
 them as they did not eat, they took away with them ; but 
 they would not swallow a drop either of wine or spirits ; 
 they put the glass to their lips, but, having tasted the 
 liquor, they returned it with strong expressions of disgust. 
 Curiosity seems to be one of the few passions which distin- 
 guish men from brutes ; and of this our guests appeared to 
 have very little. They went from one part of the ship to 
 another, and looked at the vast variety of new objects that 
 every moment presented themselves, without any expression 
 either of wonder or pleasure, for the vociferation of our ex- 
 orcist seemed to be neither. 
 
 After having been on board about two hours, they ex- 
 pressed a desire to go ashore. A boat was immediately 
 ordered, and Mr. Banks thought fit to accompany them 
 He landed them in safety, and conducted them to their 
 companions, among whom he remarked the same vacant in- 
 difference as in those who had been on board ; for as on one 
 side there appeared no eagerness to relate, so on the other 
 side there seemed to be no curiosity to hear, how they had 
 been received, or what they had seen. In about half an hour 
 Mr. Banks returned to the ship, and the Indians retired 
 from the shore. 
 
 On the 16th, early in the morning, Mr. Banks and Dr. 
 Solander, with their astendants and servants, and two sea- 
 men, to assist in carrying the baggage, accompanied by Mr. 
 Monkhouse the surgeon, and Mr. Green the astronomer, set 
 out from the ship with a view to penetrate as far as they 
 
 practised the charms spoken of, in order to destroy any ill luck, and to pre- 
 vent the occurrence of such like misfortunes in his intercourse with the 
 wonderful strangers. There is an allusion to this incident in a following 
 section. — Kcer. 
 
 9* 
 
204 
 
 A SEA VOYAGE \ AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 could into the country, and return at night. The hills, when 
 viewed at a distance, seemed to be partly a wood, partly a 
 plain, and above them a bare rock. Mr. Banks hoped to 
 get through the wood, and made no doubt but that, beyond 
 it, he should, in a country which no botanist had ever yet 
 visited, find alpine plants which would abundantly compen- 
 sate his labour. They entered the wood at a small sandy 
 beach, a little to the westward of the watering place, and 
 continued to ascend the hill, through the pathless wilder- 
 ness, till three o’clock, before they got a near view of the 
 places which they intended to visit. Soon after they reach- 
 ed what they had taken for a plain ; but, to their great disap- 
 pointment, found it a swamp, covered with low bushes of 
 birch, about three feet high, interwoven with each other, and 
 so stubborn that they could not be bent out of the way : it 
 was therefore necessary to lift the leg over them, which at 
 every step was buried ankle deep in the soil. To aggravate 
 the pain and difficulty of such travelling, the weather, which 
 had hitherto been very fine, much like one of our bright 
 days in May, became gloomy and cold, with sudden blasts 
 of a most piercing wind, accompanied with snow. They 
 pushed forward, however, in good spirits, notwithstanding 
 their fatigue, hoping the worst of the way was past, and that 
 the bare rock which they had seen from the tops of the 
 lower hills was not more than a mile before them ; but when 
 they had got about two-thirds over this woody swamp, Mr. 
 Buchan, one of Mr. Banks’s draughtsmen, was unhappily 
 seized with a fit. This made it necessary for the whole com- 
 pany to halt, and as it was impossible that he should 
 go any farther, a fire was kindled, and those who were most 
 fatigued were left behind to take care of him. Mr. Banks, 
 Dr. Solander, Mr. Green, and Mr. Monkhouse, went on, and 
 in a short time reached the summit. As botanists, their 
 
A SEA VOYAGE , AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 205 
 
 expectations were here abundantly gratified ; for they found 
 a great variety of plants, which, with respect to the alpine 
 plants in Europe, are exactly what those plants are with 
 respect to such as grow in the plain. 
 
 The cold was now become more severe, and the snow- 
 blasts more frequent ; the day also was so far spent, that it 
 was found impossible to get back to the ship, before the 
 next morning. To pass the night upon such a mountain, 
 in such a climate, was not only comfortless but dreadful ; 
 it was impossible, however, to be avoided, and they were to 
 provide for it as well as they could. 
 
 Mr. Banks and Dr. Solander, while they were improv- 
 ing an opportunity which they had, with so much danger 
 and difficulty, procured, by gathering the plants which they 
 found upon the mountain, sent Mr. Green and Mr. Monk- 
 house back to Mr. Buchan and the people that were with 
 him, with directions to bring, them to a hill, which they 
 thought lay in a better route for returning to the wood, 
 and which was therefore appointed as a general rendez- 
 vous. It was proposed, that from this hill they should push 
 through the swamp, which seemed by the new route not to 
 be more than half a mile over, into the shelter of the wood, 
 and there build their wigwam, and make a fire. This, as 
 their way was all down hill, it seemed easy to accomplish. 
 Their whole company assembled at the rendezvous, and, 
 though pinched with the cold, were in health and spirits, 
 Mr. Buchan himself having recovered his strength in a 
 much greater degree than could have been expected. It 
 was now near eight o’clock in the evening, but still good 
 day-light, and they set forward fer the nearest valley, Mr. 
 Banks himself undertaking to bring up the rear, and see 
 that no straggler was left behind. This may perhaps be 
 thought a superfluous caution, but it will soon appear to be 
 
206 -4 SEA VOYAGE , AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 otherwise. Dr. Solander, who had more than once crossed 
 the mountains which divide Sweden from Norway, well 
 knew that extreme cold, especially when joined with fatigue, 
 produces a torpor and sleepiness that are almost irresistible. 
 He therefore conjured the company to keep moving, what- 
 ever pain it might cost them, and whatever relief they 
 might be promised by an inclination to rest. Whoever sits 
 down, says he, will sleep ; and whoever sleeps, will wake no 
 more. Thus, at once admonished and alarmed, they set 
 forward ; but while they were still upon the naked rock, 
 and before they had got among the bushes, the cold became 
 suddenly so intense, as to produce the effects that had been 
 most dreaded. Dr. Solander himself was the first who 
 found the inclination, against which he had warned others, 
 irresistible ; and insisted upon being suffered to lie down. 
 Mr. Banks entreated and remonstrated in vain, down he 
 lay upon the ground, though it was covered with snow ; and 
 it was with great difficulty that his friend kept him from 
 sleeping. Richmond also, one of the black servants, began 
 to linger, having suffered from the cold in the same manner 
 as the doctor. Mr. Banks, therefore, sent five of the com- 
 pany, among whom was Mr. Buchan, forward to get a fire 
 ready at the first convenient place they could find ; and 
 himself, with four others, remained with the doctor and 
 Richmond, whom, partly by persuasion and entreaty, and 
 partly by force, they brought on ; but when they had got 
 through the greatest part of the birch and swamp, they both 
 declared they could go no farther. Mr. Banks had recourse 
 again to entreaty and expostulation, but they produced no 
 effect. When Richmond was told, that if he did not go on 
 he would in a short time be frozen to death, he answered, 
 that he desired nothing but to lie down and die. The 
 doctor did not so explicitly renounce his life ; he said he 
 
A SEA VOYAGE \ AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 207 
 
 was willing to go on, but that he must first take some sleep, 
 though he had before told the company that to sleep was to 
 perish. Mr. Banks and the rest found it impossible to carry 
 them, and there being no remedy, they were both suffered 
 to sit down, being partly supported by the bushes, and in a 
 few minutes they fell into a. profound sleep. Soon after, 
 some of the people who had been sent forward returned, 
 with the welcome news that a fire was kindled about a 
 quarter of a mile farther on the way. Mr. Banks then en- 
 deavoured to wake Dr. Solander, and happily succeeded. 
 But, though he had not slept five minutes, he had almost 
 lost the use of his limbs, and the muscles were so shrunk 
 that his shoes fell from his feet ; he consented to go forward 
 with such assistance as could be given him, but no attempts 
 to relieve poor Richmond were successful. It being found 
 impossible to make him stir, after some time had been lost 
 in the attempt, Mr. Banks le£t his other black servant and 
 a seaman, who seemed to have suffered least by the cold, 
 to look after him ; promising, that as soon as two others 
 should be sufficiently warmed, they should be relieved. Mr. 
 Banks, with much difficulty, at length got the doctor to the 
 fire ; and soon after sent two of the people who had been 
 refreshed, in hopes that, with the assistance of those who 
 had been left behind, they would be able to bring Richmond, 
 even though it should still be found impossible to wake him. 
 In about half an hour, however, they had the mortification 
 to see these two men return alone ; they said, that they had 
 been all around the place to which they had been directed, 
 but could neither find Richmond nor those who had been 
 left with him ; and that, though they had shouted many 
 times, no voice had replied. This was matter of equal sur- 
 prise and concern, particularly to Mr. Banks, who, while he 
 was wondering how it could happen, missed a bottle of rum, 
 
208 A SEA VOYAGE , AND AN ADVENTURE . 
 
 the company’s whole stock, which they now concluded to be 
 in the knapsack of one of the absentees. It was conjectured, 
 that with this Richmond had been roused by the two persons 
 who had been left with him, and that, haying perhaps drank 
 too freely of it themselves, they had all rambled from the 
 place where they had been left, in search of the fire, instead 
 of waiting for those who should have been their assistants 
 and guides. Another fall of snow now came on, and con- 
 tinued incessantly for two hours, so that all hopes of seeing 
 them again, at least alive, were given up ; but about twelve 
 o’clock, to the great joy of those at the fire, a shouting was 
 heard at some distance. Mr. Banks, with four men, imme- 
 diate ly went out, and found the seaman with just strength 
 enough left to stagger along, and call out for assistance. 
 Mr. Banks sent him immediately to the fire, and, by his 
 direction, proceeded in search of the other two, whom he 
 soon after found. Richmond was upon his legs, but not 
 able to put one before the other ; his companion was lying 
 upon the ground, as insensible as a stone. All hands were 
 now called from the fire, and an attempt was made to carry 
 them to it ; but this, notwithstanding the united efforts of 
 the whole company, was found to be impossible. The 
 night was extremely dark, the snow was now very deep, 
 and, under these additional disadvantages, they found it 
 very difficult to make way through t'he bushes and the bog 
 for themselves, all of them getting many falls in the at- 
 tempt. The only alternative was to make a fire upon the 
 spot ; but the snow which had fallen, and was still falling, 
 besides what was every moment shaken in flakes from the 
 trees, rendered it equally impracticable to kindle one there, 
 and to bring any part of that which had been kindled in 
 the wood thither. They were, therefore, reduced to the sad 
 necessity of leaving the unhappy wretches to their fate j 
 
A SEA VOYAGE \ AND AN ADVENTURE. 209 
 
 having first made them a bed of boughs from the trees, and 
 spread a covering of the same kind over them to a consid- 
 erable height. 
 
 Haying now been exposed to the cold and the snow near 
 an hour and a half, some of the rest began to lose their sen- 
 sibility ; and one Briscoe, another of Mr. Banks’s servants, 
 was so ill, that it was thought he must die before he could 
 be got to the fire. 
 
 At the fire, however, at length they arrived ; and passed 
 the night m a situation which, however dreadful in itself, 
 was rendered more afflicting by the remembrance of what 
 was past, and the uncertainty of what was to come. Of 
 twelve, the number that set out together in health and spirits, 
 two were supposed to be already dead ; a third was so ill, 
 that it was very doubtful whether he would be able to go 
 forward in the morning ; and a fourth, Mr. Buchan, was in 
 danger of a return of his fits, by fresh fatigue, after so un- 
 comfortable a night. They were distant from the ship a 
 long day’s journey, through pathless woods, in which it was 
 too probable they might be bewildered till they were over- 
 taken by the next night; and, not having prepared for a 
 journey of more than eight or ten hours, they were wholly 
 destitute of provisions, except a vulture, which they happened 
 to shoot while they were out, and which, if equally divided, 
 would not afford each of them half a meal ; and they knew 
 not how much more they might suffer from the cold, as the 
 snow still continued to fall, — a dreadful testimony of the 
 severity of the climate, as it was now the midst of summer 
 in this part of the world, the 21st of December being here 
 the longest day ; and everything might justly be dreaded 
 from a phenomenon which, in the corresponding season, is 
 unknown even in Norway and Lapland. 
 
 When the morning dawned, they saw nothing round them 
 
210 
 
 A SEA VOYAGE , AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 as far as the eye could reach, but snow, which seemed to lie 
 as thick upon the trees as upon the ground ; and the blasts 
 returned so frequently, and with such violence, that they 
 found it impossible for them to set out. How long this 
 might last they knew not, and they had but too much reason 
 to apprehend that it would confine them in that desolate 
 forest till they perished with hunger and cold. 
 
 After having suffered the misery and terror of this situa- 
 tion till six o’clock in the morning, they conceived some hope 
 of deliverance by discovering the place of the sun through 
 the clouds, which were become thinner, and began to break 
 away. Their first care was to see whether the poor wretches 
 whom they had been obliged to leave among the bushes were 
 3~et alive ; three of the company were dispatched for that 
 purpose, and very soon afterwards returned with the melan- 
 choly news that they were dead. 
 
 Notwithstanding the flattering appearance of the sky, 
 the snow still continued to fall so thick that they could not 
 venture out on their journey to the ship ; but about eight 
 o’clock a small regular breeze sprung up, which, with the 
 prevailing influence of the sun, at length cleared the air ; 
 and they soon after, with great joy, saw the snow fall in 
 large flakes from the trees, a certain sign of an approaching 
 thaw. They now examined more critically the state of their 
 invalids. Briscoe was still very ill, but said, that he thought 
 himself able to walk ; and Mr. Buchan was much better than 
 either he or his friends had any .reason to expect. They 
 were now, however, pressed by the calls of hunger, to which, 
 after long fasting, every consideration of future good or evil 
 immediately gives way. Before they set forward, therefore, 
 it was unanimously agreed that they should eat their vul- 
 ture ; the bird was accordingly skinned, and, it being thought 
 best to divide it before it was fit to be eaten, it was cut into 
 
A SEA VOYAGE \ AND AN ADVENTURE. 211 
 
 ten portions, and every man cooked his own as he thought 
 fit. After this repast, which furnished each of them with 
 about three mouthfuls, they prepared to set out ; but it 
 was ten o’clock before the snow was sufficiently gone off, to 
 render a march practicable. After a walk of about three 
 hours, they were agreeably surprised to find themselves upon 
 the beach, and much nearer to the ship than they had any 
 reason to expect. Upon reviewing their track from the 
 vessel, they perceived that, instead of ascending the hill in 
 a line, so as to penetrate into the country, they had made 
 almost a circle round it. When they came on board, they 
 congratulated each other upon their safety, with a joy that 
 no man can feel who has not been exposed to equal danger ; 
 and as I had suffered great anxiety at their not returning 
 in the evening of the day on which they set out, I was not 
 wholly without my share. 
 
 On the 1st of March, w T e were in latitude 38° 44 7 S. 
 and longitude 110° 33 7 W. Many birds, as 1 usual, were 
 constantly about the ship, so that Mr. Banks killed no less 
 than sixty-two in one day ; and what is more remarkable, 
 he caught two forest flies, both of them of the same species, 
 but different from any that have hitherto been described ; 
 these probably belonged to the birds, and came with them 
 from the land, which we judged to be at a great distance. 
 Mr. Banks, also, about this time, found a large cuttle-fish, 
 which had just been killed by the birds, floating in a man- 
 gled condition upon the water ; it is very different from the 
 cuttle-fishes that are found in the European seas ; for its 
 arms, instead of suckers, were furnished with a double row 
 of very sharp talons, which resemble those of a cat, and, 
 like them, were retractable into a sheath of skin, from which 
 they might be thrust at pleasure. Of this cuttle-fish wo 
 made one of the best soups we had ever tasted. 
 
212 A SEA VOYAGE ; AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 The albatrosses now began to leave us, and after the 8th 
 there was not one to be seen. We continued our course 
 without any memorable event till the 24th, when some of 
 the people who were upon the watch in the night reported 
 that they saw a log of wood pass by the ship ; and that the 
 sea, which was rather rough, became suddenly as smooth as 
 a mill-pond. It was a general opinion that there was land 
 to windward ; but I did not think myself at liberty to 
 search for what I was not sure to find ; though I judged we 
 were not far from the islands that were discovered by Qui- 
 ros in 1G06. Our latitude was 22° 1 1 7 S. and longitude 
 127° 55' W. 
 
 On the 25th, about noon, one of the marines, a young 
 fellow about twenty, was placed as sentry at the cabin door ; 
 while he was upon this duty, one of my servants was at the 
 same place preparing to cut a piece of seal-skin into tobacco- 
 pouches. He had promised one to several of the men, but 
 had refused one to this young fellow, though he had asked 
 him several times ; upon which he jocularly threatened to 
 steal one, if it should be in his power. It happened that 
 the servant, being called hastily away, gave the skin in 
 charge to the sentinel, without regarding what had passed 
 between them. The sentinel immediately secured a piece 
 of the skin, which the other missing at his return, grew 
 angry ; but, after some altercation, contented himself with 
 taking it away, declaring that, for so trifling an affair, he 
 would not complain of him to the officers. But it happened 
 that one of his fellow-soldiers, overhearing the dispute, came 
 to the knowledge of what had happened, and told it to the 
 rest ; who, taking it into their heads to stand up for the 
 honour of their corps, reproached the offender with great 
 bitterness, and reviled him in the most opprobrious terms ; 
 they exaggerated his offence into a crime of the deepest 
 
A SEA VOYAGE \ AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 21 
 
 dye ; they said it was a theft by a sentry when he was upon 
 duty, and of a thing that had been committed to his trust ; 
 they declared it a disgrace to associate with him ; and the 
 sergeant, in particular, said, that if the person from whom 
 the skin had been stolen would not complain, he would com- 
 plain himself ; for that his honour would suffer if the offender 
 was not punished. From the scoffs and reproaches of these 
 men of honour, the poor young fellow retired to his ham- 
 mock in an agony of confusion and shame. The sergeant 
 soon after went to him, and ordered him to follow him to 
 the deck. He obeyed without reply ; but it being in the 
 dusk of the evening, he slipped from the sergeant and went 
 forward. He was seen by some of the people, who thought 
 he was gone to the head ; but a search being made for him 
 afterwards, it was found that he had thrown himself over- 
 board ; and I was then first made acquainted with the theft 
 and its circumstances. The loss of this man was the more 
 regretted, as he was remarkably quiet and industrious.* 
 About one o’clock, on Monday the 10th of April, some 
 of the people who were looking out for the island to which 
 we were bound, said they saw land ahead, in that part of 
 the horizon where it was expected to appear ; but it was so 
 faint, that, whether there was land in sight or not, remained 
 a matter of dispute till sunset. The next morning, how- 
 ever, at six o’clock, we were convinced that those who said 
 they had discovered land were not mistaken ; it appeared 
 to be very high and mountainous, extending from W. by S. 
 ^ S. to W. by N. % N. ; and we knew it to be the same that 
 Captain Wallis had called King George the Third’s Island. 
 
 * This poor lad was probably one of the most conscientious persons 
 among the crew, and had been envied for his good conduct. But his quiet 
 may have been accompanied with reserve, an unpopular and indeed sus- 
 picious quality. 
 
214 
 
 A SEA VOYAGE, AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 Wc were delayed in our approach to it by light airs and 
 calms, so that in the morning of the 12th we were but little 
 nearer than we had been the night before ; but about seven 
 a breez^ sprung up, and before eleven several canoes were 
 seen making towards the ship. There w T cre but few of them, 
 however, that would come near ; and the people in those 
 that did, could not be persuaded to come on board. In 
 every canoe there were young plantains, and branches of a 
 tree which the Indians call E'Midho ; these, as we after- 
 wards learned, were brought as tokens of peace and amity ; 
 and the people in one of the canoes handed them up the 
 ship’s side, making signals at the same time with great 
 earnestness which we did not immediately understand ; at 
 length we guessed that they wished these symbols should 
 be placed in some conspicuous part of the ship ; we, there- 
 fore, immediately stuck them among the rigging, at which 
 they expressed the greatest satisfaction. We then pur- 
 chased their cargoes, consisting of cocoa-nuts, and various 
 kinds of fruit, which, after our long voyage, were very ac- 
 ceptable. 
 
 We stood on with an easy sail all night, with soundings 
 from twenty-two fathoms to twelve ; and about seven o’clock 
 in the morning we came to an anchor in thirteen fathoms in 
 Port Royal Bay-, called by the natives Matavai. We were 
 immediately surrounded by the natives in their canoes, who 
 gave us cocoa-nuts, fruit resembling apples, bread-fruit, and 
 some small fishes, in exchange for beads and other trifles. 
 They had with them a pig, which they would not part with 
 for anything but a hatchet, and therefore we refused to pur- 
 chase it ; because, if we gave them a hatchet for a pig now, 
 we knew they would never afterwards sell one for less, and 
 we could not afford to buy as many as it was probable we 
 should want at that price. The bread-fruit grows on a tree 
 
A SEA VOYAGE \ AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 2 15 
 
 that is about the size of a middling oak : its leaves are fre- 
 quently a foot and a half long, of an oblong shape, deeply 
 sinuated like those of the fig-tree, which they resemble in 
 consistence and colour, and in the exuding of a white milky 
 juice upon being broken. The fruit is about the size and 
 shape of a child’s head, and the surface is reticulated not 
 much unlike a truffle ; it is covered with a thin skin, and 
 has a core about as big as the handle of a small knife ; the 
 eatable part lies between the skin and the core ; it is as 
 white as snow, and somewhat of the consistence of new 
 bread. It must be roasted before it is eaten, being first 
 divided into three or four parts. Its taste is insipid, with 
 a slight sweetness somewhat resembling that of the crumb 
 of wheaten bread mixed with a Jerusalem artichoke. 
 
 Among others who came off to the ship was an elderly 
 man, whose name, as we learned afterwards, was Owliaw , 
 and who was immediately known to Mr. Gore and several 
 others who had been here with Captain Wallis. As I was 
 informed that he had been very useful to them, I took him 
 on board the ship with some others, and was particularly 
 attentive to gratify him, as I hoped he might also be useful 
 to us. 
 
 As soon as the ship was properly secured, I went on 
 shore with Mr. Banks, and Dr. Solander, a party of men 
 under arms, and our friend Owhaw. We were received 
 from the boat by some hundreds of the inhabitants, whose 
 looks at least gave us welcome, though they were struck 
 with such awe, that the first who approached us crouched so 
 low that he almost crept upon his hands and knees. It is 
 remarkable, that he, like the people in the' canoes, present- 
 ed to us the same symbol of peace that is known to have 
 been in use among the ancient and mighty nations of the 
 northern hemisphere — the green branch of a tree. We re 
 
216 ^ SEA VOYAGE . AND AN ADVENTURE. 
 
 ceived it with looks and gestures of kindness and satisfac 
 tion ; and observing that each of them held one in his hand, 
 we immediately gathered every one a bough, and carried it 
 in our hands in the same manner. 
 
 They marched with us about half a mile towards the 
 place where the Dolphin had watered, conducted by Owhaw ; 
 then they made a full stop, and having laid the ground 
 bare, by clearing away all the plants that grew upon it, the 
 principal persons among them threw their green branches 
 upon the naked spot, and made signs that we should do the 
 same. We immediately showed our readiness to comply, 
 and to give a greater solemnity to the rite, the marines 
 were drawn up, and marching in order, each dropped his 
 bough upon those of the Indians, and we followed their ex- 
 ample. We then proceeded, and when we came to the 
 watering-place it was intimated to us by signs, that we 
 might occupy that ground, but it happened not to be fit for 
 our purpose. During our walk they had shaken off their 
 first timid sense of our superiority, and were become familiar; 
 they went with us from the watering-place, and took a cir- 
 cuit through the woods. As we went along, we distributed 
 beads and other small presents among them, and had the 
 satisfaction to see that they were much gratified. Our 
 circuit was not less than four or five miles, through groves 
 of trees, which were loaded with cocoa-nuts and bread-fruit, 
 and afforded the most grateful shade. Under these trees 
 were the habitations of the people, most of them being only 
 a roof without walls, and the whole scene realized the poet- 
 ical fables of Arcadia. 
 
IksitiBSS, SJnokft nnir Smtromrnt. 
 
 It is a common tiling for men of business to say that they are 
 “fond of books, but have no time for reading.” In some instances 
 this may really be the case ; but, for the most part, they had better 
 acknowledge that they care little for what they can find no time to do. 
 In these, as in most other circumstances, “ where there is a will there 
 is a way and it is the design of the following extracts from the life 
 of William Hutton to show it. They may be of service both to em- 
 ployers and the employed. The best workman is he who can do his 
 work with cheerfulness; he is the man whose nature is the best and 
 completes^ who has his faculties most about him, and in the most 
 fitting abundance ; and the way to turn our faculties to the best ac- 
 count, is to give them fair play — to see that the senses of the mind (if 
 we may so call them) have as much reasonable fruition as those that 
 contribute to the nourishment and refreshment of the body. Hutton 
 of Birmingham (as he is familiarly called) combined, in a remarkable 
 manner, prudence with enterprise, industry with amusement, and the 
 love of books with devotion to business, and all because he was a tho- 
 rough human being of his class, probably from causes anterior to his 
 birth. Hot that his father was a person of any very edifying descrip- 
 tion. His son gives the following amusing account of him : — “ Though 
 my father was neither young, being forty-two, nor handsome, having 
 lost an eye, nor sober, for he spent all he could get in liquor, nor clean, 
 for his trade was oily, nor without shackles, for he had five children, 
 yet women of various descriptions courted his smiles, and were much 
 inclined to pull caps for him.” But this squalid Lothario probably sup- 
 plied him with wit and address, and his mother with thought and a 
 good constitution. 
 
 10 
 
218 PASSAGES FROM AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF HUTTON. 
 
 William Ilutton was the son of a poor wool-worker, lie was 
 brought up as a poor weaver, had not a penny in the world, became a 
 bookbinder under the poorest auspices, and ended with being a rich 
 man, and living in wealth and honour to the age of ninety-two. The 
 passages selected are from a life of him written by himself, and in the 
 original are accompanied with a great deal of additional matter, all 
 worth reading, and in the course of which lie gives an account of the 
 rise and progress of his courtship of Mrs. Hutton, here only intimated. 
 He was one of the sufferers from the Riots of Birmingham (which he 
 has recorded), and author of amusing Histories of that town and of 
 Derby. The Robert Bage whom he mentions as his friend and bene- 
 factor, and who was another man of his sort, though in every respect 
 of a higher class, is better known by liis writings than his name, being 
 no other than the author of Hcrmsprong , Man as he 1% and other novels 
 well known to the readers of circulating libraries, and admired by Wal- 
 ter Scott. Two such men of business as Ilutton and Robert Bage have 
 seldom come together, at least not in the eyes of the world ; and as they 
 came in the shapes of bookseller and paper-maker, we have special 
 pleasure in thus bringing them before the reader. 
 
 PASSAGES EPvOM TIIE AUTOBIOGFvAPIIY OF WILLIAM IIUTTON. 
 
 1741. TT 7 HAT the mind is bent upon obtaining, the 
 » V hand seldom fails in accomplishing. I de- 
 tested the frame, as totally unsuitable to my temper 5 there- 
 fore I produeed no more profit than necessity demanded. 
 I made shift, however, with a little overwork and a little 
 credit, to raise a genteel suit of clothes, fully adequate to 
 the sphere in which I moved. The girls eyed me with 
 some attention ; nay I eyed myself as much as any of 
 them 
 
 1743. At Whitsuntide I went to see my father, and 
 was favourably received by my acquaintance. One of them 
 played upon the bell-harp. I was charmed with the sound, 
 and agreed for the price, when I could raise the sum, half- 
 
 a-crown. 
 

 PASS A GPS FROM A U TO BIO GRAPHY OF HUTTON. 2 1 9 
 
 At Michaelmas I went to Derby, to pay for and bring 
 back my bell-harp, whose sound I thought seraphic. This 
 opened a scene of pleasure w T hich continued many years. 
 Music was my daily study and delight. But, perhaps, I 
 laboured under greater difficulties than any one had done 
 before me. I could not afford an instructor. I had no 
 books, nor could I borrow, or buy ; neither had I a friend 
 to give me the least hint, or put my instrument in tune. 
 
 Thus I was in the situation of a first inventor, left to 
 grope in the dark to find something. I had first my ear to 
 bring into tune, before I could tune the instrument ; for the 
 ear is the foundation of all music. That is the best tune 
 which best pleases the ear, and he keeps the best time who 
 draws the most music from his tune. 
 
 For six months did I use every effort to bring a tune 
 out of an instrument which was so dreadfully out, it had no 
 tune in it. Assiduity never forsook me. I was encouraged 
 by a couplet I had seen in Dyee’s Spelling-book : 
 
 “ Despair of nothing that you would attain. 
 
 Unwearied diligence your point will gain !” 
 
 When I was able to lay a foundation, the improvement 
 and the pleasure were progressive. Wishing to rise, I 
 borrowed a dulcimer, made one by it, then learned to play 
 upon it. But in the fabrication of this instrument, I had 
 neither timber to work upon, tools to work with, nor money 
 to purchase either. It is said “ necessity is the mother of 
 invention.” I pulled a large trunk to pieces, one of the 
 relics of my family but formerly the property of Thomas 
 Parker, the first Earl of Macclesfield. And as to tools, I con- 
 sidered that the hammer-key and the plyers belonging to 
 the stocking-frame, would supply the place of hammer and 
 pincers. My pocket knife was all the edge-tools I could 
 
220 PASSA GES FROM A UTOBIOGRAPIIY OF HUTTON. 
 
 raise ; a fork, with one limb, was made to act in the double 
 capacity of spring-awl and gimlet. 
 
 I quickly was master of this piece of music ; for if a 
 man can play upon one instrument he can soon learn upon 
 any. 
 
 A young man, apprentice to a baker, happening to see 
 the dulcimer, asked if I could perform upon it. Struck 
 with the sound, and with seeing me play with what he 
 thought great ease, he asked if I would part with the in- 
 strument, and at what price ? I answered in the affirmative, 
 and, for sixteen shillings. He gave it. I told him, u If he 
 wanted advice, or his instrument wanted tuning, I would 
 assist him.” u Oh no, there’s not a doubt but I shall do.” 
 I bought a coat with the money, and constructed a better 
 instrument. ........ 
 
 1746. An inclination for books began to expand; but 
 here, as in music and dress, money was wanting. The first 
 article of purchase was three volumes of the Gentleman’s 
 Magazine, 174*2, 3, and 4. As I could not afford to pay for 
 binding, I fastened them together in a most cobbled style. 
 These afforded me a treat. 
 
 I could only raise books of small value, and these in 
 worn-out bindings. I learned to patch, procured paste, 
 varnish, &c., and brought them into tolerable order ; erect- 
 ed shelves, and arranged them in the best manner I was 
 able. 
 
 If I purchased shabby books, it is no wonder that I 
 dealt with a shabby bookseller who kept his working appa- 
 ratus in his shop. It is no wonder, too, if by repeated 
 visits I became acquainted with this shabby bookseller, and 
 often saw him at work ; but it is a wonder and a fact, that 
 I never saw him perform one act but I could perform it 
 myself ; so strong was the desire to attain the art. 
 
PASS A GES FROM A UTOBIOGRAPHY OF BUTTON. 22 1 
 
 I made no secret of my progress, and the bookseller 
 rather encouraged me, and for two reasons: I bought such 
 rubbish as nobody else would ; and he had often an oppor- 
 tunity of selling me a cast-off tool for a shilling, not worth 
 a penny. As I was below every degree of opposition, a rival- 
 ship was out of the question. 
 
 The first book I bound was a very small one, Shak- 
 speare’s Venus and Adonis. I showed it to the bookseller. 
 He seemed surprised. I could see jealousy in his eye. 
 However, he recovered in a moment. He had no doubt 
 but I should break. 
 
 He offered me a worn-down press for two shillings, 
 which no man could use, and which was laid by for the fire. 
 I considered the nature of its construction, bought it, and 
 paid the two shillings. I then asked him to favour me with 
 a hammer and a pin, which he brought with half a conquer- 
 ing smile, and half a sneer. A drove out the garter-pin, 
 which, being galled, prevented the press from working, and 
 turned another square, which perfectly cured the press. He 
 said in anger, “ If I had known, you should not have had 
 it.” However, I could see he consoled himself with the 
 idea that all must return in the end. This proved for forty- 
 two years my best binding press. 
 
 I now purchased a tolerably genteel suit of clothes, and 
 was so careful of them, lest I should not be able to procure 
 another, that they continued my best for five years. 
 
 The stocking-frame being my own, and trade being dead, 
 the hosiers would not employ me ; they could scarcely em- 
 ploy their own frames. I was advised to try Leicester, and 
 took with me half-a-dozen pair of stockings to sell. I visited 
 several warehouses ; but, alas ! all proved blank. They 
 would neither employ me, nor give for my goods anything 
 near prime cost. As I stood like a culprit before a gentle- 
 
222 PASSAGES FROM AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF HUTTON. 
 
 man of the name of Bennet, I was so affected, that I burst 
 into tears, to think that I should have served seven years 
 to a trade at which I could not get bread. 
 
 My sister took a house, and to soften the rent, my 
 brother and I lodged with her. 
 
 1747. It had been the pride of my life, ever since pride 
 commenced, to wear a watch. I bought a silver one for 
 thirty-five shillings. It went ill. I kept it for four years, 
 then gave that and a guinea for another, which went as ill. 
 I afterwards exchanged this for a brass one, which going no 
 better, I sold it for five shillings ; and to complete the 
 watch farce, I gave the five shillings away, and went with- 
 out a watch thirty years. 
 
 I had promised to visit my father on Whitsun eve, at 
 Derby. Business detained me till it was eleven at night 
 before I arrived. Expectation had for some time been on 
 the stretch, and was now giving way. My father being 
 elevated with liquor, and by my arrival, rose in ecstasy, 
 and gave me the first kiss, and, I believe, the last he ever 
 gave me. 
 
 This year I began to dip into rhyme. The stream was 
 pleasant, though I doubt whether it flowed from Helicon. 
 Many little pieces were the produce of my pen, which, per- 
 haps, pleased ; however, they gave no offence, for they slept 
 on my shelf till the rioters burnt them in 1791. 
 
 1748. Every soul who knew me scoffed at the idea of 
 my book-binding, except my sister, who encouraged and 
 aided me ; otherwise I must have sunk under it. I con- 
 sidered that I was naturally of a frugal temper ; that I 
 could watch every penny, live upon a little ; that I hated 
 stocking-making, but not book-binding ; that if I continued 
 at the frame, I was certain to be poor ; and if I ventured 
 to leave it, I could not be so. My only fear was lest I 
 
PASSAGES PROM AUTOBIOGRAPHY OF HUTTON. 223 
 
 should draw in my friends ; for I had nothing of my 
 own. 
 
 I had frequently heard that every man had, some time 
 or other in his life, an opportunity of rising. As this was 
 a received opinion, I would not contradict it. I had, how- 
 ever, watched many years for the high tide of my affairs, 
 but thought it never yet had reached me. 
 
 I still pursued the two trades. Hurt to see my three 
 volumes of magazines in so degraded a state, I took them 
 to pieces, and clothed them in a superior dress. 
 
 1749. It was now time to look out for a future place of 
 residence. A large town must be the mark, or there would 
 be no room for exertion. London was thought of, between 
 my sister and me, for I had no soul else to consult. This 
 was rejected for two reasons. I could not venture into such 
 a place without a capital, and my work was not likely to 
 pass among a crowd of judges. . 
 
 My plan was to fix upon some market town, within a 
 stage of Nottingham, and open shop there on the market 
 day, till I should be better prepared to begin the world 
 at Birmingham. 
 
 I fixed upon Southwell, as the first step of elevation. 
 It was fourteen miles distant, and the town as despicable 
 as the road to it. I went over at Michaelmas, took a shop 
 at the rate of twenty shillings a-year, sent a few boards for 
 shelves, a few tools, and about two hundredweight of trash , 
 which might be dignified with the name of books , and worth, 
 perhaps, a year’s rent of my shop. I was my own joiner, 
 put up the shelves and their furniture, and in one day be- 
 came the most eminent bookseller in the place. 
 
 During this rainy winter, I set out at five every Satur- 
 day morning, carried a burden of from three pounds weight 
 to thirty, opened shop at ten, starved in it all day upon 
 
224 PASS A GES FROM A UTOBIOGRA VllY OF HUTTON. 
 
 bread, cheese, and half a pint of ale, took from one to six 
 shillings, shut up at four, and by trudging through the 
 solitary night and the deep roads five hours more, I ar- 
 rived at Nottingham by nine ; where I always found a mess 
 of milk porridge by the fire, prepared by my valuable sister. 
 
 Nothing short of a surprising resolution and rigid eco- 
 nomy could have carried me through this scene. 
 
 1750. Returning to Nottingham, I gave warning to quit 
 at Southwell, and prepared for a total change of life. 
 
 On the 10th of April, I entered Birmingham, for the 
 third time, to try if I could be accommodated with a 
 small shop. If I could procure any situation, I should be 
 in the way of procuring a better. On the 1 1 th I travelled 
 the streets of Birmingham, agreed with Mrs. Dix for the 
 lesser half of her shop, No. 6 in Bull Street, at one shilling 
 a-week ; and slept at Lichfield in my way back to Not- 
 tingham. 
 
 On May 13th, Mr. Rudsdall, a dissenting minister of 
 Gainsborough, with whom my sister had lived as a servant, 
 travelling from Nottingham to Stamford, requested my 
 company, and offered to pay my expenses, and give me 
 eighteenpence a day for my time. The afternoon was wet 
 in the extreme. He asked why I did not bring my great- 
 coat? Shame forbade an answer, or I could have said I 
 had none. The water completely soaked through my clothes, 
 but not being able to penetrate the skin, it filled my boots. 
 Arriving at the inn, every traveller, I found, was wet; and 
 every one produced a change of apparel but me. I was 
 left out because the house could produce no more. I was 
 obliged to sit the whole evening in my drenched garments, 
 and to put them on nearly as wet on my return the next 
 morning! What could I expect but destruction ? Fortu- 
 nately I sustained no injury. 
 
PASSAGES FROM A UTO BIOGRAPHY OF HUTTON. 225 
 
 It happened that Mr. Rudsdall, now declined house- 
 keeping, his wife being dead. He told my sister that he 
 should part with the refuse of his library, and would sell it 
 to me. She replied, u He has no money.” ci We will not 
 differ about that. Let him come to Gainsborough ; he shall 
 have the books at his own price.” I walked to Gainsborough 
 on the 15tli of May, stayed there the 16th, and came back 
 on the 17th. 
 
 The books were about two hundred pounds’ weight. Mr. 
 Rudsdall gave me his corn chest for their deposit ; and for 
 payment, drew the following note, which I signed : — 
 
 u I promise to pay to Ambrose Rudsdall, one pound 
 seven shillings, when I am able.” Mr. Rudsdall observed, 
 “ You never need pay this note if you only say you are not 
 able.” The books made a better show, and were more val- 
 uable than all I possessed beside. 
 
 I had now a most severe trial to undergo ; parting with 
 my friends, and residing wholly among strangers. May 
 23rd, I left Nottingham, and I arrived at Birmingham on 
 the 25th. Having little to do but look into the street, it 
 seemed singular to see thousands of faces pass, and not one 
 that I knew. I had entered a new world, in which I led 
 a melancholy life, a life of silence and tears. Though a 
 young man, and of rather a cheerful turn, it was remarked 
 “ that I was never seen to smile.” 
 
 The rude family into which I was cast added to the 
 load of melancholy. 
 
 My brother came to see me about six weeks after my 
 arrival, to whom I observed, that the trade had fully sup- 
 ported me. Five shillings a-week covered every expense; 
 as food, rent, washing, lodging, &c. Thus a solitary year 
 rolled round, when a few young men of elevated character 
 and sense took notice of me. I had saved about twenty 
 10 * 
 
226 PASSAGES FROM A UT0BI0GRAPJ1Y OF HUTTON. 
 
 pounds, and was become more reconciled to my situation. 
 The first who took a fancy to me was Samuel Salte, a mer-' 
 cer’s apprentice, who five years after, resided in London, 
 where he acquired £100,000. He died in 1797. Our inti- 
 macy lasted his life. 
 
 In this first opening of prosperity, an unfortunate cir- 
 cumstance occurred which gave me great uneasiness, as it 
 threatened totally to eclipse the small prospect before me. 
 The overseers, fearful I should become chargeable to the 
 parish, examined me with regard to my settlement ; and, 
 with the voice of authority, ordered me to procure a certifi- 
 cate, or they would remove me. Terrified, I wrote to my 
 father, who returned for answer, u That All Saints, in Derby, 
 never granted certificates.” 
 
 I was hunted by ill-nature two years. I repeatedly of. 
 fered to pay the levies, which was refused. A succeeding 
 overseer, a draper, of whom I had purchased two suits of 
 clothes, value £10, consented to take them. The scruple 
 exhibited a short sight, a narrow principle, and the exulta- 
 tions of power over the defenceless. 
 
 Among others who wished to serve me, I had two friends, 
 Mr. Dowler, a surgeon, who resided opposite me, and Mr. 
 Grace, a hosier at the Gateway, in the High-street. Great 
 consequences often arise from small things. The house ad- 
 joining that of Mr. Grace’s, was to be let. My friends both 
 urged me to take it. I was frightened at the rent, eight 
 pounds. However, one drew, and the other pushed, till 
 they placed me there. A small house is too large for a man 
 without furniture, and a small rent may be too large for an 
 income which has nothing certain in it but the smallness 
 Having felt the extreme of poverty, I dreaded nothing so 
 much ; but I believed I had seized the tide, and I was un- 
 willing to stop. 
 
PASSAGES FROM A UTOBIOGRAPUY OF HUTTON, 227 
 
 Here I pursued business in a more elevated style, and 
 with more success. 
 
 No event in a man’s life is more consequential than mar- 
 riage ; nor is any more uncertain. Upon this die his sum 
 of happiness depends. Pleasing views arise, which vanish 
 as the cloud ; because, like that, they have no foundation. 
 Circumstances change, and tempers with them. Let a 
 man’s prior judgment be ever so sound, he cannot foresee a 
 change ; therefore he is liable to deception. I was de- 
 ceived myself, but, thanks to my kind fate, it was on the 
 right side. I found in my wife more than I ever expected 
 to find in woman. Just in proportion as I loved her, I 
 must regret her loss. If my father, with whom I onty lived 
 fourteen years, who loved me less, and has been gone forty, 
 never is a day out of my thoughts, what must be my thoughts 
 towards her, who loved me as herself, and with whom I 
 resided an age ! 
 
 1756. — My dear wife brought me a little daughter, who 
 has been the pleasure of my life to this day. We had now 
 a delightful plaything for both. 
 
 Robert Bage, an old and intimate friend, and a paper- 
 maker, took me to his inn, where we spent the evening. 
 He proposed that I should sell paper for him, which I 
 might either buy on my own account, or sell on his by 
 commission. As I could spare one or two hundred pounds, 
 I chose to purchase ; therefore appropriated a room for the 
 reception of goods, and hung out a sign — The Paper Ware- 
 house. From this small hint I followed the stroke forty 
 years, and acquired an ample fortune. 
 
 1763. — We took several pleasurable journeys; among 
 others, one at Aston, and in a superior style to what we had 
 done before. This is the peculiar privilege of us Birming- 
 
228 PASSAGES FROM A U TO BIO GRA PH Y OF HUTTON. 
 
 ham men : if ever wc acquire live pounds extraordinary, w. 
 take care to show it. 
 
 1764. — Every man has his hobby-horse and it is no dis- 
 grace prudently to ride him. He is the prudent man who 
 can introduce cheap pleasures without impeding business. 
 
 About ten of us, intimate friends, amused ourselves 
 with playing at tennis. Entertained with the diversion, 
 we erected a tennis-court and met on fine evenings for amuse- 
 ment, without expense. I was constituted steward of our 
 little fraternity. 
 
 My family continued their journeys, and were in a pros- 
 perous state. 
 
 THE END. 
 
CONTENTS OF THE SECOND SERIES. 
 
 Against Inconsistency in our Expectations . Mrs. Barbauld. 7 
 The Enchantments of the Wizard Indolence, and Exploits of 
 the Knight Sir Industry. From the “ Castle of Indolence” 
 
 Thomson . 14 
 
 Stories, now first collected, from the “ Tatler,” “ Spectator,” 
 
 and “ Guardian” Sir Richard Steele . 39 
 
 Valentine and Unnion 42 
 
 The Fire 43 
 
 The Wedding Day . . . 46 
 
 The Shipwreck 48 
 
 The Alchemists 50 
 
 The Violent Husband 54 
 
 Inkle and Yarico 55 
 
 The Fits 58 
 
 Clubs of Steele and Goldsmith 61 
 
 The Spectator’s Club Steele. 65 
 
 The Club of the Tatler “ 71 
 
 Clubs — Choice Spirits — Muzzy Club — Harmonical So- 
 ciety Goldsmith. 77 
 
 Count Fathom’s Adventure in the Lone Cottage . Smollett. 84 
 
 The Hermit Parnell. 93 
 
 Peter Pounce’s Dialogue with Parson Adams. From “Joseph 
 
 Andrews” Fielding. 104 
 
 Verses Written at an Inn at Henley Shenstone. Ill 
 
 Five Letters Gray. 115 
 
 To Horace Walpole — A Fox-hunter — A Poet’s Solitude 
 
 — Southern the Dramatist 116 
 
 To Richard West — B ad Spirits — Recollections of Hus- 
 bands and Statesmen at School 118 
 
VI 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 To the Reverend Norton Nicholls — Banter of Formal 
 Excuses and Fine Exordiums — Southampton — An 
 
 Abbot — Sunrise 
 
 To the Same — A Mother — Scenery of Kent . . . 
 
 To the Same — Having a Garden of One’s Own — Shen- 
 stone — Second Banter of Formal Apologies . . . . 
 Advantages of Cultivating a Taste for Pictures Jon . Richardson. 
 Ode on a Distant Prospect of Eton College .... Gray. 
 
 A Long Story « 
 
 Sir Roger de Coverley. From the “ Spectator” . . Addison. 
 
 Sir Roger’s Household Establishment 
 
 His Behavior in Church on a Sunday 
 
 Sir Roger and the Gipsies 
 
 His Visit to the Tombs in Westminster Abbey . . . 
 
 Manners of the French Colonel Pinckney. 
 
 A House and Grounds 
 
 Thoughts on a Garden. From a Letter to Evelyn. Cowley. 
 Thoughts on Retirement. From one of his Letters 
 
 Sir W. Temple. 
 
 Old English Garden of the Seventeenth Century “ 
 
 Petition for an Absolute Retreat . . Lady Winchilsea. 
 An Old Country House and an Old Lady. From the 
 “ Lounger” Mackenzie. 
 
 Love of the Country in the Decline of Life. From the 
 
 same 
 
 Two Sonnets, and an Inscription on a Spring. Thomas Warton. 
 
 Inscription over a Calm and Clear Spring 
 
 Written in a Blank Leaf of Dugdale’s “Monasticon” . . 
 
 Written after seeing Wilton House 
 
 Descriptions of Night. From the Notes to Ossian . Macpherson. 
 Retirement and Death of a Statesman. From “ Memoirs of The 
 
 Right Honorable Charles James Fox” Trotter. 
 
 Elegy in a Country Churchyard Gray. 
 
 page 
 
 , 119 
 
 121 
 
 123 
 
 126 
 
 136 
 
 140 
 
 148 
 
 148 
 
 152 
 
 155 
 
 159 
 
 164 
 
 173 
 
 178 
 
 183 
 
 185 
 
 188 
 
 192 
 
 198 
 
 204 
 
 205 
 
 205 
 
 205 
 
 207 
 
 214 
 
 222 
 
Slgainst Snniusistcnnj iu nur #xpBrtntinns. 
 
 FROM AN ESSAY BY MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Better writing or reasoning than the following it would not be 
 easy to find. There are some additional remarks in the original, 
 which, though not without merit, w$ cannot help thinking by an in- 
 ferior hand, and have, therefore, omitted. Every sentence here set 
 down is admirable ; nor is there anything, however vigorous in the 
 tone, which a noble-minded woman might not utter, without commit- 
 ting the delicacy of her sex. All is conformable to kindness as well 
 as zeal, and to the beauty of right thinking. 
 
 In reading this excellent piece of advice one feels astonished to 
 think how so many could have stood in need of it, ourselves perhaps 
 among the number. But so it is. We feel it to have been necessary, 
 while we are surprised at its having been so ; and we become anxious 
 that all the world should be acquainted with it. The good it is cal- 
 culated to do is evident, and of the greatest importance. We have 
 heard of reflecting men who are proud to acknowledge their obliga- 
 tions to it ; who say it has influenced the greater part of their lives ; 
 and we know of others who have spoken of it with admiration ; Mr. 
 Hazlitt for one. 
 
 At the same time, good as the spirit of the admonition is for every- 
 body, the line drawn between the seekers of wealth and the cultiva- 
 tors of wisdom appears to us to be a little too strong ; or at least to 
 have become so in our days, whatever the case may have been in 
 those in which it was written. The recognition of the beauty and 
 
8 
 
 AGAINST INCONSISTENCY 
 
 even the utility of mental accomplishments has latterly been keeping 
 better pace with commercial industry ; men in trade have influenced 
 the opinions of the world on the most unexpected and important 
 points, by means of their share of them ; and in the passages ex- 
 tracted from the biography of Hutton, the reader has seen an account 
 of a man who, in Mrs. Barbauld’s own time, rose to wealth from the 
 humblest beginnings, and whose career was accompanied, neverthe- 
 less, by a love of books and by liberal feelings, by the regard and 
 assistance of men of genius, and by the warmest affections of his 
 family. The instance of his distinguished friend Bage, the novelist 
 and paper-maker, is still more striking on the side of independence. 
 But we have noticed them both more at large in the place referred 
 to, as well as the exceptions to sordid rules that have occurred in all 
 ages and nations. Still the essay remains necessary to many, useful 
 and a good caution to all. 
 
 Our gratitude must not forget, that the chief honor of the admoni- 
 tion remains with the good old Stoic philosopher, the following pas- 
 sage out of whose writings Mrs. Barbauld made the text of her 
 sermon : — 
 
 “ What is more reasonable than that they who take pains for anything, should 
 get most in that particular for which they take pains ? They have taken pains for 
 power, you for right principles ; they for riches, you for a proper use of the appear- 
 ance of things. See whether they have the advantage of you in that for which you 
 have taken pains, and which they neglect. If they are in power, and you not, why 
 will not you speak the truth to yourself, that you do nothing for the sake of power, 
 but that they do everything? No; but since I take care to have right principles, 
 it is more reasonable that I should have power. Yes, in respect to what you take 
 care about, your principles ; but give up to others the things in which they have 
 taken more care than you; else it is just as if, because you have right principles, 
 you should think it fit that when you shoot an arrow you should hit the mark better 
 than an archer, or that you should forge better than a smith.” — Carter’s Epictetus. 
 
 A S most of the unhappiness in the world arises rather from 
 disappointed desires than from positive evil, it is of the 
 utmost consequence to attain just notions of the laws and 
 order of the universe, that we may not vex ourselves with 
 fruitless wishes, or give way to groundless and unreasonable 
 discontent. The laws of natural philosophy, indeed, are 
 tolerably understood and attended to j and, though we may 
 
IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 9 
 
 suffer inconveniences, we are seldom disappointed in con- 
 sequence of them. No man expects to preserve oranges 
 through an English winter ; or when he has planted an 
 acorn, to see it become a large oak in a few months. The 
 mind of man naturally yields to necessity, and our wishes 
 soon subside when we see the impossibility of their being 
 gratified. Now, upon an accurate inspection, we shall find 
 in the moral government of the world, and the order of the 
 intellectual system, laws as determinate, fixed, and invariable 
 as any in Newton’s Principia. The progress of vegetation 
 is not more certain than the growth of habit ; nor is the 
 power of attraction more clearly proved, than the force of 
 affection, or the influence of example. The man, therefore, 
 who has well studied the operations of nature in mind as 
 well as matter, will acquire a certain moderation and equity 
 in his claims upon Providence ; he will never be disappointed 
 either in himself or others ; he "will act with precision, and 
 expect that effect, and that alone, from his efforts, which 
 they are naturally adapted to produce. For want of this, 
 men of merit and integrity often censure the dispositions of 
 Providence for suffering the characters they despise to run 
 away with advantages which, they yet know, are purchased 
 by such means as a high and noble spirit could never submit 
 to. If you refuse to pay the price, why expect the purchase ? 
 We should consider this world as a great mart of commerce, 
 where Fortune exposes to our view various commodities, — • 
 riches, ease, tranquillity, fame, integrity, knowledge. Every- 
 thing is marked at a settled price. Our time, our labor, 
 our ingenuity, is so much ready money we are to lay out to 
 the best advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject, but 
 stand to your own judgment, and do not, like children, when 
 you have purchased one thing, repine that jou do not possess 
 another which you did not purchase. Such is the force of 
 
 1 * 
 
10 
 
 AGAINST INCONSISTENCY 
 
 well-regulated industry, that a steady and vigorous exertion 
 of our faculties, directed to one end, will generally insure 
 success. Would you, for instance, be rich? Do you think 
 that single point worth sacrificing everything else to? You 
 may then be rich. Thousands have become so from the 
 lowest beginnings, by toil and patient diligence, and atten- 
 tion to the minutest articles of expense and profit ; but you 
 must give up the pleasures of leisure, of a vacant mind, of a 
 free, unsuspicious temper. If you preserve your integrity, 
 it must be a coarse-spun and vulgar honesty. Those high 
 and lofty notions of morals which you brought with you from 
 schools must be considerably lowered, and mixed with a 
 baser alloy of a jealous and worldly-minded prudence. You 
 must learn to do hard, if not unjust things ; and as for the 
 nice embarrassments of a delicate and ingenuous spirit, it is 
 necessary for you to get rid of them as fast as possible. You 
 must shut your heart against the Muses, and be content to 
 feed your understanding with plain household truths. In 
 short, you must not attempt to enlarge your ideas, or polish 
 your taste, or refine your sentiments ; but keep on in one 
 beaten track, without turning aside either to the right or to 
 the left. “ But I cannot submit to drudgery like this — I feel 
 a spirit above it.” ’Tis well : be above it then ; only do not 
 repine that you are not rich. 
 
 Is knowledge the pearl of price ? That, too, may be pur- 
 chased by steady application and long solitary hours of study 
 and reflection. Bestow these, and you shall be wise. <£ But,” 
 says the man of letters, u what a hardship is it, that many an 
 illiterate fellow, who cannot construe the motto of the arms 
 on his coach, shall raise a fortune and make a figure, while I 
 have little more than the common conveniences of life.” Et 
 tibi magna satis ! — Was it in order to raise a fortune that 
 you consumed the sprightly hours of youth in study and re- 
 
IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 
 
 11 
 
 ,irement? Was it to be rich that you grew pale over the 
 midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness from the Greek 
 and Roman spring? You have, then, mistaken your path, 
 and ill employed your industry. “ What reward have I then 
 for all my labors ?” What reward ! A large comprehen- 
 sive soul, well purged from vulgar fears, and perturbations, 
 and prejudices, able to comprehend and interpret the works of 
 man — of God; a rich, flourishing, cultivated mind, pregnant 
 with inexhaustible stores of entertainment and reflection ; a 
 perpetual spring of fresh ideas ; and the conscious dignity of 
 superior intelligence. Good heaven ! — and what reward can 
 you ask besides ? 
 
 “ But is it not some reproach upon the economy of Prov- 
 idence that such a one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, should 
 have amassed wealth enough to buy a nation ?” Not in the 
 least. He made himself a mean dirty fellow for that very 
 end. He has paid his health, his conscience, his liberty for 
 it ; and will you envy him his bargain ? Will you hang 
 your head and blush in his presence, because he outshines 
 you in equipage and show ? Lift up your brow with a noble 
 confidence, and say to yourself, “ I have not these things, it 
 is true ; but it is because I have not sought, because I have 
 not desired them. It is because I possess something better. 
 I have chosen my lot. I am content and satisfied.” 
 
 You are a modest man — you love quiet and independence, 
 and have a delicacy and reserve in your temper which ren- 
 ders it impossible for you to elbow your way in the world, 
 and be the herald of youi: own merits. Be content, then, 
 with a modest retirement, with the esteem of your intimate 
 friends, with the praises of a blameless heart, and a delicate 
 ingenuous spirit ; but resign the splendid distinctions of the 
 world to those who can better scramble for them. 
 
 The man whose tender sensibility of conscience, and strict 
 
12 
 
 AGAINST INCONSISTENCY 
 
 regard to the rules of morality, makes liim scrupulous and 
 fearful of offending, is often heard to complain of the disad- 
 vantages he lies under in every path of honor and profit. 
 “ Could I hut get over some nice points, and conform to the 
 practice and opinion of those about me, I might stand as fair 
 a chance as others for dignities and preferment.” And why 
 can you not? What hinders you from discarding this 
 troublesome scrupulosity of yours which stands so grievously 
 in your way ? If it be a small thing to enjoy a healthful 
 mind, sound at the very core, that does not shrink from the 
 keenest inspection, inward freedom from remorse and per- 
 turbation, unsullied whiteness and simplicity of manners, a 
 genuine integrity, u pure in the last recesses of the mind,” — 
 if you think these advantages an inadequate recompense for 
 what you resign, dismiss your scruples this instant, and be a 
 slave-merchant, a director, or — what you please. If these be 
 motives too weak, break off by times ; and as you have not 
 spirit to assert the dignity of virtue, be wise enough not to 
 forego the emoluments of vice. 
 
 I much admire the spirit of the ancient philosophers, in 
 that they never attempted, as our moralists often do, to lowei 
 the tone of philosophy, and make it consistent with all the in 
 dulgences of indolence and sensuality. They never though! 
 of having the bulk of mankind for their disciples, but kept 
 themselves as distinct as possible from a worldly life ; they 
 plainly told men what sacrifices were required, and what ad- 
 vantages they were which might be expected. 
 
 Si virtus hoc una potest dare, fortis omissis 
 
 Hoc age deliciis. 
 
 If you would be a philosopher, these are the terms. You 
 must do thus and thus. There is no other way. If not, go 
 and be one of the vulgar. 
 
IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 
 
 13 
 
 There is no one quality gives so much dignity to a char- 
 acter as consistency of conduct. Even if a man’s pursuits 
 be wrong and unjustifiable, yet if they are prosecuted with 
 steadiness and vigor, we cannot withhold our admiration. 
 The most characteristic mark of a great mind is to choose 
 some one important object and pursue it through life. It was 
 this made Caesar a great man. His object was ambition ; he 
 pursued it steadily, and was always ready to sacrifice to it 
 every interfering passion or inclination. 
 
 There is a pretty passage in one of Lucian’s dialogues, 
 where Jupiter complains to Cupid that though he has had so 
 many intrigues, he was never sincerely beloved. “In order 
 to be loved,” says Cupid, “ you must lay aside your aegis and 
 your thunderbolts, and you must curl your hair and place a 
 garland on your head, and walk with a soft step, and assume 
 a winning obsequious deportment.” “But,” replied Jupiter, 
 " I am not willing to resign so much of my dignity.” “ Then,” 
 returns Cupid, “ leave off desiring to be loved.” — He wanted 
 to be Jupiter and Adonis at the same time. 
 
€jjt tfnrjwntmtKtB nf tljB tBijaril MnlBntt, mill ^I'jiloits 
 nf 1{jb laiijjjjt |ir Suiustnj. 
 
 FROM THE t: CASTLE OF INDOLENCE,” BY THOMSON. 
 
 The sequestered mansion in which, either in reality or in imagi- 
 nation, we may be reading this poem, must not itself be a Castle of In- 
 dolence ; yet everybody delights occasionally in being indolent, or in 
 fancying that he shall have a right to be so some day or other. We 
 please ourselves with pictures of perfect rest, even when we can nei- 
 ther enjoy them, nor mean to do so. We would fain have the luxury 
 without the harm or the expense ; there is a corner in every one’s 
 mind in which we nestle to it; and hence the enjoyment of such 
 poems as this by Thomson, in which every delight of the kind is set 
 before us. The second part is not so good as the first. Thomson 
 found himself more inspired by the vice than by its consequences. 
 And we secretly feel as he and his fellow-idlers did, when Sir In- 
 dustry first interrupted them. We resent the termination of our pleas- 
 ures, and look upon the reforming knight as a dull and meddling 
 fellow. Why should he wake us from such a pleasant dream I On 
 reflection, however, we see that the fault is not his, but our own ; 
 that we should wake up in a far worse manner, if Sir Industry did not 
 rouse us. There is beautiful poetry in the second part, even exqui- 
 site indolent bits, or places at least in wdiicli we might be indolent; in 
 fine, we congratulate ourselves on our virtue, and begin, like the 
 knight, to abuse the old rascally wizard who had pretended to make 
 us his victims. We have retained the best passages in both parts, and 
 
ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE . 15 
 
 fhe best only ; not without linking them in such a manner as the 
 stanzas luckily enabled us to do, with no violation to a syllable, ex- 
 cept the occasional loss of connection with a rhyme. Alteration was 
 out of the question ; every word\etained is the poet’s, and no other 
 is admitted. 
 
 Thomson, who was once seen eating a peach off a tree with his 
 hands in his waistcoat pockets, was fourteen or fifteen years writing 
 the Castle of Indolence ; — a fitting period ! We are not to suppose he 
 did nothing between whiles. He was both very indolent and very in- 
 dustrious, for his mind was always at work on his enjoyments, as the 
 world has good reason to know in possessing his Seasons. And he 
 wrote tragedies besides, not so good, but full of humane and generous 
 sentiments, with passages worth picking out. He had the luck to be 
 made easy in his circumstances by men in power before it was too 
 late for him to enjoy what he made others enjoy ; so he lived at Rich- 
 mond, singing like one of the birds whom he so justly describes as 
 singing the better, the better they are fed ; that is to say, if the genius 
 of singing be in them ; for this implies the necessity of giving vent 
 to it. 
 
 “ What you observe concerning the* pursuit of poetry/’ says he, in 
 a letter to a friend, “ so far engaged in it as I am, is certainly just. 
 Besides, let him quit it who can, and ‘ erit mihi magnus Apollo/ or 
 something as great. A true genius, like light, must be beaming forth, 
 as a false one is an incurable disease. One would not, however, climb 
 Parnassus, any more than your mortal hills, to fix forever on the bar- 
 ren top. No ; it is some little dear retirement in the vale below that 
 gives the right relish to the prospect, which, without that, is nothing 
 but enchantment ; and though pleasing for some time, at last leaves 
 us in a desert. The great fat doctor of Bath* told me that poets 
 should be kept poor, the more to animate their genius. This is like 
 the cruel custom of putting a bird’s eye out that it may sing the 
 sweeter ; but, surely, they sing sweetest amid the luxuriant woods, 
 while the full spring blossoms around them.” 
 
 Beautifully said is this, and well reasoned too. It is a final answer 
 to all the grudgers of a poet’s comfort. Singing, it is true, might 
 and does console him under any circumstances ; but why should we 
 
 * Supposed to be Dr. Cheyne, who got fat and melancholy with good living, 
 whereas Thomson got fat and morry ; for Cheyne was an owl, not a singing bird. 
 
16 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE , 
 
 wish him to be consoled, when lie can be made happy 1 as happy as 
 he would make ourselves ? 
 
 Thomson is a greater poet than the style of the Seasons would lead 
 us to suppose. lie was too modest to approach Nature in the garb 
 of his natural simplicity, so he put on a sort of court suit of classical- 
 ity, stuffed out with “ taffeta phrases” and “ silken terms precise,” 
 But the true genius is underneath. Perhaps there was something in 
 it of a heavy temperament, and of the “ indolence” to which it inclined 
 him. He had a warm heart in a gross body. The Castle of Indolence 
 has been thought his best poem, because the style was imitated from 
 that of Spenser. It certainly contains as good poetry as any he wrote j 
 and the tone of Spenser is charmingly imitated, with an arch but de- 
 lighted reverence. 
 
 CANTO I. 
 
 The castle higlit of Indolence, 
 
 And its false luxury ; 
 
 Where for a little time, alas! 
 
 We liv’d right jollily. 
 
 0 MORTAL man, who livest here by toil, 
 
 Do not complain of this thy hard estate ; 
 
 That, like an emmet, thou must ever moil, 
 
 Is a sad sentence of an ancient date ; 
 
 And, certes, there is for it reason great ; 
 
 For though sometimes it makes thee weep and wail, 
 And curse thy star, and early drudge and late, 
 Withouten that would come a heavier bale, 
 
 Loose life, unruly passions, and diseases pale. 
 
 In lowly dale, fast by a river’s side, 
 
 With woody hill o’er hill encompass’d round, 
 
 A most enchanting wizard did abide, 
 
 Than whom a fiend more fell is nowhere found. 
 
 It was, I ween, a lovely spot of ground : 
 
 And there, a season atween J une and May, 
 
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 17 
 
 Half prankt with spring, with summer half embrown’d. 
 
 A listless climate made ; where, sooth to say, 
 
 No living wight could work, ne cared ev’n for play. 
 
 Was naught around but images of rest, 
 
 Sleep-soothing groves, and quiet lawns between, 
 
 And flowery beds that slumberous influence kest, 
 
 From poppies breath’d, and beds of pleasant green, 
 
 Where never yet was creeping creature seen. 
 
 Meantime unnumber’d glittering streamlets play’d, 
 
 And hurled everywhere their waters sheen ; 
 
 That, as they bicker’d through the sunny glade, 
 
 Though restless still themselves, a lulling murmur made. 
 
 Join’d to the prattle of the purling rills, 
 
 Were heard the lowing herds along the vale, 
 
 And flocks loud-bleating from the distant hills, 
 
 And vacant shepherds piping in the dale : 
 
 And now and then sweet Philomel would wail, 
 
 Or stock-doves plain amid the forest deep, 
 
 That drowsy rustled to the sighing gale ; 
 
 And still a coil the grasshopper did keep ; 
 
 Yet all these sounds yblent inclined all to sleep. 
 
 Full in the passage of the vale, above, 
 
 A sable, silent, solemn forest stood ; 
 
 Where naught but shadowy forms was seen to move, 
 
 As Idless fancy’d in her dreaming mood ; 
 
 And up the hills, on either side, a wood 
 Of blackening pines, ay waving to and fro, 
 
 Sent forth a sleepy horror through the blood ; 
 
 And where this valley winded out, below, 
 
 The murmuring main was heard, and scarcely heard, to flow. 
 
18 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE . 
 
 A pleasing land of drowsy-head it was, 
 
 Of dreams that wave before the half-shut eye, 
 
 And of gay castles in the clouds that pass, 
 
 Forever flushing round a summer sky ; 
 
 There eke the soft delights, that witchingly 
 Instil a wanton sweetness through the breast, 
 
 And the calm pleasures always hover’d nigh ; 
 
 But whate’er smack’d of noyance and unrest 
 Was far, far off expell’d from this delicious nest. 
 
 The landskip such, inspiring perfect ease, 
 
 Where Indolence (for so the wizard hight) 
 
 Close hid his castle ’mid embowering trees, 
 
 That half shut out the beams of Phoebus bright, 
 
 And made a kind of chequer’d day and night. 
 
 *###*# 
 
 While solitude and perfect silence reign’d, 
 
 So that to think you dreamt you almost was constrain’d. 
 
 As when a shepherd of the Hebrid Isles, 
 
 Plac’d far amid the melancholy main, 
 
 (Whether it be lone fancy him beguiles, 
 
 Or that aerial beings sometimes deign 
 To stand embodied to our senses plain) 
 
 Sees on the naked hill or valley low, 
 
 The whilst in ocean Phoebus dips his wain, 
 
 A vast assembly moving to and fro, 
 
 Then all at once in air dissolves the wondrous show. 
 
 The doors that knew no shrill alarming bell, 
 
 Ne cursed knocker ply’d by villain’s hand, 
 
 Self-opened into halls, where who can tell 
 What elegance and grandeur wide expand, 
 
 The pride of Turkey and of Persia land? 
 
 Soft quilts on quilts, on carpets carpets spread 
 
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 19 
 
 And couches stretch’d around in seemly band, 
 
 And endless pillows rise to prop the head ; 
 
 So that each spacious room was one full-swelling bed. 
 
 And everywhere huge cover’d tables stood, 
 
 With wines high-flavor’d and rich viands crown’d ; 
 Whatever sprightly juice or tasteful food 
 On the green bosom of this earth are found, 
 
 And all old ocean genders in his round : 
 
 Some hand unseen these silently display’d, 
 
 E’en undemanded by a sight or sound ; 
 
 You need but wish, and, instantly obey’d, 
 
 Fair rang’d the dishes rose, and thick the glasses play’d. 
 
 The rooms with costly tapestry were hung, 
 
 Where was inwoven many a gentle tale, 
 
 Such as of old the rural poets sung, 
 
 Or of Arcadian or Sicilian val6 ; 
 
 Reclining lovers in the lonely dale 
 
 Pour’d forth at large the sweetly tortur’d heart, 
 
 Or, sighing tender passion, swell’d the gale, 
 
 And taught charm’d Echo to resound their smart, 
 
 While flocks, woods, streams, around, repose and peace impart. 
 
 Each sound, too, here to languishment inclin’d, 
 
 Lull’d the weak bosom, and induc’d to ease ; 
 
 Aerial music in the warbling wind, 
 
 At distance rising oft, by small degrees 
 Nearer and nearer came, till o’er the trees 
 It hung, and breath’d such soul-dissolving airs 
 As did, alas ! with soft perdition please : 
 
 Entangled deep in its enchanting snares, 
 
 The listening heart forgot all duties and all cares. 
 
‘20 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE , 
 
 A certain music, never known before,* 
 
 Here lull’d the pensive melancholy mind ; 
 
 Full easily obtain’d. Behooves no more, 
 
 But sidelong to the gently-waving wind, 
 
 To lay the well-tun’d instrument reclin’d, 
 
 From which, with airy-flying fingers light, 
 
 Beyond each mortal touch the most refin’d, 
 
 The god of winds drew sounds of deep delight, 
 Whence, with just cause, the harp of iEolus it hight. 
 
 Ah me ! what hand can touch the string so fine ? 
 
 Who up the lofty diapason roll 
 
 Such sweet, such sad, such solemn airs divine, 
 
 Then let them down again into the soul ? 
 
 Now, rising love they fann’d ; now, pleasing dole 
 They breath’d in tender musings through the heart ; 
 And now a graver sacred strain they stole, 
 
 As when seraphic hands an hymn impart ; 
 Wild-warbling Nature all, above the reach of art ! 
 
 Such the gay splendor, the luxurious state 
 Of Caliphs old, who, on the Tigris shore, 
 
 In mighty Bagdat, populous and great, 
 
 Held their bright court, where was of ladies store, 
 And verse, love, music, still the garland wore. 
 
 When sleep was coy, the bard, in waiting there, 
 Cheer’d the lone midnight wdth the Muses’ lore : 
 Composing music bade his dreams be fair, 
 
 And music lent new gladness to the morning air. 
 
 Near the pavilions where we slept still ran 
 Soft tinkling streams, and dashing waters fell, 
 
 And sobbing waters sigh’d, and oft began 
 (So work’d the wizard) wintry storms to swell, 
 
 * The iEolian harp, just then invented. 
 
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 21 
 
 As heaven and earth they would together mell ; 
 
 At doors and windows threatening seem’d to call 
 The demons of the tempest growling fell ; 
 
 Yet the least entrance found they none at all, 
 Where sweeter grew our sleep, secure in mossy halL 
 
 One great amusement of our household was. 
 
 In a huge crystal magic globe to spy. 
 
 Still as you turn’d it, all things that do pass 
 Upon this ant-hill earth ; where constantly 
 Of idly-busy men the restless fry 
 Run bustling to and fro with foolish haste 
 In search of pleasures vain that from them fly, 
 
 Or which obtain’d the caitiffs dare not taste : 
 
 When nothing is enjoy’d, can there be greater waste? 
 
 Of vanity the mirror this was call’d. 
 
 Here you a muckworm of the town might see 
 At his dull desk, amid his ledgers stall’d, 
 
 Ate up with carking care and penurie, 
 
 Most like to carcase parch’d on gallows tree, 
 
 “ A penny saved is a penny got 
 
 Firm to this scoundrel-maxim keepeth he, 
 
 Ne of its rigor will he bate a jot, 
 
 Till it has quench’d his fire and banished his pot. 
 
 Strait from the filth of this low grub, behold ! 
 Comes fluttering forth a gaudy spendthrift heir, 
 
 All glossy gay, enamell’d all with gold, 
 
 The silly tenant of the summer air. 
 
 In folly lost, of nothing takes he care ; 
 
 Pimps, lawyers, stewards, harlots, flatterers vile, 
 And thieving tradesmen him among them share ; 
 His father’s ghost from Limbo Lake the while 
 Sees this, which more damnation doth upon him pile. 
 
22 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE , 
 
 Of all the gentle tenants of the place, 
 
 There was a man of special grave remark ;* 
 
 A certaiu tender gloom o’erspread his face, 
 
 Pensive, not sad ; in thought involv’d, not dark ; 
 
 As soot this man would sing as morning lark, 
 
 And teach the noblest morals of the heart ; 
 
 But these his talents were yburied stark j 
 Of the fine stores he nothing would impart, 
 
 Which or boon Nature gave, or nature-painting Art. 
 
 To noontide shades incontinent he ran, 
 
 Where purls the brook with sleep-inviting sound, 
 
 Or when Dan Sol to slope his wheels began, 
 
 Amid the broom he bask’d him on the ground, 
 
 Where the wild thyme and camomil are found ; 
 
 There would he linger, till the latest ray 
 Of light sate trembling on the welkin’s bound ; 
 
 Then homeward through the twilight shadows stray 
 Sauntering and slow : so had he passed many a day. 
 
 Yet not in thoughtless slumber were they past; 
 
 For oft the heavenly fire, that lay conceal’d 
 Beneath the sleeping embers, mounted fast, 
 
 And all its native light anew reveal’d. 
 
 Oft as he travers’d the cerulean field, 
 
 And mark’d the clouds that drove before the wind 
 Ten thousand glorious systems would he build, 
 
 Ten thousand great ideas fill’d his mind ; 
 
 But with the clouds they fled, and left no trace behind 
 
 With him was sometimes join’d in silent walk, 
 (Profoundly silent, for they never spoke,) 
 
 * Who this person was, does not appear to have been discov* **A. 
 
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 23 
 
 One shier still,* who quite detested talk ; 
 
 Oft stung by spleen, at once away he broke 
 To groves of pine and broad o’ershadowing oak ; 
 
 There, inly thrill’d, he wander’d all alone, 
 
 And on himself his pensive fury wroke, 
 
 Ne never utter’d word save when first shone 
 The glittering star of eve — “ Thank Heaven, the day is done F 
 
 Here lurk’d a wretch who had not crept abroad 
 For forty years, ne face of mortal seen ; 
 
 In chamber brooding like a loathly toad, 
 
 And sure his linen was not very clean ; 
 
 Through secret loop-holes that had practis’d been 
 Near to his bed, his dinner vile he took ; 
 
 Unkempt and rough, of squalid face amd mien, 
 
 Our Castle’s shame ; whence, from his filthy nook, 
 
 We drove the villain out, for fitter lair to look. 
 
 One day there chaunc’d into these hills to rove 
 A joyous youth.f who took you at first sight; 
 
 Him the wild wave of pleasure hither drove 
 Before the sprightly tempest tossing light ; 
 
 Certes, he was a most engaging wight, 
 
 Of social glee, and wit humane tho’ keen, 
 
 Turning the night to day and day to night ; 
 
 For him the merry bells had rung I ween, 
 
 If in this nook of quiet bells had ever been. 
 
 But not e’en pleasure to excess is good ; 
 
 What most elates, then sinks the soul as low ; 
 
 * Supposed to be Armstrong. 
 
 t Probably the author’s friend Patterson, his deputy in the office 
 of Surveyor-General of the Leeward Islands. 
 
24 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE , 
 
 When spring-tide joy pours in with copious flood, 
 
 The higher still th’ exulting billows flow, 
 
 The farther back again they flagging go, 
 
 And leave us grovelling on the dreary shore. 
 
 Taught by this son of Joy, we found it so, 
 
 Who, whilst he staid, kept in a gay uproar 
 Our madden’d Castle all, the abode of Sleep no more. 
 
 As when in prime of J une a burnish’d fly, 
 
 Sprung from the meads, o’er which he sweeps along, 
 Cheer’d by the breathing bloom and vital sky, 
 
 Tunes up amid these airy halls his song, 
 
 Soothing at first the gay reposing throng ; 
 
 And oft he sips their bowl ; or, nearly drown’d, 
 
 He, thence recovering, drives their beds among, 
 
 And scares their tender sleep with trump profound, 
 Then out again he flies to wing his mazy round. 
 
 Another guest there was of sense refin’d,* 
 
 Who felt each worth, for every worth he had ; 
 
 Serene, yet warm ; humane, yet firm his mind ; 
 
 As little touch’d as any man’s with bad : 
 
 Him through their inmost walks the Muses lad, 
 
 To him the sacred love of Nature lent, 
 
 And sometimes would he make our valley glad ; 
 
 When as we found he would not here be pent, 
 
 To him the better sort this friendly message sent— 
 
 u Come, dwell with us, true son of Virtue ! come ; 
 
 But if, .alas ! we cannot thee persuade 
 To lie content beneath our peaceful dome 
 Ne ever more to quit our quiet glade. 
 
 Lord Lyttleton. 
 
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY . 25 
 
 Yet when at last thy toils, but ill apaid, 
 
 Shall dead thy fire, and damp its heavenly spark, 
 
 Thou wilt be glad to seek the rural shade, 
 
 There to indulge the Muse, and Nature mark ; 
 
 We then a lodge for thee will rear in Hagley Park.” 
 
 Here whilom ligg’d th’ Esopus of the age,^ 
 
 But call’d by Fame, in soul yprieked deep, 
 
 A noble pride restor’d him to the stage, 
 
 And rous’d him like a giant from his sleep. 
 
 E’en from his slumbers we advantage reap : 
 
 With double force th’ enliven’d scene he wakes, 
 
 Yet quits not Nature’s bounds. He knows to keep 
 Each due decorum. Now the heart he shakes, 
 
 And now with well-urged sense th’ enlightened judgment takes. 
 
 A bard here dwelt, more fat than bard beseems,! 
 
 Who void of envy, guile, or lust of gain, 
 
 On Virtue still, and Nature’s pleasing themes, 
 
 Pour’d forth, his unpremeditated strain ; 
 
 The world forsaking with a calm disdain, 
 
 Here laugh’d he careless in his easy seat ; 
 
 Here quail’d encircled by the joyous train, 
 
 Oft moralizing sage ; his ditty sweet 
 He loathed much to write, ne cared to repeat. 
 
 Full oft by holy feet our ground was trod ; 
 
 Of clerks good plenty here you mote espy ; 
 
 A little, round, fat, oily man of God,! 
 
 Was one I chiefly mark’d among the fry : 
 
 He had a roguish twinkle in his eye, 
 
 * Quin, the actor. 
 
 f Thomson himself. All but the first line of this stanza is under- 
 stood to have been written by a friend. 
 
 f The Rev. Mr. Murdoch, the poet’s first biographer. 
 
 2 
 
26 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE \ 
 
 And shone all glittering with ungodly dew, 
 
 If a tight damsel chanc'd to trippen by ; 
 
 Which when observ’d, he shrunk into his mew, 
 
 And strait would recollect his piety anew. 
 
 Nor be forgot a tribe who minded naught 
 (Old inmates of the place) but state affairs ; 
 
 They look’d, perdie, as if they deeply thought, 
 
 And on their brow sat every nation’s cares. 
 
 The world by them is parcel’d out in shares. 
 
 When in the Hall of Smoke they congress hold, 
 And the sage berry sun-burnt Mocha bears 
 Has clear’d their inward eye, then smoke-enroll’d, 
 Their oracles break forth, mysterious as of old. 
 
 Here languid beauty kept her pale-fac’d court : 
 Bevies of dainty dames of high degree 
 From every quarter hither made resort, 
 
 Where, from gross mortal care and business free, 
 They lay pour’d out, in ease and luxury : 
 
 Or should they a vain show of work assume, 
 
 Alas ! and well a-day ! what can it be ? 
 
 To knot, to twist, to range the vernal bloom ; 
 
 But far is cast the distaff, spinning-wheel, and loom. 
 
 Their only labor was to kill the time ; 
 
 And labor dire it is, and weary woe : 
 
 They sit, they loll, turn o’er some idle rhyme, 
 
 Then, rising sudden, to the glass they go, 
 
 Or saunter forth with tottering step and slow : 
 
 This soon too rude an exercise they find ; 
 
 Strait on the couch their limbs again they throw ; 
 Where hours and hours they sighing lie reclin’d, 
 And court the vapory god, soft breathing in the wind. 
 
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 27 
 
 Now must I mark the villanywe found ; 
 
 But ah ! too late, as shall eftsoons be shown. 
 
 A place here was, deep, dreary, underground, 
 
 Where still our inmates, when unpleasing grown, 
 
 Diseas’d and loathsome, privily were thrown. 
 
 Far from the light of heaven, they languish’d there 
 Unpitied, uttering many a bitter groan : 
 
 For of these wretches taken was no care ; 
 
 Fierce fiends and hags of hell their only nurses were. 
 
 *Alas ! the change ! from scenes of joy and rest, 
 
 To this dark den, where sickness toss’d alway. 
 
 Here Lethargy, with deadly sleep opprest, 
 
 Stretch’d on his back, a mighty lubbard, lay, 
 
 Heaving his sides, and snored night and day. 
 
 To stir him from his traunce it was not eath ; 
 
 And his half-open’d eyne he shut straitway ; 
 
 He led, I wot, the softest way to death, 
 
 And taught withouten pain and strife to yield the breath. 
 
 Of limbs enormous, but withal unsound, 
 
 Soft-swol’n and pale, here lay the Hydropsy : 
 
 Unwieldy man ! with belly monstrous round, 
 
 Forever fed with watery supply : 
 
 For still he drank, and yet he still was dry. 
 
 And moping here did Hypochondria sit, 
 
 Mother of Spleen, in robes of various dye, 
 
 Who vexed was fall oft with ugly fit ; 
 
 And some her frantic deem’d, and some her deem’d a wit. 
 
 A lady proud she was, of ancient blood, 
 
 Yet oft her fear her pride made crouchen low ; 
 
 * These four concluding stanzas of Canto I. were written by Arm- 
 strong. 
 
28 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE , 
 
 She felt, or fancied, in her flattering mood, 
 
 All the diseases which the spittles know, 
 
 And sought all physic which the shops bestow, 
 
 And still new leeches and new drugs would try, 
 
 Her humor ever wavering to and fro ; 
 
 For sometimes she would laugh, and sometimes cry, 
 Then sudden waxed wroth, and all she knew not why. 
 
 Fast by her side a listless maiden pin’d, 
 
 With aching head, and squeamish heart-burnings ; 
 Pale, bloated, cold, she seem’d to hate mankind, 
 
 Yet lov’d in secret all forbidden things. 
 
 And here the Tertian shakes his chilling wings : 
 
 The sleepless Gout here counts the crowing cocks ; 
 A wolf now gnaws him, now a serpent stings : 
 Whilst Apoplexy cramm’d Intemperance knocks 
 Down to the ground at once, as butcher felleth ox. 
 
 CANTO II. 
 
 The Knight of Arts and Industry, 
 And his achievements fair, 
 
 That by his Castle’s overthrow 
 Secur’d and crowned were. 
 
 E SCAP’D the Castle of the Sire of Sin, 
 
 Ah ! where shall I so sweet a dwelling find ? 
 For all around without, and all within, 
 
 Nothing save what delightful was and kind, 
 
 Of goodness savoring and a tender mind, 
 
 E’er rose to view : but now another strain 
 Of doleful note, alas ! remains behind ; 
 
 I now must sing of pleasure turn’d to pain, 
 
 And of the false enchanter Indolence complain. 
 
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGIIT SIR INDUSTRY. 29 
 
 Is there no patron to protect the Muse, 
 
 And fence for her Parnassus’ barren soil? 
 
 To every labor its reward accrues, 
 
 And they are sure of bread who swink and moil j 
 But a fell tribe th’ Aonian hive despoil, 
 
 As ruthless wasps oft rob the painful bee : 
 
 Thus while the laws not guard that noblest toil, 
 
 Ne for the Muses other meed decree, 
 
 They praised are alone, and starve right merrily. 
 
 I care not, Fortune, what you me deny ; 
 
 You cannot rob me of free Nature’s grace ; 
 
 You cannot shut the windows of the sky, 
 
 Through which Aurora shows her brightening facf ; 
 You cannot bar my constant feet to trace 
 The woods and lawns, by living stream, at eve : 
 
 Let health my nerves and finer fibres brace, 
 
 And I their toys to the great children leave : 
 
 Of fancy, reason, virtue, naught can me bereave. 
 
 Come then, my Muse ! and raise a bolder song ; 
 Come, lig no more upon the bed of sloth, 
 
 Dragging the lazy languid line along, 
 
 Fond to begin, but still to finish loath, 
 
 Thy half-wit trolls aL eaten by the moth ; 
 
 Arise, and sing that generous imp of fame, 
 
 Who with the sons of Softness nobly wroth, 
 
 To sweep away this human lumber came, 
 
 Or in a chosen few to rouse the slumbering flame. 
 
 Th^ tidings reach’d to where, in quiet hall, 
 
 The good old knight enjoy’d well-earnt repose. 
 
 “ Come, come, Sir Knight, thy children on thee call : 
 Come save us yet, ere ruin round us close, 
 
30 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE , 
 
 The demon Indolence thy toil o’erthrows.” 
 
 On this the noble color stain’d his cheeks, 
 
 Indignant, glowing thro’ the whitening snows 
 Of venerable eld ; his eye full-speaks 
 His ardent soul, and from his couch at once he breaks. 
 
 I will (he cried) so help me, God ! destroy 
 That villain Archimage. — His page then strait 
 He to him called, a fiery-footed boy, 
 
 Benempt Dispatch. “ My steed be at the gate ; 
 
 My bard attend ; quick, bring the net of Fate.” 
 
 This net was twisted by the Sisters three, 
 
 Which when once cast o’er hardened wretch, too late 
 Bepentance comes ; replevy cannot be 
 From the strong iron grasp of vengeful Destiny. 
 
 He came, the bard, a little Druid-wight, 
 
 Of wither’d aspect ; but his eye was keen, 
 
 With sweetness mix’d. In russet gown bedight, 
 
 As is his sister of the copses green, 
 
 He crept along, unpromising of mien. 
 
 Gross he who judges so. His soul was fair, 
 
 Bright as the children of yon azure sheen. 
 
 True comeliness, which nothing can impair, 
 
 Dwells in the mind ; all else is vanity and glare. 
 
 “ Come” (quoth the knight), u a voice has reach’d mine ear 
 The demon Indolence threats overthrow 
 To all that to mankind is good and dear : 
 
 Come, Philomelus ! let us instant go, 
 
 O’erturn his bowers, and lay his Castle low 
 Those men, those wretched men ! who will be slaves, 
 Must drink a bitter wrathful cup of woe ; 
 
 But some there be thy song, as from their graves, 
 
 Shall raise. Thrice happy he ! who without rigor saves.” 
 
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 31 
 
 Thus holding high discourse, they came to where 
 The cursed carle was at his wonted trade, 
 
 Still tempting heedless men into his snare, 
 
 In witching wise, as I before have said ; 
 
 But when he saw, in goodly gear array’d, 
 
 The grave majestic knight approaching nigh, 
 
 And by his side the bard so sage and staid, 
 
 His countenance fell ; yet oft his anxious eye 
 Mark’d them, like wily fox who roosted cock doth spy. 
 
 Nathless, with feign’d respect he bade give back 
 The rabble rout, and welcom’d them full kind ; 
 
 Struck with the noble twain, they were not slack 
 His orders to obey, and fall behind. 
 
 Then he resum’d his song, and, unconfin’d, 
 
 Pour’d all his music, ran thro’ all his strings ; 
 
 With magic dust their eyne he tries to blind, 
 
 And virtue’s tender airs o’er weakness flings. 
 
 What pity base his song, who so divinely sings ! 
 
 Elate in thought he counted them his own, 
 
 They listen’d so intent with fix’d delight ; 
 
 But they, instead, as if transmew’d to stone, 
 
 Marvell’d he could with such sweet art unite 
 The lights and shades of manners wrong and right. 
 Meantime the silly crowd the charm devour, 
 
 Wide pressing to the gate. Swift on the knight 
 He darted fierce to drag him to his bower, 
 
 Who back’ning shunn’d his touch, for well he knew his power. 
 
 As in throng’d amphitheatre, of old, 
 
 The wary lletiarius trapp’d his foe, 
 
 E’en so the knight, returning on him bold, 
 
 A t once involv’d him in the net of woe, 
 
32 
 
 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE , 
 
 Whereof I mention made not long ago. 
 
 Enrag’d at first, he scorn’d so weak a jail, 
 
 And leapt, and flew, and flounced to and fro ; 
 
 But when lie found that nothing could avail, 
 
 He sat him felly down, and gnaw’d his bitter nail. 
 
 Alarm’d, th’ inferior demons of the place 
 Rais’d rueful shrieks and hideous yells around ; 
 
 Black stormy clouds deform’d the welkin’s face, 
 
 And from beneath was heard a wailing sound, 
 
 As of infernal sprights in cavern bound ; 
 
 A solemn sadness every creature strook 
 And lightnings flash’d, and horror rock’d the ground ; 
 Huge crowds on crowds outpour’d with blemish’d look, 
 As if on time’s last verge this frame of things had shook. 
 
 Soon as the sliort-liv’d tempest was yspent, 
 
 Steam’d from the jaws of vext Avernus’ hole, 
 
 And hush’d the hubbub of the rabblement, 
 
 Sir Industry the first calm moment stole. 
 u There must” (he cried), u amid so vast a shoal, 
 
 Be some who are not tainted at the heart, 
 
 Not poison’d quite by this same villain’s bowl ; 
 
 Come then, my Bard ! thy heavenly fire impart ; 
 
 Touch soul with soul, till forth the latent spirit start.” 
 
 The bard obey’d ; and taking from his side, 
 
 Where it in seemly sort depending hung, 
 
 His British harp, its speaking strings he try’d, 
 
 The which with skilful touch he deftly strung, 
 
 Till tinkling in clear symphony they rung : 
 
 Then, as he felt the Muses come along, 
 
 Light o’er the chords his raptured hand he flung, 
 
 And play’d a prelude to his rising song ; 
 
 The whilst, like midnight mute, ten thousands round him throng. 
 
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 33 
 
 Thus ardent burst his strain — Ye hapless race ! 
 Dire-laboring here to smother Reason’s raj, 
 
 That lights our Maker’s image in our face, 
 
 And gives us wide o’er earth unquestion’d sway, 
 
 What is th’ ador’d Supreme Perfection, say ? 
 
 What, but eternal never-resting soul, 
 
 Almighty power, and all-directing day, 
 
 By whom each atom stirs, the planets roll j 
 Who fills, surrounds, informs, and agitates the whole. 
 
 u Is not the field, with lively culture green, 
 
 A sight more joyous than the dead morass? 
 
 Do not the skies with active ether clean 
 And fann’d by sprightly Zephyrs, far surpass 
 The foul November fogs, and slumb’rous mass 
 With which sad Nature veils her drooping face ? 
 
 Does not the mountain-stream, as clear as glass, 
 Gray-dancing on, the putrid poof disgrace ? 
 
 The same in all holds true, but chief in human race. 
 
 “ Had unambitious mortals minded naught 
 But in loose joy their time to wear away, 
 
 Had they alone the lap of Dalliance sought, 
 
 Pleas’d on their pillow their dull heads to lay, 
 
 Rude Nature’s state had been our state to-day; 
 
 No cities e’er their towery fronts had rais’d, 
 
 No arts had made us opulent and gay ; 
 
 With brother-brutes the human race had graz’d ; 
 
 None e’er had soar’d to fame, none honor’d been, none prais’d. 
 
 “ Great Homer’s song had never fir’d the breast 
 To thirst of glory and heroic deeds ; 
 
 Sweet Maro’s muse, sunk in inglorious rest, 
 
 Had silent slept amid the Mincian reeds : 
 
 2 * 
 
34 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE. 
 
 The wits of modern time had told their beads, 
 
 And monkish legends been their only strains ; 
 
 Our Milton’s Eden had lain wrapped in weeds, 
 
 Our Shakspeare stroll’d and laugh’d with Warwick swains, 
 Ne had my master Spenser charm’d his Mulla’s plains. 
 
 “But should to fame your hearts unfeeling be, 
 
 If right I read, you pleasure all require ; 
 
 Then hear how best may be obtain’d this fee, 
 
 How best enjoy’d this Nature’s wide desire. 
 
 Toil, and be glad ; let industry inspire 
 
 Into your quicken’d limbs her buoyant breath ; 
 
 Who does not act, is dead: absorpt entire 
 In miry sloth, no pride, no joy he hath ; 
 
 0 leaden-hearted Men, to be in love with death ! 
 
 “ 0 who can speak the vigorous joys of health; 
 
 Unclogg’d the body, unobscur’d the mind ; 
 
 The morning rises gay, with pleasing stealth, 
 
 The temperate evening falls serene and kind ; 
 
 In health the wiser brutes true gladness find ; 
 
 See ! how the younglings frisk along the meads, 
 
 As May comes on, and wakes the balmy wind ; 
 
 Ilampant with life, their joy all joy exceeds ; 
 
 Yet what but high-strung health this dancing pleasaunce 
 breeds? 
 
 u There are, I see, who listen to my lay, 
 
 Who wretched sigh for virtue, but despair. 
 
 All may be done, (methinks I hear them say,) 
 
 E’en death despis’d, by generous actions fair ; 
 
 All but for those who to these bowers repair; 
 
 Their every power dissolv’d in luxury, 
 
 To quit of torpid Sluggishness the lair, 
 
AND EXPLOITS OP THE KNIOIFi SIR INDUSTRY. 35 
 
 And from the powerful arms of Sloth get free 
 Tis rising from the dead — alas ! — it cannot be ! 
 
 'Would you then learn to dissipate the band 
 Of these huge threatening difficulties dire, 
 
 That in the weak man’s way like lions stand, 
 
 His soul appall, and damp his rising fire ? 
 
 Resolve, resolve, and to be men aspire. 
 
 Exert that noble privilege, alone, 
 
 Here to mankind indulg’d ; control desire ; 
 
 Let godlike Reason, from her sovereign throne, 
 
 Speak the commanding word, I will ! — and it is done. 
 
 u Heavens ! can you then thus waste, in shameful wise, 
 Your few important days of trial here ? 
 
 Heirs of eternity ! yborn to rise 
 
 Through endless states of being', still more near 
 
 To bliss approaching, and perfection clear? 
 
 Can you renounce a fortune so sublime ? 
 
 Such glorious hopes, your backward steps to steer, 
 
 And roll, with vilest brutes, through mud and slime ? 
 
 No ! no !' your heaven-touch’d hearts disdain the sordid 
 crime !” 
 
 a Enough ! enough !” they cried. Strait from the crowd 
 The better sort on wings of transport fly ; 
 
 As when amid the lifeless summits proud 
 Of Alpine cliffs, where to the gelid sky 
 Snows pil’d on snows in wintry torpor lie, 
 
 The rays divine of vernal Phoebus play, 
 
 Th’ awaken’d heaps, in streamlets from on high, 
 
 Rous’d into action, lively leap away, 
 
 Glad warbling through the vales, in their new being gay. 
 
36 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE \ 
 
 But far the greater part with rage inflam’d, 
 
 Dire-mutter’d curses, and blasphem’d high Jove. 
 
 “Ye sons of Hate!” (they bitterly exclaim’d), 
 
 “ What brought you to this seat of peace and love ? 
 
 While with kind Nature, here amid the grove, 
 
 We passed the harmless sabbath of our time, 
 
 What to disturb it could, fell men, emove 
 Your barbarous hearts? Is happiness a crime? 
 
 Then do the fiends of hell rule in yon heaven sublime.’ 
 
 “Ye impious wretches !” (quoth the knight in wrath), 
 
 “ Your happiness behold !” — then strait a wand 
 He wav’d, an anti-magic power that hath 
 Truth from illusive falsehood to command. 
 
 Sudden the landscape sinks on every hand ; 
 
 The pure quick streams are marshy puddles found ; 
 
 On baleful heaths the groves all blacken’d stand j 
 And o’er the weedy, foul, abhorred ground, 
 
 Snakes, adders, toads, each loathsome creature crawls around 
 
 And here and there, on trees by lightning scath’d, 
 Unhappy wights, who loathed life, yhung ; 
 
 Or in fresh gore and recent murder bath’d, 
 
 They weltering lay ; or else, infuriate flung 
 Into the gloomy flood, while ravens sung 
 The funeral dirge, they down the torrent roll’d: 
 
 These by distemper’d blood to madness stung, 
 
 Had doom’d themselves ; whence oft, when night con* 
 troll’d 
 
 The world, returning hither their sad spirits howl’d. 
 
 Attended by a glad acclaiming train 
 Of those he rescued had from gaping hell, 
 
AND EXPLOITS OF THE KNIGHT SIR INDUSTRY. 37 
 
 Then turn’d the knight, and to his hall again 
 Soft pacing, sought of Peace the mossy cell ; 
 
 Yet down his cheeks the gems of pity fell, 
 
 To see the helpless wretches that remain’d, 
 
 There left through delves and deserts dire to yell ; 
 Amaz’d, their looks with pale dismay were stain’d, 
 
 And spreading wide their hands, they meek repentance feign’d 
 
 But, ah ! their scorned day of grace was past ; 
 
 For (horrible to tell) a desert wild 
 
 Before them stretch’d, bare, comfortless, and vast, 
 
 With gibbets, bones, and carcases defil’d. 
 
 There nor trim field nor lively culture smil’d, 
 
 Nor waving shade was seen, nor mountain fair ; 
 
 But sands abrupt on sands lay loosely pil’d, 
 
 Thro’ which they floundering toil’d with painful care, 
 Whilst Phoebus smote them sore, # and fir’d the cloudless air. 
 
 Then, varying to a joyless land of bogs, 
 
 The sadden’d country a gray waste appear’d, 
 
 Where naught but putrid streams and noisome fogs 
 Forever hung on drizzly Auster’s beard ; 
 
 Or else the ground by piercing Caurus sear’d, 
 
 Was jagg’d wutli frost, or heap’d with glazed snow : 
 
 Thro’ these extremes a ceaseless round they steer’d, 
 
 By cruel fiends still hurried to and fro, 
 
 Gaunt Beggary, and Scorn, with many hell-hounds moe. 
 
 The first was with base dunghill rags yclad, 
 
 Tainting the gale in which they flutter’d light; 
 
 Of morbid hue, his features sunk and sad ; 
 
 His hollow eyne shook forth a sickly light ; 
 
 And o’er his lank jaw-bone, in piteous plight, 
 
 His black rough beard was matted rank and vile ; 
 
38 ENCHANTMENTS OF THE WIZARD INDOLENCE . 
 
 Direful to see ! an heart-appalling sight ! 
 
 Meantime foul scurf and blotches him defile, 
 
 And dogs, where’er he went, still barked all the while. 
 
 The other was a fell despightful fiend : 
 
 Hell holds none worse in baleful bower below ; 
 
 By pride, and wit, and rage, and rancor, keen’d ; 
 
 Of man alike, if good or bad, the foe ; 
 
 With nose upturn’d, he always made a show, 
 
 As if he smelt some nauseous scent ; his eye 
 Was cold and keen, like blast from boreal snow, 
 
 And taunts he casten forth most bitterly. 
 
 Such were the twain that off drove this ungodly fry. 
 
 E’en so thro’ Brentford town, a town of mud, 
 
 An herd of bristly swine is prick’d along ; 
 
 The filthy beasts, that never chew the cud, 
 
 Still grunt, and squeak, and sing their troublous song 
 And oft they plunge themselves the mire among ; 
 
 But aye the ruthless driver goads them on, 
 
 And aye, of barking dogs the biter throng 
 Makes them renew their unmelodious moan ; 
 
 Ne ever find they rest from their unresting fone 
 
Itoms ht[ #ir Hirjjurii nit. 
 
 NOW FIRST COLLECTED. 
 
 These stories, with the exception of two, compose the entire set 
 contributed by this great master of character and sentiment to the 
 Tatler, Spectator, and Guardian. They are remarkable for going to 
 the heart of their subjects with a comprehensive brevity ; and are 
 just such stories as a man might tell over his wine to a party of 
 friends. Addison’s stories are of a more fanciful sort, and more ele- 
 gant in the style ; some of them are charming ; but they are pieces 
 of writing — these are relations. They have all the warmth as well as 
 brevity of unpremeditated accounts, given as occasion called them 
 forth. Steele, indeed, may be said to have always talked, rather 
 than written ; and hence the beauties as well as defects of his style, 
 which is apt to be too carelessly colloquial. 
 
 Steele, like Fielding, Smollett, Goldsmith — in fact, like almost all 
 our most entertaining wits and novelists, not excepting (on a great scale) 
 Sir Walter Scott himself — was an impulsive and imprudent man, not 
 attentive enough to his outlays, and too sanguine about his income. 
 He warranted, perhaps, the remonstrances of his staider friend Ad- 
 dison ; and was more touched than comforted by them, from feeling 
 that they were useless. The remonstrances (if they were of the harsh 
 and practical nature they are said to have been), would have come 
 with less ungraciousness from a more genial and generous man ; that 
 is to say, supposing such a man would have thought them advisable. 
 Objections to men like Steele come indeed with grace from none but 
 
40 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 generous persons, liable to his temptations, and superior to them. 
 Such persons have made such objections, though not unaccompanied 
 with assumptions that might have been spared ; probably in conse- 
 quence of the re-action in Steele’s favor in the writings of Ilazlitt 
 and others. The objections, however, deserve to be respectfully re- 
 plied to ; and the just reply, we think, is, that you must consider 
 every writer and every man as the result of all the circumstances that 
 have made him what he is, bodily and mental, and then judge whether 
 that result is a gain and pleasure to the world, and a compensation 
 for the less allowable of those circumstances. For a man cannot be 
 one man and another too ; cannot be Steele and Addison both ; at 
 least we are not aware that any such person has been met with, how- 
 ever modified the varieties of their like may be. Would you have 
 had no such thing as Steele’s imprudence, and been content to lose 
 the Tatler and the Guardian ? as Fielding’s, and been without Tom 
 Jones and Amelia ? as Smollett’s, and had no Roderick Ra.ndom or 
 Humphrey Clinker ? Or. if you say that Addison could have written, 
 and did write, as good and humorous things as those, will you say 
 that the others did not write with a difference from Addison ; and 
 with such a difference as the world strongly feels and highly delights 
 in ? You will grant this of course. What constitutes, then, the dif- 
 ference of Steele, of Fielding, and of Smollet, from such a writer as 
 Addison 'l and could that difference have delighted us as it does, had 
 it not resulted from the Ontire natures and circumstances of the 
 men? Very foolish and very presumptuous, we grant, would it be in 
 any given imprudent person to quote their example in his defence, 
 even though he should turn out some day to have had warrant for it, 
 or be regarded with indulgence meantime by such as think he has. 
 Those who have nothing in them to justify such an exceptional con- 
 sideration, come under another category altogether, whatever may be 
 said in their excuse ; and those who have someth ing : must be content 
 modestly to await the chance of its recognition, and to pay in the 
 meantime the penalty of its drawbacks. 
 
 If there were no worse men in the world than Steele, what a planet 
 we should have of it ? Steele knew his own foibles as well as any 
 man. He regretted, and made amends for them, and left posterity a 
 name for which they have reason to thank and love him. Posterity 
 thanks Addison too ; but it can hardly be said to love him, even by the 
 help of the good old knight Sir Roger, whom Steele invented for him. 
 
STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 41 
 
 Perhaps they would have loved him more, had he too confessed his 
 faults ; or even had he told them in what the only one consisted at 
 which he hinted when he sent for Gay on his death-bed. and ashed 
 his pardon for having done him some wrong. Steele asked pardon 
 for wrong, long before he died. The last thing we hear of him is 
 neither a solitary acknowledgment nor a Christian vaunt, but his sit- 
 ting out of doors in his retirement, giving the village maidens prizes 
 to contend for. He said modestly of his life — (far too modestly, for 
 he was a loving husband and father, and a disinterested patriot), that 
 it “ was but pardonable and in his beautiful effusion to the memory 
 of his friend Estcourt the comedian, he expressed his gratitude to that 
 honest mimic for having made him sensible of his defects, and taught 
 him to care for nothing but the subjection of his will. 
 
 The reader will find the passage below.* 
 
 Truly curious was it, and lucky for the world that Dick Steele and 
 Joseph Addison should have grown up together from childhood, and 
 become the Beaumont and Fletcher of social ethics. But they had 
 
 * “ What was peculiarly excellent in this memorable companion was, that in the 
 accounts he gave of persons and sentiments he did not only hit the figure of their 
 faces and manner of their gestures, but he would, in his narrations, fall into their 
 way of thinking, and this when he recounted passages wherein men of the best wits 
 were concerned, as well as such wherein were represented men of the lowest rank 
 of understanding. It is certain as great an instance of self-love to a weakness, to 
 be impatient of being mimicked, as any can be imagined. There were none but the 
 vain, the formal, the proud, or those who were incapable of amending their faults, 
 dreaded him ; to others he was in the highest degree pleasing : and I do not know any 
 satisfaction of any different kind I ever tasted so much, as having got over an im- 
 patience of seeing myself in the air he could put me when I had displeased him. It 
 is indeed owing to his exquisite talent this way, more than any philosophy I could 
 read on ♦he subject, that my person is very little of my care ; and it is indefferent to 
 me what is said of my shape, my air, my manner, my speech, or my address. It is to 
 poor Estcourt I chiefly owe, that I am arrived at the happiness of thinking nothing 
 a diminution to me, but what argues a depravity of my will. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 I have been present with him among men of the most delicate taste the whole 
 night, and have known him (for he saw it was desired) keep the discourse to him- 
 self the most part of it, and maintain his good-humor with a countenance and in 
 a language so delightful, without offence to any person or thing upon earth, still 
 preserving the distance his circumstances obliged him to; I say, 1 have seen him 
 do all this in such a charming manner, that I ain sure none of those I hint at will 
 read this, without giving some sorrow for their abundant mirth, and one gush of 
 tears for so many bursts of laughter. I wish it w ere any honor to the pleasant 
 creature's memory, that my eyes are too much suffused to let me go on ” 
 
42 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 tastes in common, and admirable was the result ; a music more 
 charming for the counter-point ; Addison’s hand the staider and the 
 calmer, the more artful, the more informed, yet playful withal, though 
 never losing its self-possession ; — Steele’s the more wandering and 
 capricious, the lighter, the less solemn, yet now and then touching 
 forth notes of a more tender sweetness, and such as fill the eyes with 
 tears. Addison knew nothing of those. 
 
 The reader will find evidences of this pathos in most' of the follow- 
 ing stories. Those of Valentine and Unnion , and Inkle and Yarico, he 
 has probably been acquainted with from childhood ; hut they are re- 
 peated for that reason. Both are master-pieces ; the latter would 
 be not unworthy of perusal after one of Chaucer’s. The Dream is 
 lovely ; and the Fire , and the Wedding Dai/, heart-rending. It is re- 
 markable, considering the gaiety of most of Steele’s writings, that 
 there should be only one comic story out of the eight. The husband’s 
 flopping down by the side of his wife, and whispering in her insensible 
 ear, is very ludicrous. 
 
 VALENTINE AND UNNION. 
 
 A T the siege of Namur by the allies, there were in the 
 ranks of the company commanded by Captain Pincent, 
 in Colonel Frederick Hamilton’s regiment, one Unnion a cor- 
 poral, and one V alentine a private sentinel ; there happened 
 between these two men a dispute about a matter of love, 
 which upon some aggravations grew to an irreconcilable 
 hatred. Unnion, being the officer of Valentine, took all op- 
 portunities even to strike his rival, and profess the spite and 
 revenge which moved him to it. The sentinel bore it with- 
 out resistance, but frequently said he would die to be re- 
 venged of that tyrant. They had spent whole months thus, 
 one injuring, the other complaining, when in the midst of 
 this rage towards each other they were commanded upon the 
 attack of the castle, where the corporal received a shot in 
 the thigh, and fell ; the French pressing on, and he expect- 
 
THE FIRE. 
 
 43 
 
 ing to be trampled to death, called out to his enemy, “ Ah, 
 Valentine ! can you leave me here ?” Valentine immediately 
 ran back, and in the midst of a thick fire of the French took 
 the corporal upon his back and brought him through all that 
 danger as far as the Abbey of Salsine, where a cannon ball 
 took off his head : his body fell under his enemy, whom he 
 was carrying off Unnion immediately forgot his wound, 
 rose up, tearing his hair, and then threw himself upon the 
 bleeding carcase, crying, u Ah, Valentine ! w T as it for me who 
 have so barbarously used thee, that thou hast died ? I will 
 not live after thee.” He was not by any means to be forced 
 from the body, but was removed with it bleeding in his arms, 
 and attended with tears by all their comrades who knew their 
 enmity. When he was brought to a tent his wounds were 
 dressed by force ; but the next day, still calling upon Valen- 
 tine, and lamenting his cruelties to him, he died in the pangs 
 of remorse and despair. 
 
 THE FIRE. 
 
 C LARINDA and Chloe, two very fine women, were bred 
 up as sisters in the family of Romeo, who was the father 
 of Chloe and guardian of Clarinda. Philander, a young gen- 
 tleman of a good person and charming conversation, being a 
 friend of old Romeo, frequented his house, and by that means 
 was much in conversation with the young ladies, though still 
 in the presence of the father and the guardian. The ladies 
 both entertained a secret passion for him, and could see well 
 enough, notwithstanding the delight which he really took in 
 Romeo’s conversation, that there was something more in his 
 heart which made him so assiduous a visitant. Each of them 
 thought herself the happy woman, but the person beloved 
 
44 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE . 
 
 was Cliloe. It happened that both of them were at a play 
 on a carnival evening, when it is the fashion there,* as well 
 as in most countries of Europe, both for men and women, to 
 appear in masks and disguises. It was in that memorable 
 night in the year 1679, when the playhouse by some unhappy 
 accident was set on fire. Philander, in the first hurry of the 
 disaster, immediately ran where his treasure was, burst open 
 the door of the box, snatched the lady up in his arms, and 
 with unspeakable resolution and good fortune carried her off 
 safe. lie was no sooner out of the crowd but he set her 
 down, and grasping her in his arms with all the raptures of a 
 deserving lover, “ How happy am I,” says he, “ in an oppor- 
 tunity to tell you I love you more than all things, and of 
 showing you the sincerity of my passion at the very first 
 declaration of it.” “ My dear, dear Philander,” says the 
 lady, pulling off her mask, u this is not the time for art ; you 
 are much dearer to me than the life you have preserved, and 
 the joy of my present deliverance does not transport me. so 
 much as the passion which occasioned it.” Who can tell the 
 grief, the astonishment, the terror, that appeared in the face 
 of Philander when he saw the person he spoke to was Cla- 
 rinda ! After a short pause, u Madam,” says he, with the 
 looks of a dead man, “ we are both mistaken ;” and imme- 
 diately flew away, without hearing the distressed Clarinda, 
 who had just strength enough to cry out, “ Cruel Philander ! 
 why did you not leave me in the theatre ?” Crowds of peo- 
 ple immediately gathered about her, and after having brought 
 
 * In Denmark. Philander, Chloe, &c. sound very absurd as Dan- 
 ish people, but this application of ancient names to modern persons 
 was the taste of the age. Romeo, however, was an innovation still 
 more fantastical. Steele, I suppose, in despair for some fresh name, 
 had it suggested to him by the theatrical ground of this most affect- 
 ing story. 
 
THE FIRE. 
 
 45 
 
 her to herself, conveyed her to the house of the good old un- 
 happy Romeo. Philander was now pressing against a whole 
 tide of people at the doors of the theatre, and striving to 
 enter with more earnestness, than any there endeavored to 
 get out. He did it at last, and with much difficulty forced 
 his way to the box where his beloved Chloe stood, expecting 
 her fate, amidst this scene of terror and distraction. She re- 
 vived at the sight of Philander, who fell about her neck with 
 a tenderness not to be expressed, and amidst a thousand sobs 
 and sighs told her his love and his dreadful mistake. The 
 stage was now in flames, and the whole house full of smoke ; 
 the entrance was quite barred up with heaps of people who 
 had fallen upon one another as they endeavored to get out. 
 Swords were drawn, shrieks heard on all sides, and in short 
 there was no possibility of an escape for Philander himself, 
 had he been capable of making it without his Chloe. But 
 his mind was above such a thought, and wholly employed 
 in weeping, condoling, and comforting. He catches her in 
 his arms — the fire surrounds them, while .... I cannot go 
 on ... . 
 
 Were I an infidel, misfortunes like this would convince 
 me that there must be an hereafter ; for who can believe that 
 so much virtue could meet with so great distress without a 
 following reward ? For my part, I am so old-fashioned as 
 firmly to believe, that all who perish in such generous enter- 
 prises are relieved from the further exercise of life ; and 
 Providence, which sees their virtue consummate and mani- 
 fest, takes them to an immediate reward, in a being more 
 suitable to the grandeur of their spirits. 
 
4G 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE . 
 
 THE WEDDING DAY. 
 
 GENTLEMAN who had courted a most agreeable 
 
 -tL young woman and won her heart, obtained also the con- 
 sent of her father, to whom she was an only child. The old 
 man had a fancy that they should be married in the same 
 church where he himself was, in a village in Westmoreland, 
 and made them set out while he was laid up with the gout in 
 London. The bridegroom took only his man, the bride her 
 maid : they had the most agreeable journey imaginable to the 
 place of marriage, from whence the bridegroom writ the fol- 
 lowing letter to his wife’s father : — 
 
 “ March 18, 1672. 
 
 11 Sir, — After a very pleasant journey hither, we are pre- 
 paring for the happy hour in which I am to be your son. I 
 assure you that the bride carries it, in the eye of the vicar 
 who married you, much beyond her mother ; though, he says, 
 your open sleeves, pantaloons, and shoulder-knot, made a 
 much better show than the finical dress I am in. However, 
 I am contented to be the second fine man this village ever 
 saw, and shall make it very merry before night, because I 
 shall write myself from thence 
 
 “ Your most dutiful son, 
 
 “ T. D. 
 
 “ The bride gives her duty, and is as handsome as an 
 angel. — I am the happiest man breathing.” 
 
 The villagers were assembling about the church, and the 
 happy couple took a walk in a private garden. The bride- 
 groom’s man knew his master would leave the place on a 
 sudden after the wedding, and seeing him draw his pistols 
 the night before, took this opportunity to go into his chamber 
 
THE WEDDING DAY. 
 
 47 
 
 and charge them. Upon their return from the garden, they 
 went into that room ; and after a little fond raillery on the 
 subject of their courtship, the lover took up a pistol, which 
 he knew he had unloaded the night before, and, presenting it 
 to her, said, with the most graceful air, whilst she looked 
 pleased at his agreeable flattery: “ Now, madam, repent of 
 all these cruelties you have been guilty of to me ; consider, 
 before you die, how often you have made a poor wretch freeze 
 under your casement; you shall die, you tyrant, you shall 
 die, with all those instruments of death and destruction 
 about you, with that enchanting smile, those killing ringlets 
 of your hair.” “ Give fire !” said she, laughing. He did so, 
 and shot her dead. Who can speak his condition ? but he 
 bore it so patiently as to call upon his man. The poor wretch 
 entered, and his master locked the door upon him. “ Will,” 
 said he , iL did you charge these pistols ?” He answered “ Yes.” 
 Upon which he shot him dead with that remaining. After 
 this, amidst a thousand broken sobs, piercing groans, and 
 distracted motions, he writ the following letter to the father 
 of his dead mistress : — 
 
 “ Sir, — I, who two hours ago, told you truly I was the 
 happiest man alive, am now the most miserable. Your 
 daughter lies dead at my feet, killed by my hand, through a 
 mistake of my man’s charging my pistols unknown to me. 
 Him have I murdered for it. Such is my wedding-day. I 
 will immediately follow my wife to her grave : but before I 
 throw myself on my sword, I command my distraction so far 
 as to explain my story to you. I fear my heart will not keep 
 together until I have stabbed it. Poor, good old man ! Re- 
 member he that killed your laughter, died for it. In the 
 article of death, I give you my thanks, and pray for you, 
 though I dare not for myself. If it be possible, do not curse 
 
 me. 
 
48 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 THE SHIPWRECK. 
 
 YOUNG gentleman and lady, of ancient and honorable 
 
 houses in Cornwall, had from their childhood entertained 
 for each other a generous and noble passion, which had been 
 long opposed by their friends, by reason of the inequality of 
 their fortunes ; but their constancy to each other, and obe- 
 dience to those on whom they depended, wrought so much 
 upon their relations, that these celebrated lovers were at 
 length joined in marriage. Soon after their nuptials, the 
 bridegroom was obliged to go into a foreign country to take 
 care of a considerable fortune that had been left him by a 
 relation, and came very opportunely to improve their moder- 
 ate circumstances. They received the congratulations of all 
 the country on the occasion ; and I remember it was a com- 
 mon sentence in every one’s mouth, “ You see how faithful 
 love is rewarded.” 
 
 He took this agreeable voyage, and sent home, every post, 
 fresh accounts of his success in his affairs abroad ; but at last, 
 though he designed to return with the next ship, he lamented, 
 in his letters, that “business would detain him some time 
 longer from home,” because he would give himself the pleas- 
 ure of an unexpected arrival. 
 
 The young lady, after the heat of the day, walked everj 
 evening on the sea-shore, near which she lived, with a fa- 
 miliar friend, her husband’s kinswoman ; and diverted herself 
 with what objects they met there, or upon discourses of the 
 future methods of life, in the happy change in their circum- 
 stances. They stood one evening on the shore together in 
 a perfect tranquillity, observing the setting of the sun, the 
 calm face of the deep, and the silent heaving of the waves 
 which gently rolled towards them, and broke at their feet ; 
 
THE SHIPWRECK . 
 
 49 
 
 when, at a distance, her kinswoman saw something float on 
 the waters, which she fancied was a chest, and with a smile 
 told her, “ she saw it first, and if it came ashore full of jewels, 
 she had a right to it.” They both fixed their eyes upon it, 
 and entertained themselves with the subject of the wreck, 
 the cousin still asserting her right ; but promising, u if it was 
 a prize, to give her a very rich coral for the child of which 
 she was then big, provided she might be god-mother.” Their 
 mirth soon abated, when they observed, upon the nearer ap- 
 proach, that it was a human body. The young lady, who had 
 a heart naturally filled with pity and compassion, made many 
 melancholy reflections on the occasion. “ Who knows,” said 
 she, “ but this man may be the only hope and heir of a 
 wealthy house, the darling of indulgent parents, who are now 
 in impertinent mirth, and pleasing themselves with the 
 thoughts of offering him a bride they have got ready for 
 him? or may he not be the master of a family that wholly 
 depended upon his life ? There may, for aught we know, be 
 half-a-dozen fatherless children, and a tender wife, now ex- 
 posed to poverty by his death. What pleasure might he have 
 promised himself in the different welcome he was to have 
 from her and them? But let us go away; it is a dreadful 
 sight ! The best office we can do, is to take care that the 
 poor man, whoever he is, is decently buried.” She turned 
 away, when a wave threw the carcase on the shore. The 
 kinswoman immediately shrieked out, u Oh my cousin !” and 
 fell upon the ground. The unhappy wife went to help her 
 friend, when she saw her own husband at her feet, and dropped 
 in a swoon upon the body. An old woman, who had been 
 the gentleman’s nurse, came out about this time to call the 
 ladies in to supper, and found her child, as she always called 
 him, dead on the shore, her mistress and kinswoman both 
 lying dead by him. Her loud lamentations, and calling her 
 
50 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 young master to life, soon awaked the friend from her trance ; 
 but the wife was gone forever. 
 
 When the family and neighborhood got together round 
 the bodies, no oue asked any questions, but the objects be- 
 fore them told the story. 
 
 THE ALCHEMISTS. 
 
 B ASILIUS Valentinus was a person who had arrived at 
 the utmost perfection in the hermetic art, and initiated 
 his son Alexandrinus in the same mysteries ; but, as they 
 are not to be attained but by the painful, the pious, the 
 chaste, and the pure of heart, Basilius did not open to him, 
 because of his youth and the deviations too natural to it, the 
 greatest secrets of which he was master, as well knowing that 
 the operation would fail in the hands of a man so liable to 
 errors in life as Alexandrinus. But believing, from a cer- 
 tain indisposition of mind as well as body, his dissolution was 
 drawing nigh, he called Alexandrinus to him, and as he lay 
 on a couch over against which his son was seated, and pre- 
 pared by sending out servants one after another, and admo- 
 nition to examine that no one overheard them, he revealed 
 the most important of his secrets with the solemnity and lan- 
 guage of an adept. “ My son,” said he, “ many have been 
 the watchings, long the lucubrations, constant the labors of 
 thy father, not only to gain a great and plentiful estate to his 
 posterity, but also to take care that he should have no pos- 
 terity. Be not amazed, my child ; I do not mean that thou 
 shalt be taken from me, but that I will never leave thee, and 
 consequently cannot be said to have posterity. Observe this 
 small phial and this gallipot ; in this an unguent, in the other 
 a liquor. In these, my child, are collected such powers as 
 
THE ALCHEMISTS . 
 
 51 
 
 shall revive the springs of life when they are yet but just 
 ceased, and give new strength, new spirits, and in a word 
 wholly restore all the organs and senses of the human body, 
 to as great a duration as it had before enjoyed from its birth 
 to the day of the application of these my medicines. But, 
 my beloved son, care must be taken to apply them within ten 
 hours after the breath is out of the bodjq while yet the clay 
 is warm with its late life, and yet capable of resuscitation. 
 I find my frame grown crazy with perpetual toil and medita- 
 tion, and I conjure you, as soon as I am dead, to anoint me 
 with this unguent ; and when you see me begin to move, pour 
 into my lips this inestimable liquor, else the force of the oint- 
 ment will be ineffectual. By this means you will give me 
 life, as I have you, and we will from that hour mutually lay 
 aside the authority of having bestowed life on each other, but 
 live as brethren, and prepare new medicines against such an- 
 other period of time as will demand another application of 
 the same restoratives.” In a few days after these wonderful 
 ingredients were delivered to Alexandrinus, Basilius departed 
 this life ; but such was the pious sorrow of the son at the 
 loss of so excellent a father, and the first transports of grief 
 had so disabled him from all manner of business, that he 
 never thought of the medicines till the time to which his 
 father had limited their efficacy was expired. To tell the 
 truth, Alexandrinus was a man of wit and pleasure, and con- 
 sidered his father had lived out his natural time — his life was 
 long and uniform — suitable to the regularity of it — but that 
 he himself, poor sinner, wanted a new life, to repent of a 
 very bad one hitherto ; and in the examination of his heart 
 resolved to go on as he did with this natural being of his, 
 but repent very faithfully, and spend very piously, the life to 
 which he should be reduced by application of these rarities 
 when time should come, to his own person. 
 
52 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 ' It has been observed, that Providence frequently pun- 
 ishes the self-love of men who would do immoderately for 
 their offspring, with children vqry much below their charac- 
 ters and qualifications ; insomuch that they only transmit 
 their names to be borne by those who give daily proofs of 
 the vanity of the labor and ambition of their progenitors. 
 
 It happened thus in the family of Basilius; for Alexan- 
 drinus began to enjoy his ample fortune in all the extremi- 
 ties of household expenses, furniture, and insolent equipage; 
 and this he pursued, till the departure began, as he grew sen- 
 sible, to approach. As Basilius was punished with a son 
 very unlike him, Alexandrinus, besides that jealousy, had 
 proofs of the vicious disposition of his son Kenatus, for that 
 was his name. 
 
 Alexandrinus, as I observed, having very good reasons 
 for thinking it unsafe to trust the real secret of his phial and 
 gallipot to any man living, projected to make sure work, and 
 hope for his success depending from the avarice, not the 
 bounty, of his benefactor. 
 
 With this thought he called Kenatus to his bedside, and 
 bespoke him in the most pathetic gesture and accent. u As 
 much, my son, as you have been addicted to vanity and pleas- 
 ure, as I also have been before you, you nor I could escape 
 the fame or the good effects of the profound knowledge of 
 our progenitor, the renowned Basilius. His symbol is very 
 well known in the philosophic world, and I shall never forget 
 the venerable air of his countenance when he let me into the 
 profound mysteries of the table of Hermes. 4 It is true/ 
 said he, c and far removed from all color of deceit, that which 
 is inferior is like that which is superior, by which are ac- 
 quired and perfected all the miracles of a certain work ; the 
 father is the sun, the mother is the moon, the wind is the 
 womb, the earth is the nurse of it, and the mother of all per 
 
THE ALCHEMISTS . 
 
 53 
 
 fection.’ All this must be received with modesty and wis- 
 dom. The chemical people carry in all their jargon a whim- 
 sical sort of piety which is ordinary with great lovers of 
 money, and is no more but deceiving themselves, that their 
 regularity and strictness of manners, for the ends of the 
 world, has some affinity to the innocence of heart which must 
 recommend them to the next.” Kenatus wondered to hear 
 his father talk so like an adept, and with such a mixture of 
 piety, while Alexandrinus observing his attention fixed, pro- 
 ceeded. u This phial, child, and this little earthen pot, will 
 add to thy estate so much as to make thee the richest man in 
 the German empire. I am going to my long home, but shall 
 not return to common dust.” Then he resumed a countenance 
 of alacrity, and told him that if within an hour after his 
 death he anointed his whole body, and poured down his 
 throat that liquor which he had from old Basilius, the corpse 
 would be converted into pure gold. I will not attempt to 
 express to you the unfeigned tenderness that passed between 
 these two extraordinary persons ; but if the father recom- 
 mended the care of his remains with vehemence and affection, 
 the son was not behindhand in professing that he would not 
 cut off the least bit of him but upon the utmost extremity, or 
 to provide for his younger brothers and sisters. 
 
 Well, Alexandrinus died, and the heir of his body, as 
 our term is, could not forbear in the wantonness of his 
 heart to measure the length and breadth of his beloved 
 father, and cast up the ensuing value of him before he pro- 
 ceeded to operation. When he knew the immense reward 
 of his pains, he began the work : but lo ! when he had 
 anointed the corpse all over, and began to apply the liquor 
 the body stirred, and Kenatus, in a fright, broke the phial. 
 
54 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 THE VIOLENT HUSBAND. 
 
 "jV/TR. EUSTACE, a young gentleman of good estate near 
 d'J- Dublin, in Ireland, married a lady of youth, beauty, 
 and modesty, and lived with her, in general, with much ease 
 and tranquillity ; but was in his secret temper impatient of 
 rebuke. She was apt to fall into little sallies of passion ; 
 yet as suddenly recalled by her own reflection on her fault, 
 and the consideration of her husband’s temper. It happened, 
 as he, his wife, and her sister, were at supper together about 
 two months ago, that in the midst of a careless and familiar 
 conversation the sisters fell into a little warmth and contra- 
 diction. He, who was one of that sort of men who are never 
 unconcerned at what passes before them, fell into an out- 
 rageous passion on the side of the sister. The person about 
 whom they disputed was so near, that they were under no 
 restraint from running into vain repetitions of past heats ; on 
 which occasion all the aggravations of anger and distaste 
 boiled up, and were repeated with the bitterness of exasper- 
 ated lovers. The wife, observing her husband extremely 
 moved, began to turn it off, and rally him for interposing be- 
 tween two people, who from their infancy had been angry and 
 pleased with each other every half-hour. But it descended 
 deeper into his thoughts, and they broke up with a sullen 
 silence. The wife immediately retired to her chamber, 
 whither her husband soon after followed. When they were 
 in bed he soon dissembled a sleep ; and she, pleased that his 
 thoughts w^ere composed, fell into a real one. Their apart- 
 ment was very distant from the rest of their family in a lone- 
 ly country house. He now saw his opportunity, and with a 
 dagger he had brought to bed with him, stabbed his wife in 
 the side. She awaked in the highest terror ; but immediately 
 
INKLE AND YARICO. 
 
 55 
 
 imagining it was a blow designed for her husband by ruffians, 
 began to grasp him, and strove to awake and rouse him to 
 defend himself. He still pretended himself sleeping, and 
 gave her a second wound. 
 
 She now drew open the curtain, and, by the help of moon- 
 light, saw his hand lifted up to stab her. The horror dis- 
 armed her from further struggling ; and he, enraged anew at 
 being discovered, fixed his poniard in her bosom. As soon 
 as he believed he had despatched her, he attempted to escape 
 out of the window ; but she, still alive, called to him not to 
 hurt himself, for she might live. He was so stung with the 
 insupportable reflection upon her goodness, and his own vil* 
 lany, that he jumped to the bed, and wounded her all ovei 
 with as much rage as if every blow was provoked by new 
 aggravations. In this fury of mind he fled away. His wife 
 had still strength to go to her sister’s apartment, and give an 
 account of this wonderful tragedy ; but died the next day. 
 Some weeks after, an officer of justice, in attempting to seize 
 the criminal, fired upon him, as did the criminal upon ‘the 
 officer. Both their balls took place, and both immediately 
 expired. 
 
 INKLE AND YAEICO. 
 
 M B. THOMAS INKLE, of London, aged twenty years, 
 embarked in the Downs on the good ship called the 
 Achilles, bound for the West Indies, on the 16th of June, 
 1674, in order to improve his fortune by trade and merchan- 
 dise. Our adventurer was the third son of an eminent citizen, 
 who had taken particular care to instil into his mind an early 
 love of gain by making him a perfect master of numbers, and 
 consequently giving him a quick view of loss and advantage, 
 and preventing the natural impulse of his passions, by pre 
 
56 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 possession towards liis interests. With a mind thus turned, 
 young Inkle had a person every way agreeable, a ruddy 
 vigor in his countenance, strength in his limbs, with ringlets 
 of fair hair loosely flowing on his shoulders. It happened, in 
 the course of the voyage, that the Achilles in some distress 
 put into a creek on the main of America, in search of provis- 
 ions. The youth, who is the hero of my story, among others, 
 went ashore on this occasion. From their first landing they 
 were observed by a party of Indians, who hid themselves in the 
 woods for that purpose. The English unadvisedly marched a 
 great distance from the shore into the country, and were inter- 
 cepted by the natives, who slew the greatest number of them. 
 Our adventurer escaped among others by flying into a forest. 
 Upon his coming into a remote and pathless part of the wood, 
 he threw himself, tired and breathless, on a little hillock, 
 when an Indian maid rushed from a thicket behind him. 
 After the first surprise, they appeared mutually agreeable to 
 each other. If the European was highly charmed with the 
 limbs, features, and wild graces of the naked American, the 
 American was no less taken with the dress, complexion, and 
 shape of an European, covered from head to foot. The In- 
 dian grew immediately enamored of him, and consequently 
 desirous for his preservation. She therefore conveyed him 
 to a cave, where she gave him a delicious repast of fruits, and 
 led him to a stream to slake his thirst. In the midst of these 
 good offices, she would sometimes play with his hair, and de- 
 light in the opposition of its color to that of her fingers. 
 Then open his bosom, then laugh at him for covering it. She 
 was, it seems, a person of distinction, for she every day came 
 to him in a different dress, of the most beautiful bugles, 
 shells, and bredes. She likewise brought him a great many 
 spoils, which her other lovers had presented to her, so that 
 his cave was richly adorned with all the spotted skins of 
 
INKLE AND YARIDO. 
 
 57 
 
 beasts, and most fancy-colored feathers of fowls, which that 
 world afforded. To make his confinement more tolerable, 
 she would carry him in the dusk of the evening, or by the 
 favor of moonlight, to unfrequented groves and solitudes, and 
 show him where to lie down in safety, and sleep amidst the 
 falls of waters, and melody of nightingales. Her part was to 
 watch and hold him awake in her arms, for fear of her coun- 
 trymen, and awake him on occasion to consult his safety. In 
 this manner did the lovers pass away their time, till they 
 had learned a language of their own, in which the voyager 
 communicated to his mistress how happy he should be to have 
 her in his country, where she should be clothed in such silks 
 as his waistcoat was made of. and be carried in houses drawn 
 by horses without being exposed to wind or weather. All 
 this he promised her the enjoyment of, without such fears and 
 alarms as they were tormented with. In this tender corres- 
 pondence these lovers lived for many months, when Yarico, 
 instructed by her lover, discovered a vessel on the coast, to 
 which she made signal ; and in the night with the utmost joy 
 and satisfaction accompanied him to a ship’s crew of his 
 countrymen bound for Barbadoes. When a vessel from the main 
 arrives in that island, it seems the planters come down to the 
 shore, where there is an immediate market of the Indians and 
 other slaves, as with us of horses and oxen. 
 
 To be short, Mr. Thomas Inkle, now coming into English 
 territories, began seriously to reflect upon his loss of time, 
 and to weigh with himself how many days’ interest of his 
 money he had lost during his stay with Yarico. This thought 
 made the young man very pensive, and careful what account 
 he should be able to give his friends of his voyage. Upon 
 which consideration, the prudent and frugal young man sold 
 Yarico to a Barbadian merchant, notwithstanding that the 
 poor girl, to incline him to commiserate her condition, told 
 
58 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 him she was with child by him; but he only male use of the 
 information to rise in his demands upon the purchaser. 
 
 THE FITS. 
 
 A FINE town-lady was married to a country gentleman of 
 ancient descent in one of the counties of Great Britain, 
 who had good-humor to a weakness, and was that sort of per- 
 son, of whom it is said, he is no man’s enemy but his own ; 
 one, who had too much tenderness of soul to have any au- 
 thority with his wife ; and she too little sense to give him 
 any authority, for that reason. His kind wife observed this 
 temper in him, and made proper use of it. But knowing it 
 was beneath a gentlewoman to wrangle, she resolved upon an 
 expedient to save decorum, and wean her dear to her point 
 at the same time. She therefore took upon her to govern 
 him, by falling into fits whenever she was repulsed in a re- 
 quest, or contradicted in a discourse. It was a fish-day, 
 when, in the midst of her husband’s good-humor at table, she 
 bethought herself to try her project. She made signs that 
 she had swallowed a bone. The man grew pale as ashes, and 
 ran to her assistance, calling for drink. “ No, my dear,” said 
 she, recovering, “it is down, do not be frightened.” This 
 accident betrayed his fondness enough. The next day she 
 complained, a lady’s chariot, whose husband had not half his 
 estate, had a crane-neck, and hung with twice the air that 
 hers did. He answered, “ Madam, you know my income : 
 you know I have lost two coach-horses this spring,” — down 
 she fell. “ Hartshorn ! Betty, Susan, Alice, throw water in 
 her face.” With much care and pains, she was at last brought 
 to herself, and the vehicle in which she visited was amended 
 in the nicest manner to prevent relapses ; but they frequently 
 
THE FITS . 
 
 59 
 
 happened during that husband’s whole life, which he had the 
 good fortune to end in a few years after. The disconsolate 
 widow soon pitched upon a very agreeable successor, whom 
 she very prudently designed to govern by the same method. 
 This man knew her little arts, and resolved to break through 
 all tenderness, and be absolute master as soon as occasion 
 offered. One day it happened that a discourse arose about 
 furniture ; he was very glad of the occasion, and fell into an 
 invective against china, protesting, that he “ would never let 
 five pounds more of his money be laid out that way as long 
 as he breathed.” She immediately fainted. He starts up as 
 amazed, and calls for help. The maids run to the closet. He 
 chafes her face, bends her forward, and beats the palms of 
 her hands j her convulsions increase ; and down she stumbles 
 on the floor, where she lies quite dead, in spite of what the 
 whole family, from the nursery to the kitchen, could do for 
 her relief. 
 
 While every servant was there helping or lamenting their 
 mistress, he, fixing his cheek to hers, seemed to be following 
 in a trance of sorrow ; but secretly whispers her, u My dear, 
 this will never do : what is within my power and fortune you 
 may always command ; but none of your artifices ; you are 
 quite in other hands than those you passed these pretty pas- 
 sions upon.” This made her almost in the condition she 
 pretended ; her convulsions now came thicker, nor was she 
 to be held down. The kind man doubles his care, helps the 
 servants to throw water in her face by full quarts ; and when 
 the sinking part of the fit came again, u Well, my dear,” said 
 he, “ I applaud your actions ; but I must take my leave of 
 you till you are more sincere with me ; farewell forever ; you 
 shall always know where to hear of me, and want for noth- 
 ing.” With that he ordered her maids to keep plying her 
 with hartshorn, while he went for a physician ; he was scarce 
 
60 
 
 STORIES BY SIR RICHARD STEELE. 
 
 at the stair-head when she followed, and pulling him into a 
 closet, thanked him for her cure ; which was so absolute, 
 that she gave me this relation herself, to be communicated 
 for the benefit of all the voluntary invalids of her sex. 
 
(finks nf link nnti (0nlismit^ 
 
 The primary signification of the word Club, in its sense of a meet- 
 ing of companions, appears to be derived from the same root as that 
 of the massy stick, and means a consolidated body of persons large 
 enough to amount to something substantial; something more than 
 accidental and of no account. 
 
 A club appears formerly to have meant any such body organized 
 for a common object. It may now be defined to be a set of persons 
 associated for companionable enjoyment, at stated times and with a 
 division of expenses. 
 
 Clubs of this kind are thought to be of very modern origin. We 
 suspect they are as old as flourishing communities. Traces of them 
 are discernible in the literature of Greece and Rome, and the East, 
 especially in bacchanalian poetry. Indeed it would be strange if such 
 had not been the case, considering in how many respects men are alike 
 in all ages, and that where good cheer is to be found, they naturally 
 flock together. We are not aware, however, of any ascertained in- 
 stance of a club, earlier than the famous one at the Devil Tavern, for 
 which Ben Jonson wrote his Latin rules; and perhaps the name, in 
 the modern sense, is hardly appropriate even to this. It is not certain 
 that the rules applied to an organized body of contributors to the 
 expense, in contradistinction to a permitted range of payers. Clubs 
 thickened in the time of the Commonwealth, and exhibited their un- 
 doubted modern character in that of Steele and Addison. The meet- 
 ing of wits in Dryden’s time appears to have taken place in the open 
 coffee-room. It is in the clubs of the Taller and Spectator, that we 
 
62 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 first meet with all the characteristics <*f the modern club — its closed 
 doors, regular members, and ; creature comforts.” 
 
 44 Supper and friends expect me at the Rose.” 
 
 Addison, whose home was not happy, and whose blood required a 
 stimulus to set his wit flowing, found his greatest enjoyment in the 
 tavern-room ; Steele was born for one ; and except wit, ladies, gal- 
 lants, and good morals, there is nothing you hear more of in their 
 periodicals, than clubs. The circumstances which brought people to- 
 gether in this kind of society, were often of so fantastic a nature, that 
 it is not easy to distinguish the real from the imaginary sort in the 
 pages of these writers ; but some of the names are historical. There 
 is, in the first place, the Spectator’s own club, with immortal Sir 
 Roger de Coverley, and Will Honeycomb. Then come the Fat Club, 
 the Thin Club, the Club of Kings (that is to say, of people of the name 
 of King) ; the St. George’s Club, who swore Before George” (which 
 would seem to be Jacobitical, if they had not met on St. George’s 
 day) ; Street Clubs (composed of members residing in the same 
 street) ; the Hum-Drum and Mum Clubs (who ingeniously smoked 
 and held their tongues) ; the Duellists (famous for being killed and 
 “ hung”) ; the Kit-Cat (the great Whig Club, whose name originated 
 in tarts made by.Christopher Ivatt) ; the Beef-Steak (founded by Est- 
 court the comedian) ; the October (a club of Tory country-gentlemen 
 and beer-drinkers) ; the Ugly Club ; the Sighing or Amorous Club ; 
 the Fringe-Glove Club (a set of fops) ; the Hebdomadal (a set of quid- 
 nuncs) ; the Everlasting (some of whom were always sitting) ; the 
 Club of She-Romps, who once a month “ demolished a prude” (this 
 looks like a foundation of Steele’s acquaintance, Lady Mary Wortley 
 Montague) ; the Mohochs, who demolished windows and watchmen, 
 and ran their swords through sedan-chairs (really) ; the Little or Short 
 Club (an invention of Pope’s) ; the Tall (an invention of Addison’s) ; 
 the Terrible (Steele’s) ; the Silent, who had loud wives, and whose 
 motto was, “ Talking spoils company” (an invention of Zachary 
 Pearce’s, bishop of Rochester) ; and last not least, the Club at the 
 Trumpet, in Shire Lane, of which more anon. These, we believe, are 
 all the Clubs mentioned in the Taller , Spectator , and Guardian. 
 Brookes’s, and (we think) White’s, which are still places of meeting 
 for the wits, politicians, and gamblers of high life, arose before the 
 
CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 63 
 
 dissolution of some of them. Then there is the second Beef-Steak 
 Club (founded by Rich the harlequin) ; the famous Literary Club 
 (originating with Dr. Johnson) ; the Club of Monks at Medmenham 
 .Abbey (a profligate mistake) ; the King of Clubs (Bobus Smith’s. 
 “ himself a club,^’ brother of Sydney) ; and the high quality club en- 
 titled Nulli Sccundus , or Second to None (which a metaphysical wag 
 might translate, Worse than Nothing). Endless would be the enu- 
 meration. even if they could be discovered, of the Freemason and 
 other clubs, which have attained a minor celebrity, and imitations of 
 which branch off through all the gradations of tavern and public- 
 house, and are to be found all over the kingdom. — such as Odd Fel- 
 lows, Merry Fellows, Eccentrics, Free and Easys, Lords and Com- 
 mons. &c. &c., illustrious at Cheshire Cheeses, and Holes in the Wall j 
 and often better than best for comfort. We must not forget one, how- 
 ever, of which we have read somewhere, called the Livers, which had 
 bottles shaped like inverted cones, so that the wine would “ stand” 
 with nobody, but was forced to be always in circulation. The reader 
 wflll not be surprised to hear, that these “ Livers” were famous for 
 dying before their time. 
 
 Johnson said, that a tavern chair was, the “ throne of human felici- 
 ty.” That to him it was, we have no doubt ; and with admirable wit 
 and sense he filled it. Yet the word 41 throne” betrays a defect in the 
 right club notion. His felicity consisted in laying down the law, and 
 having the best of the argument. There was too much in it of his 
 illustrious namesake the poet. We suspect, however, that although 
 Johnson was greatest among his great friends, he was pleasantest 
 among his least. He had to make the most of them in his turn, and 
 to set them a good example. He has the merit of having invented 
 the word “ clubable.” Boswell, said he, is a “ clubable man.” He 
 meant intelligent, social, and good tempered. These are the three 
 great requisites for a clubbist ; and it is better to miss the intelli- 
 gence than the sociality, and the sociality than the good temper. The 
 great end of a club is the refreshment to the spirits, after the cares of 
 business or of home, whether those cares be of a bad or a good sort ; 
 and though intellect may be everything with some, and sociality with 
 others, better is the merest puff of a tobacco-pipe with peace, than 
 Johnson himself or Burke without it. We are for the Hum-Drums 
 in preference to the Duellists ; for a little noise with good fellowship 
 to the Hum-Drums ; for good fellowship and wit without the noise to 
 
64 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 anything. But if we cannot have all we desire in those respects, give 
 us a few chatty, cordial people, neither geniuses nor fools, with whom 
 the news of the day and questions of personal interest can be ex- 
 changed, with the certainty that there will at least be peace and har- 
 mony, if little wit. Intellect and wit enough can be got from books ; 
 perhaps too much of them may have been met with in the course of 
 the day. But a club is the next thing before a pillow ; and if it is to 
 refresh you after the day’s employment, it should do it in a manner 
 that at all events dismisses you tranquilly to your repose for the night. 
 We suspect, upon the whole, that the Street and Village Clubs have 
 been most successful ; meetings established by the natural course of 
 things, and expecting nothing but a comparison of daily notes and a 
 little cheerful refreshment. As to great Reform and Conservative 
 Clubs, Athenaeums, &c., they may be good for public objects, but 
 publicity has nothing to do with the comfort suitable to the club 
 proper; and those institutions in fact, club- wards, are but escapes 
 from domesticity into cheapness and solitude. A man’may be a great 
 frequenter of them, and club with nothing but callers on business and 
 a lonely dinner-table. The club to belong to, of all others, would be 
 one composed of good-natured men of genius, such as Steele, Fielding, 
 and Thomson, who had reflection enough for all subjects, enthusiasm 
 enough to give them animation, good breeding enough to hinder the 
 animation from becoming noisy, and humanity enough to make allow- 
 ance for honest occasional departures from any rule whatever. Shak- 
 speare would include such men in his all-comprehensive person ; but 
 we are not sure that he would not over-inform the club with intellect ; 
 set it too abundantly thinking ; and besides, it is difficult, as modern 
 clubbists, to take to the idea of a man of a distant period, with a dif- 
 ferent style of language, and retrospective meats and drinks. Other- 
 wise Chaucer would surely be a perfect member ; and who would not 
 rejoice in the company of Suckling and Marvell 1 
 
 We have selected the following clubs from the writings of Steele 
 and Goldsmith, as exemplifying the three main varieties ; the well- 
 bred, humorsome, but intellectual club (for though Sir Roger de Cov- 
 erley and Will Honeycomb make the principal figures in the account; 
 of it, it is to be recollected that the Spectator is there) ; the Trumpet 
 Club in Shire Lane, frequented by the Tatler, which is the ordinary 
 common-place club of smokers and old story-tellers, by way of opiate, 
 bedwards ; and the clubs of low life, which Goldsmith, as a cosmopo- 
 
THE SPECTATOR'S CLUB . 
 
 65 
 
 I 
 
 lite, delighted to paint, and which had probably often seen him as a 
 visitor, without suspecting that the simple-looking Irishman was a 
 genius come to immortalize it. Steele’s delineations are exquisite ; 
 but Goldsmith’s are no less so. 
 
 THE SPECTATOR’S CLUB.* 
 
 BY STEELE. 
 
 T HE first of our society is a gentleman of Worcestershire, 
 of ancient descent, a baronet, bis name Sir Roger de Cov- 
 erley. His great-grandfather was inventor of that famous 
 country-dance which is called after him. All who know that 
 shire are very well acquainted with the parts and merits of 
 Sir Roger. He is a gentleman that is very singular in his 
 behavior, but his singularities proceed from his good sense, 
 and are contradictions to the manners of the world, only as 
 he thinks the world is in the wrong. However, this humor 
 creates him no enemies, for he does nothing with sourness or 
 obstinacy ; and his' being unconfined to modes and forms 
 makes him but the readier and more capable to please and 
 oblige all who know him. When he is in town he lives in 
 Soho Square. It is said he keeps himself a bachelor by rea- 
 son he was crossed in love by a perverse beautiful widow of 
 the next county to him. Before this disappointment Sir 
 Roger was what you call a fine gentleman, had often supped 
 with my Lord Rochester and Sir George Etherege, fought a 
 duel upon his first coming to town, and kicked Bully Dawson 
 in a public coffee-house for calling him youngster. f But be- 
 
 * No. 2. 
 
 f This has been thought inconsistent with Sir Roger’s character 
 for simplicity ; but it is not so. It only shows that simplicity is com- 
 patible with the imitation of anything in vogue during the outset of 
 life. Collins, the poet, whose subsequent appearance Johnson de- 
 
G6 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 ing ill-used by the above-mentioned widow, lie was very se- 
 rious for a year and a half ; and though, his temper being 
 naturally jovial, he at last got over it, he grew careless of 
 himself, and never dressed afterwards. He continues to 
 wear a coat and doublet of the same cut that were in fashion 
 at the time of his repulse, which, in his merry humors, he 
 tells us has been in and out twelve times since he first wore 
 it. ’Tis said Sir Hoger grew humble in his desires after he 
 had forgot this cruel beauty, insomuch that it is reported he 
 has frequently offended in point of chastity with beggars and 
 gipsies ; but this is looked upon by his friends rather as a 
 matter of raillery than truth. He is now in his fifty-sixth 
 year, cheerful, gay, and hearty ; keeps a good house both in 
 town and country ; a great lover of mankind ; but there is 
 such a mirthful cast in his behavior, that he is rather beloved 
 than esteemed. His tenants grow rich ; his servants look 
 satisfied ; all the young women profess love to him, and the 
 young men are glad of his company. When he comes into a 
 house he calls the servants by their names, and talks all the 
 way up stairs to a visit. I must not omit, that Sir Hoger is 
 Justice of the Quorum ; that he fills the chair at a Quarter 
 Session with great ability ; and three months ago gained 
 universal applause by explaining a passage in the Game Act. 
 
 The gentleman next in esteem and authority among us is 
 another bachelor, who is a member of the Inner Temple ; a 
 man of great probity, wit, and understanding ; but he has 
 chosen his place of residence rather to obey the direction of 
 
 scribes as “ decent and manly,” astonished his friends by the foppish- 
 ness of his dress on his first coming to town ; and Charles Fox, the 
 simplest of men, was at one time a beau of the first fashion. At least 
 he undertook to appear such. We suspect that the fopperies of Sir 
 Roger, and of the poet, and the statesman, might all have been seen 
 through by discerning eyes. 
 
THE SPECTATOR'S CLUB. 
 
 67 
 
 an old hmnorsome father, than in pursuit of his own inclina- 
 tions. He was placed there to study the laws of the land, 
 and is the most learned of any of the house in those of the 
 stage. Aristotle and Longinus are much better understood 
 by him than Littleton or Coke. The father sends up, every 
 post, questions relating to marriage-articles, leases, and ten- 
 ures, in the neighborhood ; all which questions he agrees 
 with an attorney to answer in the lump. He is studying the 
 passions themselves, when he should be inquiring into the de- 
 bates among men which arise from them. He knows the 
 argument of each of the Orations of Demosthenes and Tally, 
 but not one case in the reports of our own courts. No one 
 ever took him for a fool ; but none, except his most intimate 
 friends, know he has a great deal of wit. This turn makes 
 him at once both disinterested and agreeable. As few of his 
 thoughts are drawn from business, they are most of them fit 
 for publication. His taste for books is a little too just for the 
 age lives in. He has read all, but approves of very few. His 
 familiarity with the customs, manners, actions, and writings 
 of the ancients, makes him a very delicate observer of what 
 occurs to him in the present world. He is an excellent 
 critic ; and the time of the play is his hour of business. 
 Exactly at five he passes through New Inn, crosses through 
 Russell Court, and takes a turn at Wills* till the play be- 
 gins. He has his shoes rubbed and his periwig powdered at 
 the barber’s, as you go in to the Rose.f It is for the good of 
 the audience when he is at a play, for the actors have an am- 
 bition to please him. 
 
 * A coffee-house in Russell Street, Covent Garden, frequented by 
 the wits. It occupied the south-west corner of Bow Street ; and was 
 the house that Dryden had frequented. 
 
 f The tavern mentioned in the pleasant story of the “ Medicine 71 in 
 the first volume of the Taller , No. 2. We know not where it stood ; 
 probably in Rose Street, in the above neighborhood. 
 
G8 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 The person of next consideration is Sir Andrew Freeport, 
 a merchant of great eminence in the city of London ; a per- 
 son of indefatigable industry, strong reason, and great ex- 
 perience. His notions of trade are noble and generous, and 
 (as every rich man has some sly way of jesting, which would 
 make no great figure were he not a rich man) he calls the sea 
 the British Common. He is acquainted with commerce in 
 all its parts, and will tell you that it is a stupid and barbar- 
 ous way to extend dominion by arms ; for true power is to 
 be got by arts and industry. He will often argue, that if 
 this part of our trade were well cultivated, we should gain 
 from one nation ; and if another, from another. I have 
 heard him prove that diligence makes more lasting acquisi- 
 tions than valor ; and that sloth has ruined more nations 
 than the sword. He abounds in several frugal maxims, 
 amongst which the greatest favorite is u A penny saved is a 
 penny got.” A general trader of good sense is pleasanter 
 company than a general scholar ; and Sir Andrew having a 
 natural unaffected eloquence, the perspicuity of his discourse 
 gives the same pleasure that wit would in another man. He 
 has made his fortune himself, and says that England may be 
 richer than other kingdoms, by as plain methods as he him- 
 self is richer than other men ; though, at the same time, I can 
 say this of him, that there is not a point in the compass but 
 blows home a ship in which he is an owner. 
 
 Next to Sir Andrew Freeport in the club-room sits Cap- 
 tain Sentry, a gentleman of great courage, good understand- 
 ing, but of invincible modesty. He is one of those that de- 
 serve very well, but are very awkward at putting their talents 
 within the observation of such as should take notice of them. 
 He was some years a captain, and behaved with great gallan- 
 try in several engagements, and at several sieges ; but, having 
 a small estate of his own, and being next heir to Sir Roger, 
 
THE SPECTATOR'S CLUB. 
 
 G9 
 
 he has quitted a way of life in which no man can rise suitably 
 to his merit who is not something of a courtier as well as a 
 soldier. I have heard him often lament, that in a profession 
 where merit is placed in so conspicuous a view, impudence 
 should get the better of modesty. When he has talked to 
 this purpose, I never heard him make a sour expression, but 
 frankly confess that he left the world, because he was not fit 
 for it. A strict honesty, and an even regular behavior, are 
 in themselves obstacles to him that must press through crowds, 
 who endeavor at the same end with himself — the favor of a 
 commander. He will, however, in his way of talk, excuse 
 generals for not disposing according to men’s desert, or in- 
 quiring into it ; for, says he, that great man who has a mind 
 to help me, has as many to break through to come at me, as 
 I have to come at him. Therefore he will conclude that the 
 man who would make a figure, especially in a military way, 
 must get over all false modesty, and assist his patron against 
 the importunity of other pretenders, by a proper assurance in 
 his own vindication. He says it is a civil cowardice to be 
 backward in affecting what you ought to expect, as it is a 
 military fear to be slow in attacking when it is your duty. 
 With this candor does the gentlemen speak of himself and 
 others. The same frankness runs through all his conversa- 
 tion. The military part of his life has furnished him with 
 many adventures, in the relation of which he is very agree- 
 able to the company ; for he is never overbearing, though 
 accustomed to command men in the utmost degree below him ; 
 nor ever too obsequious, from an habit of obeying men highly 
 above him. 
 
 But that our society may not appear a set of humorists, 
 unacquainted with the gallantries and pleasures of the age, 
 we have among us the gallant Will Honeycomb, a gentleman 
 who, according to his years, should be in the decline of his 
 
70 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 life, but having ever been very careful of his person, and al- 
 ways had a very easy fortnne, Time has made but a very little 
 impression upon him, either by wrinkles on his forehead or 
 traces on his brain. His person is well turned, and of a good 
 height He is very ready at that sort of discourse with which 
 men usually entertain women. He has all his life dressed 
 very well, and remembers habits as others do men. He can 
 smile when one speaks to him, and laughs easily. He knows 
 the history of every mode, and can inform you from which 
 of the French king’s wenches our wives and daughters had 
 this manner of curling their hair, or that way of placing their 
 hoods ; whose frailty was covered with such a sort of petti- 
 coat, and whose vanity to show her foot made that part of 
 the dress so short in such a year. In a word, all his conver- 
 sation and knowledge have been in the female world. As 
 other men of his age will take notice to you what such a 
 minister said upon such and such an occasion, he will tell you, 
 when the Duke of Monmouth danced at court, such a woman 
 was then smitten ; another was taken with him at the head 
 of his troop in the park. In all these important relations, he 
 has ever about the same time received a kind glance or blow 
 of the fan from some celebrated beauty, mother of the present 
 Lord Such-a-one. . . . 
 
 I cannot tell whether I am to account him whom I am 
 next to speak of as one of our company, for he visits us but 
 seldom ; but when he does, he adds to every man else a new 
 enjoyment of himself. He is a clergyman, a very philosophic 
 man, of general learning, great sanctity of life, and the most 
 exact good breeding. He has the misfortune to be of a very 
 weak constitution, and consequently cannot accept of such 
 cares and such business as preferments in his function w T ould 
 oblige him to. He is therefore among divines what a cham- 
 ber counsellor is among lawyers. The probity of his mind, 
 
THE CLUB OF THE TATLER. 
 
 71 
 
 and the integrity of his life, create him followers ; as being 
 eloquent or loud advances others. He seldom introduces the 
 subject he speaks upon ; but we are so far gone in years, that 
 he observes, when he is among us, an earnestness to have him 
 fall on some divine topic, which he always treats with much 
 authority, as one who has no interest in this world ; as one 
 who is hastening to the object of all his wishes, and conceives 
 hope from his decays and infirmities. These are my ordi- 
 nary companions. 
 
 THE CLUB OF THE TATLER.* 
 
 BY THE SAME. 
 
 “Habeo senectuti magnam gratiam, quae mihi sermonis aviditatem auxit, po- 
 
 Tull. de Sen. 
 
 tionis et cibi sustulit.” 
 
 u I am much beholden to old age, which has increased my eagerness for conver 
 sation, in proportion as it has lessened my appetite of hunger and thirst.” 
 
 FTER having applied my mind with more than ordinary 
 
 LL attention to my studies, it is my usual custom to relax 
 and unbend it in the conversation of such as are rather easy 
 than shining companions. This I find particularly necessary 
 for me before I retire to rest, in order to draw my slumbers 
 upon me by degrees, and fall asleep insensibly. This is the 
 particular use I make of a set of heavy honest men, with 
 whom I have passed many hours with much indolence, though 
 not with great pleasure. Their conversation is a kind of pre- 
 parative for sleep. It takes the mind down from its abstrac- 
 tions, leads it into the familiar traces of thought, and lulls it 
 into that state of tranquillity which is the condition of a 
 thinking man when he is but half awake. After this my 
 reader will not be surprised to hear the account which I am 
 about to give of a club of my own contemporaries, among 
 
 * No. 132. 
 
72 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH 
 
 whom I pass two or three hours every evening. This I look 
 upon as taking my first nap before I go to bed. The truth 
 of it is, I should think myself unjust to posterity, as well as 
 to the society at the Trumpet,* of which I am a member, did 
 not I in some part of my writings give an account of the per- 
 sons among whom I have passed almost a sixth part of my 
 time for these last forty years. Our club consisted originally 
 of fifteen ; but, partly by the severity of the law in arbitrary 
 times, and partly by the natural effects of old age, we are at 
 present reduced to a third part of that number ; in which, 
 however, we have this consolation, that the best company is 
 said to consist of five persons. I must confess, besides the 
 afore-mentioned benefit which I meet with in the conversa- 
 tion of this select society, I am not the less pleased with 
 the company in which I find myself the greatest wit among 
 them, and am heard as their oracle in all points of learning 
 and difficulty. 
 
 Sir Jeoffry Notch, who is the oldest of the club, has been 
 in possession of the right-hand chair time out of mind, and 
 is the only man among us that has the liberty of stirring the 
 fire. This, our foreman, is a gentleman of an ancient family 
 that came to a great estate some years before he had discre- 
 tion, and run it out in hounds, horses, and cock-fighting ; for 
 which reason he looks upon himself as an honest worthy 
 gentleman, who has had misfortunes in the world, and calls 
 every thriving man an upstart. 
 
 * The Trumpet was a public-house in the lane in which Steele, as 
 the Tatler or Mr. Bickerstaff, pretended to live. This lane was no 
 greater locality than Shire Lane, lately so called, close to Temple 
 Bar, now Great Shire Lane ; and the Trumpet is still extant as a pub- 
 lic-house, called the Duke of York. Here, in the drawing-room (for 
 the dignity’s sake), we may fancy Major Matchlock and old Dick 
 Reptile doling forth their respective insipidities. 
 
THE CLUB OF THE TATLER. 
 
 73 
 
 Major Matchlock is the next senior, who served in the 
 last civil wars, and has all the battles by heart. He does 
 not think any action in Europe worth talking of since the 
 fight of Marston Moor ;* and every night tells us of his 
 having been knocked off his horse at the rising of the 
 London apprentices ;f for which he is in great esteem 
 amongst us. 
 
 Honest old Dick Reptile is the third of our society. He 
 is a good-natured indolent man, who speaks little himself, 
 but laughs at our jokes ; and brings his young nephew along 
 with him, a youth of eighteen years old, to show him good 
 company, and give him a taste of the world. This young 
 fellow sits generally silent, but whenever he opens his mouth, 
 or laughs at anything that passes, he is constantly told by 
 his uncle, after a jocular manner, “ Ay, ay, Jack, you young 
 men think us fools; but we old men know you are.” 
 
 The greatest wit of our company, next to myself, is a 
 Bencher of the neighboring Inn, who in his youth frequented 
 the ordinaries about Charing Cross, and pretends to have 
 been intimate with Jack Ogle.j: He has about ten distichs 
 of Hudibras without book, and never leaves the club until 
 he has applied them all. If any modern wit be mentioned, 
 or any town frolic spoken of, he shakes his head at the dul- 
 ness of the present age, and tells us a story of J ack Ogle. 
 
 For my part, I am esteemed among them because they 
 
 * In 1644, where Cromwell’s cavalry turned the day against 
 Charles I. 
 
 f Probably in 1647, when they forced their w r ay into the House 
 of Commons with a petition signed by ten thousand citizens. But as 
 the date of the club is 1709, the Major must have been a very old 
 gentleman indeed, if his memory served him rightly. 
 
 X Jack Ogle was a wild fellow about town, whose sister is said to 
 have been one of the mistresses of the Duke of York (James II.) 
 
 4 
 
74 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 see I am something respected by others ; though at the same 
 time I understand by their behavior that I am considered 
 by them as a man of a great deal of learning, but no knowl- 
 edge of the world ; insomuch that the Major sometimes, in 
 the height of his military pride, calls me the philosopher ; 
 and Sir Jeoffry, no longer ago than last night, upon a dispute 
 what day of the month it was then in Holland, pulled his 
 pipe out of his mouth, and cried, “ What does the scholar say 
 to it?” 
 
 Our club meets precisely at six o’clock in the evening; 
 but I did not come last night until half an hour after seven, 
 by which means I escaped the battle of Naseby, which the 
 Major usually begins at about three quarters after six. I 
 found also that my good friend the Bencher had already 
 spent three of his distichs, and only waited an opportunity 
 to hear a sermon spoken of, that he might introduce the 
 couplet* where u a stick” rhymes to u ecclesiastic.” At my 
 entrance into the room, they were naming a red petticoat and 
 a cloak, by which I found that the Bencher had been divert- 
 ing them with a story of Jack Ogle.f 
 
 I had no sooner taken my seat, but Sir Jeoffry, to show 
 his good-will towards me, gave me a pipe of his own tobacco, 
 and stirred up the fire. I look upon it as a point of morality 
 
 * In Hudibras. 
 
 f The story is thus given in the notes to the variorum edition of 
 the Tatler, published in 1797. Ogle once rode “as a private gentle- 
 man, in the first troop of foot-guards, at that time under the command 
 of the Duke of Monmouth. He had pawned his trooper’s cloak, and 
 to save appearances at a review, had borrowed his landlady’s red pet- 
 ticoat, which he carried rolled up en croupe behind him. The Duke 
 of Monmouth smoked it, and willing to enjoy the confusion of a de- 
 tection, gave order to cloak all , with which Ogle, after some hesita- 
 tion, was obliged to comply. Although he could not cloak, he said he 
 would petticoat with the best of them.” — Vol. iii. p. 124. 
 
THE CLUB OF THE TATLER . 
 
 75 
 
 to be obliged by those who endeavor to oblige me ; and 
 therefore, in requital for his kindness, and to set the conver- 
 sation a-going, I took the best occasion I could to put him 
 upon telling us the story of old Gan tie tt, which he always 
 does with very particular concern. He traced up his descent 
 on both sides for several generations, describing his diet and 
 manner of life, with his several battles, and particularly the 
 one in which he fell. This Gantlett w r as a game-cock, upon 
 whose head the knight, in his youth, had won five hundred 
 pounds and lost two thousand. This naturally set the Major 
 upon the account of Edge-hill fight, and ended in a duel of 
 Jack Ogle’s. 
 
 Old Reptile was extremely attentive to all that was said, 
 though it was the same he had heard every night for these 
 twenty years, and upon all occasions winked upon his nephew 
 to mind what passed. 
 
 This may suffice to give the wnrld a taste of our innocent 
 conversation, which we spun out till about ten of the clock, 
 when my maid came with a lantern to light me home. I 
 could not but reflect with myself, as I was going out, upon 
 the talkative humor of old men, and the little figure which 
 that part of life makes in one who cannot employ his natural 
 propensity in discourses which would make him venerable. 
 I must own it makes me very melancholy in company when 
 I hear a young man begin a story ; and have often observed, 
 that one of a quarter of an hour long in a man of five-and- 
 twenty, gathers circumstances every time he tells it, until it 
 grows into a long Canterbury tale of two hours by the time 
 he is threescore. 
 
 The only way of avoiding such a trifling and frivolous old 
 age, is to lay up in our way to it such stores of knowledge 
 and observation as make us useful and agreeable in our de- 
 clining years. The mind of man in a long life will become a 
 
7G 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 magazine of wisdom or folly, and will consequently discharge 
 itself in something impertinent or improving. For which 
 reason, as there is nothing more ridiculous than an old trifling 
 story-teller, so there is nothing more venerable than one who 
 has turned his experience to the entertainment and advan- 
 tage of mankind. 
 
 In short, we, who are in the last stage of life, and are apt 
 to indulge ourselves in talk, ought to consider if what we 
 speak be worth being heard, and endeavor to make our dis- 
 course like that of Nestor, which Homer compares to the 
 flowing of honey for its sweetness. 
 
 I am afraid I shall be thought guilty of this excess I am 
 speaking of, when I cannot conclude without observing, that 
 Milton certainly thought of this passage in Homer, when, in 
 his description of an eloquent spirit, he says — 
 
 “ His tongue dropped manna.”* 
 
 * We cannot miss the opportunity of adding to this account of 
 the members of the Trumpet Club, that of another associate, whose 
 character is drawn by Steele in a previous number, and is one of the 
 finest that ever proceeded from his pen. It shows his contempt of 
 that a*bsurdest of all the passions of mortality— Pride. The reader 
 will take notice of the exquisite expression “ insolent benevolence ; 5 ' 
 and the “ very insignificant fellow, but exceeding gracious.” 
 
 “ The most remarkable (he says) of the persons whose disturbance 
 arises from Pride, and whom I shall use all possible diligence to cure, 
 are such as are hidden in the appearance of quite contrary habits and 
 dispositions. Among such, I shall in the first place take care of one 
 who is under the most subtle species of pride that I have observed in 
 my whole experience. 
 
 “ This patient is a person for whom I have great respect, as being 
 an old courtier and a friend of mine in my youth. The man has but 
 a bare subsistence, just enough to pay his reckoning with us at the 
 Trumpet; but, by having spent the beginning of his life in the hearing 
 of great men and persons in power, he is always promising to do good 
 
GOLDSMITH'S CLUBS. 
 
 77 
 
 GOLDSMITH’S CLUBS. 
 
 FROM THE ESSAYS. 
 
 T HE first club I entered upon coming to town was that of 
 the Choice Spirits. The name was entirely suited to my 
 taste ; I was a lover of mirth, good-humor, and even some- 
 times of fun, from my childhood. 
 
 As no other passport was requisite but the payment of 
 two shillings at the door, I introduced myself without farther 
 ceremony to the members, who were already assembled, and 
 had for some time begun upon business. The grand, with a 
 mallet in his hand, presided at the head of the table. I could 
 not avoid, upon my entrance, making use of all my skill in 
 physiognomy, in order to discover that superiority of genius 
 in men who had taken a title so superior to the rest of man- 
 kind. I expected to see the lines of every face marked with 
 strong thinking ; but, though I had some skill in this science, 
 I could for my life discover nothing but a pert simper, fat 
 or profound stupidity. 
 
 My speculations were soon interrupted by the grand, who 
 
 offices, to introduce every man he converses with into the world ; will 
 desire one of ten times his substance to let him see him sometimes, 
 and hints to him that he does not forget him. He answers to matters 
 of no consequence with great circumspection ; but, however, maintains 
 a general civility in his words and actions, and an insolent benevo- 
 lence to all whom he has to do with. This he practises with a grave 
 tone and air; and though I am his senior by twelve years, and richer 
 by forty pounds per annum, he had yesterday the impudence to com- 
 mend me to my face, and tell me J he should always be ready to en- 
 courage me.’ In a word, he is a very insignificant fellow, but exceeding 
 gracious. The best return I can make him for his favors is to carry 
 him myself to Bedlam, and see him well taken care of.” — Taller , 
 No. 127. 
 
78 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 had knocked down Mr. Spriggins for a song. I was upon 
 this whispered by one of the company who sat next me, that 
 I should now see something touched off to a nicety, for Mr. 
 Spriggins was going to give us Mad Tom in all its glory. 
 Mr. Spriggins endeavored to excuse himself ; for, as he was 
 to act a madman and a king, it was impossible to go through 
 the part properly without a crown and chains. His excuses 
 were over-ruled by a great majority, and with much vocifera- 
 tion. The president ordered up the jack-chain ; and, instead 
 of a crown, our performer covered his brows with an inverted 
 jordan. After he had rattled his chain and shook his head, 
 to the great delight of the whole company, he began his song. 
 As I have heard few young fellows offer to sing in company 
 that did not expose themselves, it was no great disappoint- 
 ment to me to find Mr. Spriggins among the number : how- 
 ever, not to seem an odd fish, I rose from my seat in rapture, 
 cried out, “ Bravo ! encore !” and slapped the table as loud 
 as any of the rest. 
 
 The gentleman who sat next me seemed highly pleased 
 with my taste, and the ardor of my approbation ; and, whis- 
 pering, told me I had suffered an immense loss, for, had I 
 come a few minutes sooner, I might have heard “ Geeho 
 Dobbin” sung in a tip-top manner, by the pimple-nosed spirit 
 at the president’s right elbow ; but he was evaporated before 
 I came. 
 
 As I was expressing my uneasiness at this disappoint- 
 ment, I found the attention of the company employed upon 
 a fat figure, who, with a voice more rough than the Stafford- 
 shire giant’s, was giving us 'the “Softly sweet, in Lydian 
 measure,” of Alexander’s Feast. After a short pause cf ad- 
 miration, to this succeeded a Welsh dialogue, with the hu- 
 mors of Teague and Taffy ; after that came on Old Jackson, 
 with a story between every stanza ; next was sung the Dust- 
 
GOLDSMITH'S CLUBS. 
 
 79 
 
 Cart, and then Solomon's Song. The glass began now to 
 circulate pretty freely ; those who were silent when sober 
 would now be heard in their turn ; every man had his song, 
 and he saw no reason why he should not be heard as well as 
 any of the rest ; one begged to be heard while he gave Death 
 and the Lady in high taste ; another sung to a plate which he 
 kept trundling on the edges ; nothing was now heard but 
 singing ; voice rose above voice, and the whole became one 
 universal shout, when the landlord came to acquaint the com- 
 pany that the reckoning was drunk out. Rabelais calls the 
 moments in which a reckoning is mentioned, the most melan- 
 choly of our lives ; never was so much noise so quickly 
 quelled, as by this short but pathetic oration of our landlord. 
 
 Drunk out !” was echoed in a tone of discontent round the 
 table ; “ drunk out already ! that was very odd ! that so much 
 punch could be drunk out already ! impossible !” The land- 
 lord, however, seeming resolved pot to retreat from his first 
 assurances, the company was dissolved, and a president chosen 
 for the night ensuing. 
 
 A friend of mine, to whom I was complaining some time 
 after of the entertainment I have been describing, proposed 
 to bring me to the club that he frequented, which he fancied 
 would suit the gravity of my temper exactly. u We have, at 
 the Muzzy Club,” says he, “ no riotous mirth, nor awkward 
 ribaldry, no confusion or bawling, all is conducted with wis- 
 dom and decency ; besides, some of our members are worth 
 forty thousand pounds, men of prudence and foresight every 
 one of them ; these are the proper acquaintance, and to such 
 I will to-night introduce you.” I was charmed at the pro- 
 posal. To be acquainted with men worth forty thousand 
 pounds, and to talk wisdom the whole night, were offers that 
 threw me into rapture. 
 
 At seven o’clock I was accordingly introduced by my 
 
so 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH. 
 
 friend ; not indeed to the company, for, though I made my 
 best bow, they seemed insensible of my approach ; but to the 
 table at which they were sitting. Upon my entering the 
 room, I could not avoid feeling a secret veneration, from the 
 solemnity of the scene before me ; the members kept a pro- 
 found silence, each with a pipe in his mouth and a pewter 
 pot in his hand, and with faces that might easily be construed 
 into absolute wisdom. Happy society ! thought I to myself, 
 where the members think before they speak, deliver nothing 
 rashly, but convey their thoughts to each other, pregnant 
 with meaning, and matured by reflection. 
 
 In this pleasing speculation I continued a full half-hour, 
 expecting each moment that somebody would begin to open 
 his mouth. Every time the pipe was laid down, I expected 
 it was to speak ; but it was only to spit. At length, resolving 
 to break the charm myself, and overcome their extreme 
 diffidence, for to this I imputed their silence, I rubbed my 
 hands, and, looking as wise as possible, observed that the 
 nights began to grow a little coolish at this time of the 
 year. This, as it was directed to no one of the company in 
 particular, none thought himself obliged to answer ; where- 
 fore I continued still to rub my hands and look wise. My 
 next effort was addressed to a gentleman who sat next me ; 
 to whom I observed that the beer was extremely good ; my 
 neighbor made no reply, but by a large puff of tobacco- 
 smoke. 
 
 I now began to be uneasy in this dumb society, till one 
 of them a little relieved me by observing, that bread had not 
 risen these three weeks. “ Ah !” says another, still keeping 
 the pipe in his mouth, “ that puts me in mind of a pleasant 
 story about that — hem — very well ; you must know — but, be- 
 fore I begin — sir, my service to you — where was I ?” 
 
 My next club goes by the name of the Ilarmonical So 
 
GOLDSMITH'S CLUBS. 
 
 81 
 
 ciety ; probably from that love of order and friendship which 
 every person commends in institutions of this nature. The 
 landlord was himself founder. The money spent is four- 
 pence each, and they sometimes whip for a double reckoning. 
 To this club few recommendations are requisite except the 
 introductory fourpence and my landlord’s good word, which 
 as he gains by it, he never refuses. 
 
 We all here talked and behaved as everybody else usu- 
 ally does on his club-night. We discussed the topic of the 
 day, drank each other’s healths, snuffed the candles with our 
 fingers, and filled our pipes from the same plate of tobacco. 
 The company saluted each other in the common manner. 
 Mr. Bellows-mender hoped Mr. Curry-comb-maker had not 
 caught cold going home the last club -night ; and he returned 
 the compliment by hoping, that young Master Bellows- 
 mender had got well again of the chincough. Dr. Twist told 
 us a story of a parliament-man, with whom he was intimately 
 acquainted ; while the bagman, at the same time, was telling 
 a better story of a noble lord, with whom he could do any- 
 thing. A gentleman in a black wig and leather breeches, at 
 the other end of the table was engaged in a long narrative 
 of the ghost in Cock Lane he had read it in the papers of 
 the day, and was telling it to some that sat next him who 
 could not read. Near him, Mr. Dibbins was disputing on 
 the old subject of religion with a Jew pedler over the table ; 
 while the president vainly knocked down Mr. Leatliersides 
 for a song. Besides the combination of these voices, which 
 I could hear altogether, and which formed an upper part to 
 the concert, there were several others playing under-parts by 
 
 * An impudent imposture of that day, in which it was pretended 
 that a ghost scratched at a bed. Johnson was weak enough to be one 
 of its grave investigators, and Churchill’s Ghost was written in deri- 
 sion of it. 
 
 4 : 
 
82 
 
 CLUBS OF STEELE AND GOLDSMITH . 
 
 themselves, and endeavoring to fasten on some luckless 
 neighbor’s ear, who was himself bent upon the same design 
 against some other. 
 
 We have often heard of the speech of a corporation, and 
 this induced me to transcribe a speech of this club, taken in 
 short-hand, word for word, as it was spoken by every mem- 
 ber of the company. It may be necessary to observe, that 
 the man who told us of the ghost had the loudest voice, and 
 the longest story to tell ; so that his continuing narrative 
 filled every chasm in the conversation. 
 
 u So, sir, d’ye perceive me, the ghost giving three loud 
 raps at. the bed-post” — •“ Says my lord to me, my dear Smoke- 
 urn, you know there is no man on the face of the yearth for 
 whom I have so high” — !i A false heretical opinion of all 
 sound doctrine and good learning ; for I’ll tell it aloud and 
 spare not, that” — “ Silence for a song ; Mr. Leathersides for 
 a song” — " As I was walking upon the highway, I met a 
 young damsel” — “ ‘ Then what brings you here V said the 
 parson to the ghost” — •“ Sanconiathon, Manetho, and lierosus” 
 u The whole way from Islington turnpike to Dog-house bar” 
 — ■“ As for Abel Drugger, sir, he’s low in it ; my ’prentice 
 boy has more of the gentleman than lie”* — For murder will 
 out one time or another ; and none but a ghost, you know, 
 gentlemen, can” — “ For my friend, whom you know, gentle- 
 men, and who is a parliament-man, a man of consequence, a 
 dear honest creature, to be sure ; we were laughing last night 
 at” — Upon all his posterity, by simply, barely tasting” — 
 u Sour grapes, as the fox said once when he could not reach 
 them ; and I’ll, I’ll tell you a story about that, that will 
 make you burst your sides with laughing. A fox once” — 
 t£ Will nobody listen to the song ?” — L: As I was walking upon 
 
 * A compliment to Goldsmith’s friend, Garrick, in the part *>f 
 Abel Drugger , which was a very low one. 
 
GOLDSMITH'S CLUBS. 
 
 83 
 
 the highway, I met a young damsel both buxom and gay” — 
 “No ghost, gentlemen, can be murdered; nor did I ever 
 hear of but one ghost hilled in all my life, and that was 
 
 ” “ Soul if I don’t” — ■“ Mr. Bellows-mender, I have the 
 
 honor of drinking your very good health” — ■“ Fire” — 
 u Whizz” — ■“ Blid” — ■“ Tit” — •“ Bat” — ■“ Trip” — the rest all 
 riot, nonsense, and rapid confusion. 
 
 Were I to be angry at men for being fools (concludes 
 Goldsmith, with touching pleasantry), I could here find 
 ample room for declamation ; but, alas ! I have been a fool 
 myself, and why should I be angry with them for being some- 
 thing so natural to every child of humanity ? 
 
Cnuut /ntjjMii’s Stanton iu tjjt tm Cnttnge. 
 
 BY SMOLLETT. 
 
 The Adventures of Ferdinand Count Fathom is one of those rare 
 works of genius, in a very unusual sense of the epithet, which a read- 
 er of a well-constituted mind is at a loss whether to admire or to dis- 
 like. It is a history of such elaborate and unmitigated rascality, that 
 one is surprised how the author’s imagination could have consented 
 to keep such a scoundrel company for so long a period. But there is 
 one scene in it, which by universal consent is a masterpiece of inter- 
 est ; a mixture of the terrible and the probable that has often since 
 been emulated, but never surpassed. It is to real life what the frag- 
 ment of Sir Bertrand is to the ideal ; and the writing is as fine as the 
 conception. Smollett takes a delight in showing that the powers of his 
 pen are equal to the most formidable occasions. He rejoices in “ pil- 
 ing up an agony,” especially on a victim not so courageous as himself; 
 and by a principle of extremes meeting, a mischievous sarcasm, and 
 strokes of humor itself, contribute to aggravate and envenom the 
 impression of terror. 
 
 I FATHOM departed from the village that same afternoon 
 under the auspices of his conductor, and found himself 
 benighted in the midst of a forest, far from the habitations 
 of men. The darkness of the night, the silence and solitude 
 of the place, the indistinct images of the trees that appeared 
 
COUNT FATHOM'S ADVENTURE. 
 
 85 
 
 on every side stretching their extravagant arms athwart the 
 gloom, conspired with the dejection of spirits occasioned by 
 his loss to disturb his fancy, and raise strange phantoms in 
 his imagination. Although he was not naturally supersti- 
 tious, his mind began to be invaded with an awful horror, 
 that gradually prevailed over all the consolations of reason 
 and philosophy ; nor was his heart free from the terrors of 
 assassination. In order to dissipate these disagreeable rev- 
 eries, he had recourse to the conversation of his guide, by 
 whom he was entertained with the history of divers travellers 
 who had been robbed and murdered by ruffians, whose retreat 
 was in the recesses of that very wood. 
 
 In the midst of this communication, which did not at 
 all tend to the elevation of our hero’s spirits, the conductor 
 made an excuse for dropping behind, while our traveller 
 jogged on in expectation of being joined again by him in a 
 few minutes; he was,, however, 'disappointed in that hope; 
 the sound of the horse’s feet by degrees grew more and 
 more faint, and at last altogether died away. Alarmed at 
 this circumstance, Fathom halted in the road, and listened 
 with the most fearful attention ; but his sense of hearing 
 was saluted w T ith naught but the dismal sighings of the trees, 
 that seemed to foretell an approaching storm, xlccordingly, 
 the heavens contracted a more dreary aspect, the lightning 
 began to gleam, the thunder to roll, and the tempest, rais- 
 ing its voice to a tremendous roar, descended in a torrent 
 of rain. 
 
 In this emergency, the fortitude of our hero was almost 
 quite overcome. So many concurring circumstances of dan- 
 ger and distress might have appalled the most undaunted 
 breast ; what impression then must they have made upon the 
 mind of Ferdinand, who was by no means a man to set fear 
 at defiance ? Indeed he had well nigh lost the use of his re- 
 
86 
 
 COUNT FATHOM'S ADVENTURE 
 
 flection, and was actually invaded to the skin, before lie could 
 recollect himself so far as to quit the road, and seek for shel- 
 ter among the thickets that surrounded him. Having rode 
 some furlongs into the forest, he took his station under a 
 tuft of tall trees, that screened him from the storm, and in 
 that situation called a council with himself, to deliberate upon 
 his next excursion. He persuaded himself that his guide had 
 deserted him for the present, in order to give intelligence of 
 a traveller to some gang of robbers with whom he was con- 
 nected ; and that he must of necessity fall a prey to those 
 banditti, unless he should have the good fortune to elude 
 their search, and disentangle himself from the mazes of the wood. 
 
 Harrowed with these apprehensions, he resolved to com- 
 mit himself to the mercy of the hurricane, as of two evils the 
 least, and penetrate straight forwards through some devious 
 opening, until he should be delivered from the forest. For 
 this purpose he turned his horse’s head in a line quite con- 
 trary to the direction of the high road which he had left, on 
 supposition that the robbers would pursue that tract in quest 
 of him, and that they would never dream of his deserting 
 the highway to traverse an unknown forest amidst the dark- 
 ness of such a boisterous night. After he had continued in 
 this progress through a succession of groves, and bogs, and 
 thorns, and brakes, by which not only his clothes, but also 
 his skin suffered in a grievous manner, while every nerve 
 quivered with eagerness and dismay, he at length reached an 
 open plain, and pursuing his course, in full hope of arriving 
 at some village where his life would be safe, he descried a 
 rushlight, at a distance, which he looked upon as the star of 
 his good fortune ; and riding towards it at full speed, arrived 
 at the door of a lone cottage, into which he was admitted by 
 an old woman, who, understanding he was a bewildered travel- 
 ler, received him with great hospitality. 
 
IN THE LONE COTTAGE. C J>7 
 
 When he learned from his hostess that there was not 
 another house within three leagues, and that she could ac- 
 commodate him with a tolerable bed. and his horse with 
 lodging and oats, he thanked Heaven for his good fortune in 
 stumbling upon this humble habitation, and determined to 
 pass the night under the protection of the old cottager, who 
 gave him to understand, that her husband, who was a fagot- 
 maker, had gone to the next town to dispose of his merchan- 
 dise, and that in all probability he would not return till the 
 next morning, on account of the tempestuous night. Ferdi- 
 nand sounded the beldame with a thousand artful interroga- 
 tions. and she answered with such an appearance of truth and 
 simplicity, that he concluded his person was quite secure ; 
 and, after having been regaled with a dish of eggs and bacon, 
 desired she would conduct him into the chamber where she 
 proposed he should take his repose. He was accordingly 
 ushered up by a sort of ladder jnto an apartment furnished 
 with a standing bed, and almost half filled with trusses of 
 straw. He seemed extremely well pleased with his lodging, 
 which in reality exceeded his expectations ; and his kind 
 landlady, cautioning him against letting the candle approach 
 the combustibles, took her leave, and locked the door on the 
 outside. 
 
 Fathom, whose own principles taught him to be suspicious, 
 and ever upon his guard against the treachery of his fellow- 
 creatures, could have dispensed with this instance of her care 
 in confining her guest to her chamber ; and began to be seized 
 with strange fancies, when he observed that there was no bolt 
 on the inside of the door, by which he might secure himself 
 from intrusion. In consequence of these suggestions, he 
 proposed to take an accurate survey of every object in the 
 apartment, and, in the course of his inquiry, had the mortifi- 
 cation to find the dead body of a man, still warm, who hdd 
 
88 
 
 COUNT FATHOM'S AD VENTURE 
 
 been lately stabbed, and concealed beneath several bundles 
 of straw. 
 
 Such a discovery could not fail to fill the breast of our 
 hero with unspeakable horror ; for he concluded that he him- 
 self would undergo the same fate before morning, without 
 the interposition of a miracle in his favor. In the first trans- 
 ports of his dread he ran to the window, with a view to 
 escape by that outlet, and found his flight effectually ob- 
 structed by divers strong bars of iron. Then his heart began 
 to palpitate, his hair to bristle up, and his knees to totter : 
 his thoughts teemed with presages of death and destruction ) 
 his conscience rose up in judgment against him ; and he un- 
 derwent a severe paroxysm of dismay and distraction. His 
 spirits were agitated into a state of fermentation that pro- 
 duced an energy akin to that which is inspired by brandy or 
 other strong liquors ; and, by an impulse that seemed super- 
 natural, he was immediately hurried into measures for his 
 own preservation. 
 
 What upon a less interesting occasion his imagination 
 durst not propose, he now executed without scruple or re- 
 morse. He undressed the corpse that lay bleeding among 
 the straw, and conveying it to the bed in his arms, deposited 
 it in the attitude of a person who sleeps at his ease ; then he 
 extinguished the light, took possession of the place from 
 whence the body had been removed, and, holding a pistol 
 ready cocked in each hand, waited for the sequel with that de- 
 termined purpose which is often the immediate production of 
 despair. About midnight he heard the sound of feet ascend- 
 ing the ladder; the door was softly opened; he saw the 
 shadow of two men stalking towards the bed ; a dark lantern 
 being unshrouded, directed their aim to the supposed sleeper ; 
 and he that held it thrust a poniard to his heart. The force 
 of the blow made a compression on the chest, and a sort of 
 
IN THE LONE COTTAGE. 
 
 89 
 
 groan issued from the windpipe of the defunct ; the stroke 
 was repeated without producing a repetition of the note, so 
 that the assassins concluded the work was effectually done, 
 and retired for the present, with a design to return and rifle 
 the deceased at their leisure. 
 
 Never had our hero spent a moment in such agony as he 
 felt during this operation. The whole surface of his body 
 was covered with a cold sweat, and his nerves were relaxed 
 with an universal palsy. In short, he remained in a trance, 
 that in all probability contributed to his safety ; for had he 
 retained the use of his senses, he might have been discovered 
 by the transports of his fear. The first use he made of his 
 retrieved recollection, was to perceive that the assassins had 
 left the door open in their retreat ; and he would have in- 
 stantly availed himself of this their neglect, by sallying out 
 upon them at the hazard of his life, had not he been restrained 
 by a conversation he overheard in the room below, importing 
 that the ruffians were going to set out upon another expedi 
 tion, in hopes of finding more prey. They accordingly de- 
 parted, after having laid strong injunctions on the old woman 
 to keep the door fast locked during their absence ; and Ferdi- 
 nand took his resolution without further delay. So soon as, 
 by his conjecture, the robbers were at a sufficient distance 
 from the house, he rose from his lurking-place, moved softly 
 towards the bed, and rummaging the pockets of the deceased, 
 found a purse well stored with ducats, of which, together with 
 a silver watch and a diamond ring, he immediately possessed 
 himself without scruple ; and then, descending with great 
 care and circumspection into the lower apartment, stood be 
 fore the old beldame, before she had the least intimation of 
 his approach. 
 
 Accustomed as she was to the trade of blood, the hoary 
 hag did not behold this apparition without giving signs of 
 
90 
 
 COUNT FATHOM'S ADVENTURE 
 
 infinite terror and astonishment. Believing it was no other 
 than the spirit of her second guest, who had been murdered, 
 she fell upon her knees, and began to recommend herself to 
 the protection of the saints, crossing herself with as much 
 devotion as if she had been entitled to the particular care and 
 attention of Heaven. Nor did her anxiety abate when she 
 was undeceived in this her supposition, and understood it was 
 no phantom, but the real substance of the stranger ; who, 
 without staying to upbraid her with the enormity of her 
 crimes, commanded her, on pain of immediate death, to pro- 
 duce his horse ; to which being conducted, he set her on the 
 saddle without delay, and mounting behind, invested her with 
 the management of the reins, swearing, in a most peremptory 
 tone, that the only chance for her life was in directing him 
 to the next town ; and that as soon as she should give him 
 the least cause to doubt her fidelity in the performance of 
 that task, he would on the instant act the part of her exe- 
 cutioner. 
 
 This declaration had its effect on the withered Hecate, 
 who, with many supplications for mercy and forgiveness, 
 promised to guide him in safety to a certain village at the 
 distance of two leagues, where he might lodge in security, 
 and be provided with a fresh horse, or other conveniences 
 for pursuing his route. On these conditions he told her she 
 might deserve his clemency ; and they accordingly took their 
 departure together, she being placed astride upon the saddle, 
 holding the bridle in one hand, and a switch in the other, 
 and our adventurer sitting on the crupper, superintending 
 her conduct, and keeping the muzzle of a pistol close at her 
 ear. In this equipage they travelled across part of the same 
 wood in which his guide had forsaken him : and it is not to 
 be supposed that he passed his time in the most agreeable 
 reverie, while he found himself involved in the labyrinth of 
 
IN THE LONE COTTAGE. 
 
 91 
 
 those shades, which he considered as the haunts of robbery 
 and assassination. 
 
 Common fear was a comfortable sensation to what he felt 
 in this excursion. The first steps he had taken for his pres- 
 ervation were the effect of nlere instinct, while his faculties 
 were extinguished or suppressed by despair ; but now, as his 
 reflection began to recur, he was haunted by the most intol- 
 erable apprehensions. Every whisper of the wind through 
 the thickets was swelled into the hoarse menaces of murder ; 
 the shaking of the boughs was construed into the bran- 
 dishing of poniards ; and every shadow of a tree became the 
 apparition of a ruffian eager for blood. In short, at each of 
 these occurrences he felt what was infinitely more tormenting 
 than the stab of a real dagger ; and at every fresh fillip of 
 his fear, he acted as a remembrancer to his conductress in a 
 new volley of imprecations, importing, that her life was abso- 
 lutely connected with his opinion of his own safety. 
 
 Human nature could not long subsist under such compli- 
 cated terror ; but at last he found himself clear of the forest, 
 and was blessed with a distant view of an inhabited place. 
 He then began to exercise his thoughts on a new subject. 
 He debated with himself whether he should make a parade 
 of his intrepidity and public spirit, by disclosing his achieve- 
 ment, and surrendering his guide to the penalty of the law, 
 or leave the old hag and her accomplice to the remorse of 
 their own consciences, and proceed quietly on his journey to 
 Paris, in undisturbed possession of the prize he had already 
 obtained. This last step he determined to take upon recol- 
 lecting, that, in the course of his information, the story of the 
 murdered stranger would infallibly attract the attention of 
 justice, and, in that case, the effects he had borrowed from 
 the defunct must be refunded for the benefit of those who 
 had a right to the succession. This was an argument which 
 
92 
 
 COUNT FATHOM'S ADVENTURE. 
 
 our adventurer could not resist : lie foresaw that lie should 
 be stripped of his acquisition, which he looked upon as the 
 fair fruits of his valor and sagacity ; and moreover, be detain- 
 ed as an evidence against the robbers, to the manifest detri- 
 ment of his affairs. Perhaps, too, he had motives of con- 
 science that dissuaded him from bearing witness against a 
 set of people whose principles did not much differ from his 
 own. 
 
 Influenced by such considerations, he yielded to the first 
 importunity of the beldame, whom he dismissed at a very 
 small distance from the village, after he had earnestly exhort- 
 ed her to quit such an atrocious course of life, and atone for 
 her past crimes by sacrificing her associates to the demands 
 of justice. She did not fail to vow a perfect reformation, and 
 to prostrate herself before him for the favor she had found ; 
 then she betook herself to her habitation, with the full pur- 
 pose of advising her fellow-murderers to repair with all de~ 
 spatcli to the village and impeach our hero ; who, wisely dis- 
 trusting her professions, stayed no longer in the place than to 
 hire a guide for the next stage, which brought him to the 
 city of Chalons-Sur-Marne 
 
 t 
 
€1)B Iranit. 
 
 BY PARNELL. 
 
 We know not how it is with others, but we never think of Par - 
 nell's Hermit without tranquillizing and grateful feelings. Parnell was 
 a true poet of a minor order ; he saw nature for himself, though he 
 wrote a book style ; and this, and one or two other poems of his, such 
 as the eclogue on Health , and the Fairy Tale ) have inclined us to 
 believe that there is something in the very name of “ Parnell” pecu- 
 liarly gentle and agreeable. Hermits themselves, in poetry, are al- 
 most always interesting and soothing people. We see nothing but 
 their brooks, their solitude, and their resignation, their hermitage and 
 their crust ; and long to be like them, and play at loneliness. 
 
 “And may at last my weary age 
 Find out the peaceful hermitage, 
 
 The hairy gown, and mossy cell, 
 
 Where I may sit and rightly spell 
 Of every star that heaven doth show, 
 
 And every herb that sips the dew, 
 
 Till old experience do attain 
 To something like prophetic strain.” 
 
 So, who does not love Goldsmith’s Edwin and Angelina , and the 
 gentle line with which it sets out ? — 
 
 “Turn, gentle hermit of the dale.” 
 
 Dravton tears himself away with reluctance from a long list of herbs, 
 
04 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 which lie describes a hermit gathering, in his Polyolbion . The follow- 
 ing are some of the verses. “ The Hermit,” he says, 
 
 “leads a sweet retired life. 
 
 Suppose, ’twixt noon and night, (the sun his half-way wrought) 
 
 The shadows to be large, by his descending brought, 
 
 Who with a fervent eye looks through the twyring* glades, 
 
 And his dispersed rays commixeth with the shades, 
 
 Exhaling the milchf dew, which there had tarried long, 
 
 And on the ranker grass till past the noon-stead hung 
 
 “ ’Tis then,” he says, 
 
 “the hermit comes out of his homely cell, 
 
 Where from all rude resort, he happily doth dwell ; 
 
 And in a little maund:}: (being made of osiers small), 
 
 Which serveth him to do full many a thing withal, 
 
 He very choicely sorts his simples, got abroad. 
 
 Here finds he on an oak rheum-purging polypode ;§ 
 
 And in some open place that to the sun doth lie, 
 
 He fumitory gets, and eyebright for the eye ; 
 
 And from the falling-ill by five-leaf [ doth restore, 
 
 And melancholy cures by sovereign hellebore.” 
 
 But Parnell’s hermit is not only a proper hermit, with a “ cave” 
 for his “ cell,” 
 
 u His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well;” 
 
 he is a questioning philosopher. Resigned as he is to Providence, he 
 is not without doubts as to its attributes, occasioned by the sufferings 
 of virtue and the seeming triumphs of vice ; and an angel is sent to 
 restore peace to his mind. The way in which this is done, though it 
 does not go into the permission of evil in the abstract (one of the se- 
 crets of good, which Heaven seems to keep in reserve for us, in order 
 to enhance the joys of retrospection), furnishes, nevertheless, a far 
 better and more Christian answer, than the assumptions of many a 
 graver authority. It is not Parnell’s own. The story is as old, at 
 least, as the Koran, probably a great deal older ; and has most likely 
 
 * Turning and winding. 
 
 f Soft. Perhaps in pastoral analogy with milk. 
 
 % Basket. 
 
 § Polypodium (Many-foot), a genus of fern. 
 
 J Cinque-foil — Potcntilla (from its medical powers)— a flower of the order 
 Rosacea. 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 95 
 
 been told in the languages of all civilized countries. But Parnell’s 
 is the most pleasing version of it we know. The undertone of thought 
 and wonder, on the hermit’s part, is well preserved ; the touches of 
 scenery evince the author’s taste for nature ; and even the sweet 
 monotony of the versification (so like Pope’s, that he has been invidi- 
 ously said to have had a hand in it), is not unsuitable to the eremeti- 
 cal ground-work of the subject and the lesson of resignation. 
 
 Parnell was a gentle clergyman, who, with all his inculcations of 
 patience and retirement, found it difficult to reconcile himself to a 
 desolate spot in Ireland, and impossible (it is said) to bear the loss of 
 his wife. We often preach what we cannot practise, not out of hypoc- 
 risy, but from opposing frailties and unavailing desire. Parnell ad- 
 mired his hermit the more, because he could not settle down to his 
 solitude and his bin of water. There is a touching passage about him 
 in one of the letters of Swift. Bolingbroke’s second wife was like the 
 one that Parnell had lost. The poor poet saw her, for the first time, 
 on a visit at Bolingbroke’s house ; and when she came into the room, 
 Swift says, he could not take his eyes off her, and seemed very 
 melancholy. 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 F AR in a wild, unknown to public view, 
 
 From youth to age a reverend hermit grew ; 
 The moss his bed, the cave his humble cell, 
 
 His food the fruits, his drink the crystal well ; 
 Remote from men, with God he pass’d his days, 
 Prayer all his business, all his pleasure praise. 
 
 A life so sacred, such serene repose, 
 
 Seemed heaven itself, till one suggestion rose ; 
 That vice should triumph, virtue vice obey, 
 
 This sprung some doubt of Providence’s sway , 
 His hopes no more a certain prospect boast, 
 
 And all the tenor of his soul is lost. 
 
 So when a smooth expanse receives, imprest 
 Calm Nature’s image on its watery breast, 
 
96 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 Down bend the banks, the trees depending grow, 
 And skies beneath with answering colors glow : 
 
 But if a stone the gentle sea divide, 
 
 Swift ruffling circles curl on every side ; 
 
 And glimmering fragments of a broken sun, 
 
 Banks, trees, and skies, in thick disorder run. 
 
 To clear this doubt, to know the world by sight, 
 
 To find if books, or swains, report it right, 
 
 (For yet by swains alone the world he knew, 
 
 Whose feet came wandering o’er the nightly dew.) 
 He quits his cell ; the pilgrim staff he bore, 
 
 And fix’d the scallop in his hat before ; 
 
 Then with the sun a rising journey went, 
 
 Sedate to think, and watching each event. 
 
 The morn was wasted in the pathless grass, 
 
 And long and lonesome was the wild to pass ; 
 
 But when the southern sun had warmed the day, 
 
 A youth came posting o’er a crossing way ; 
 
 His raiment decent, his complexion fair, 
 
 And soft in graceful ringlets wav’d his hair. 
 
 Then, near approaching, u Father, hail !” he cried, 
 And u Hail, my son,” the reverend sire replied ; 
 Words followed words, from question answer flow’d, 
 And talk of various kind deceiv’d the road ; 
 
 Till each with other pleas’d, and loth to part, 
 
 While in their age they differ, join in heart- 
 Thus stands an aged elm, in ivy bound ; 
 
 Thus youthful ivy clasps an elm around. 
 
 Now t sunk the sun ; the closing hour of day 
 Came onward, mantled o’er with sober gray ; 
 Nature in silence bid the world repose, 
 
 When near the road a stately palace rose ; 
 
THE HERm T. 
 
 97 
 
 There, by the moon, through ranks of trees they pass, 
 Whose verdure crown’d their sloping sides of grass. 
 
 It chanc’d the noble master of the dome 
 
 Still made his house the wandering stranger’s home : 
 
 Yet still the kindness, from a thirst of praise, 
 
 Prov’d the vain flourish of expensive ease. 
 
 The pair arrive ; the liveried servants wait, 
 
 Their lord receives them at the pompous gate ; 
 
 The table groans with costly piles of food, 
 
 And all is more than hospitably good. 
 
 Then led to rest, the day’s long toil they drown, 
 
 Deep sunk in sleep, and silk, and heaps of down. 
 
 At length } tis morn, and at the dawn of day, 
 Along the wide canals the zephyrs play : 
 
 Fresh o’er the gay parterres the breezes creep, 
 
 And shake the neighboring wood to banish sleep. 
 
 Up rise the guests obedient to the call, 
 
 An early banquet deck'd the splendid hall ; 
 
 Rich luscious wine a golden goblet grac’d, 
 
 Which the kind master forc’d the guests to taste. 
 Then pleas’d and thankful from the porch they go ; 
 And, but the landlord, none had cause of woe : 
 
 His cup was vanished ; for, in secret guise, 
 
 The younger guest purloin’d the glittering prize. 
 
 As one who spies a serpent in his way, 
 
 Glistening and basking in the summer ray, 
 
 Disorder’d stops to shun the danger near, 
 
 Then walks with faintness on, and looks with fear ; 
 
 So seem’d the sire, when far upon the road 
 The shining spoil his wily partner show’d. 
 
 He stopp’d with silence, walk’d with trembling heart, 
 And much he wish’d, but durst not ask to part ; 
 
 5 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 06 
 
 Murmuring lie lifts his eyes, and thinks it hard 
 That generous actions meet a base reward. 
 
 While thus they pass, the sun his glory shrouds. 
 
 The changing skies hang out their sable clouds ; 
 
 A sound in air presag’d approaching rain, 
 
 And beasts to covert scud across the plain. 
 
 Warn’d by the signs, the wandering pair retreat 
 To seek for shelter at a neighboring seat. 
 
 ’Twas built with turrets on a rising ground, 
 
 And strong, and large, and unimproved around ; 
 
 Its owner’s temper timorous and severe, 
 
 Unkind and griping, caused a desert there. 
 
 As near the miser’s heavy doors they drew, 
 
 Fierce rising gusts with sudden fury blew ; 
 
 The nimble lightning mix’d with showers began, 
 
 And o’er their heads loud rolling thunder ran. 
 
 Here long they knock, but knock or call in vain, 
 
 Driven by the wind, and batter’d by the rain. 
 
 At length some pity warm’d the master’s breast 
 (’Twas then his threshold first received a guest) ; 
 
 Slow creaking turns the door with jealous care, 
 
 And half he welcomes in the shivering pair : 
 
 One frugal fagot lights the naked walls, 
 
 And Nature’s fervor through their limbs recalls ; 
 
 Bread of the coarsest sort, with eager wine,* 
 
 (Each hardly granted) serv’d them both to dine ; 
 
 And when the tempest first appear’d to cease, 
 
 A ready warning bid them part in peace. 
 
 With still remark the pondering hermit view’d, 
 
 In one so rich, a life so poor and rude ; 
 
 * The word eager is here used in its old sense of “ sour” — aigre ; 
 and if we interpret “wine” accordingly, “eager wine” should he 
 vinegar — vin-aigre. 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 99 
 
 And why should such within himself, he cried, 
 
 Lock the lost wealth a thousand want beside ? 
 
 But what new marks of wonder soon took place 
 In every settling feature of his face, 
 
 When from his vest the young companion bore 
 The cup the generous landlord own’d before, 
 
 And paid profusely with the precious bowl 
 The stinted kindness of his churlish soul ! 
 
 But now the clouds in airy tumult fly ; 
 
 The sun emerging opes an azure sky ; 
 
 A fresher green the smiling leaves display, 
 
 And, glittering as they tremble, cheer the day ; 
 
 The weather courts them from the poor retreat, 
 
 And the glad master bolts the wary gate. 
 
 While hence they walk, the pilgrim’s bosom wrought 
 With all the travel of uncertain thought ; 
 
 His partner’s acts without their cause appear, 
 
 ’Twas there a vice, and seemed a madness here ; 
 Detesting that, and pitying this, he goes, 
 
 Lost and confounded with the various shows. 
 
 Now night’s dim shades again involve the sky, 
 
 Again the wanderers want a place to lie ; 
 
 Again they search, and find a lodging nigh. 
 
 The soil improv’d around, the mansion neat, 
 
 And neither poorly low, nor idly great, 
 
 It seem’d to speak its master’s turn of mind, 
 
 Content, and not to praise, but virtue kind. 
 
 Hither the walkers turn their weary feet, 
 
 Then bless the mansion, and the master greet ; 
 
 Their greeting fair, bestow’d with modest guise, 
 
 The courteous master hears, and thus replies : 
 u Without a vain, without a grudging heart, 
 
 To him who gives us all, I yield a part ; 
 
100 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 From him you come, from him accept it here, 
 
 A frank and sober, more than costly cheer.” 
 
 He spoke, and bid the welcome table spread, 
 
 They talk of virtue till the time of bed ; 
 
 When the grave household round his hall repair, 
 Warn’d by a bell, and close the hours with prayer. 
 
 At length the world, renew’d by calm repose, 
 Was strong for toil; the dappled morn arose ; 
 Before the pilgrims part, the younger crept 
 Near the clos’d cradle where an infant slept, 
 
 And writh’d its neck ; the landlord’s little pride, 
 
 0 strange return ! grew black, and gasp’d, and died. 
 Horror of horrors ! what ! his only son ! 
 
 How look’d our hermit when the fact was done ; 
 
 Not hell, though hell’s black jaws in sunder part, 
 And breathe blue fire, could more assault his heart. 
 
 Confus’d, and struck with silence at the deed, 
 
 He flies; but, trembling, fails to fly with speed ; 
 
 His steps the youth pursues ; the country lay 
 Perplex’d with roads ; a servant show’d the way ; 
 
 A river cross’d the path, ihe passage o’er 
 Was nice to find ; the servant trod before ; 
 
 Long arms of oak an oaken bridge supplied, 
 
 And deep the waves beneath the bending glide ; 
 
 The youth, who seem’d to watch a time to sin, 
 Approach’d the careless guide and thrust him in ; 
 Plunging he falls, and rising, lifts his head, 
 
 Then flashing turns, and sinks among the dead. 
 
 Wild sparkling rage inflame the father’s eyes, 
 
 He bursts the bands of fear, and madly cries, 
 u Detested wretch !” — but scarce his speech began, 
 When the strange partner seemed no longer man ; 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 101 
 
 His youthful face grew more serenely sweet ; 
 
 His robe turn’d white, and flow’d upon his feet ; 
 
 Fair rounds of radiant points invest his hair ; 
 
 Celestial odors breathe through purpled air ; 
 
 And wings, whose colors glittered on the day, 
 
 Wide at his back their gradual plumes display ; 
 
 The form ethereal burst upon his sight, 
 
 And moves in all the majesty of light. 
 
 Though loud at first the pilgrim’s passion grew, 
 Sudden he gaz’d, and wist not what to do ; 
 
 Surprise in secret chains his words suspends, 
 
 And in a calm his settling temper ends. 
 
 But silence here the beauteous angel broke 
 (The voice of music ravish’d as he spoke). 
 
 a Thy prayer, thy praise, thy life to vice unknown, 
 In sweet memorial rise before the throne ; 
 
 These charms success in our bright region find, 
 
 And force an angel down to calm thy mind ; 
 
 For this commission’d, I forsook the sky ; 
 
 Nay, cease to kneel, thy fellow-servant I. 
 
 “ Then know the truth of government divine, 
 
 And let these scruples be no longer thine. 
 
 “ The Maker justly claims that world he made, 
 
 In this the right of Providence is laid ; 
 
 Its sacred majesty through all depends 
 On using second means to work his ends : 
 
 ’Tis thus, withdrawn in state from human eye, 
 
 The Power exerts his attributes on high ; 
 
 Your actions uses, nor controls your will, 
 
 And bids the doubting sons of men be still. 
 
 u What strange events can strike with more surprise 
 Than those which lately struck thy wondering eyes ? 
 
102 
 
 THE HERMIT. 
 
 Yet, taught by these, confess the Almighty just, 
 
 And where you can’t unriddle, learn to trust ! 
 
 “ The great, vain man, who far’d on costly food, 
 Whose life was too luxurious to be good, 
 
 Who made his ivory stands with goblets shine, 
 x\nd forc’d his guests to morning draughts of wine, 
 Has, with the cup, the graceless custom lost, 
 
 And still he welcomes, but with less of cost. 
 
 u The mean, suspicious wretch, whose bolted dooi 
 Ne’er mov’d in duty to the wandering poor ; 
 
 With him I left the cup, to teach his mind 
 That Heaven can bless, if mortals will be kind. 
 Conscious of wanting worth, he views the bowl, 
 
 And feels compassion touch his grateful soul. 
 
 Thus artists melt the sullen ore of lead, 
 
 With heaping coals of fire upon its head ; 
 
 In the kind warmth the metal learns to glow, 
 
 And, loose from dross, the silver runs below. 
 
 u Long had our pious friend in virtue trod, 
 
 But now the child half wean’d his heart from God ; 
 Child of his age, for him he liv’d in pain, 
 
 And measured back his steps to earth again. 
 
 To what excesses had his dotage run ? 
 
 But God, to save the father, took the son. 
 
 To all, but thee, in fits he seemed to go, 
 
 And ’twas my ministry to deal the blow : 
 
 The poor fond parent, humbled in the dust, 
 
 Now owns, in tears, the punishment was just. 
 
 u But now had all his fortune felt a wrack, 
 
 Had that false servant sped in safety back : 
 
 This night his treasur’d heaps he meant to steal, 
 
 And what a fund of charity would fail ! 
 
THE HERMIT. 
 
 103 
 
 Thus Heaven instructs thy mind : this trial o’er. 
 Depart in peace, resign, and sin no more.” 
 
 On sounding pinions here the youth withdrew, 
 The sage stood wondering as the seraph flew. 
 
 Thus look’d Elisha, when, to mount on high, 
 
 His master took the chariot of the sky ; 
 
 The fiery pomp ascending left to view ; 
 
 The prophet gaz’d, and wish’d to follow too. 
 
 The bending hermit here a prayer begun, 
 
 Lord ! as in heaven , on earth thy vrill be done : 
 Then, gladly turning, sought his ancient place, 
 And pass’d a life of piety and peace. 
 
ffilu $ DttiitB’s Dialogue initji iparsiia Skills. 
 
 from fielding’s u Joseph Andrews.” 
 
 There was once in great vogue a book called Pamela , or Virtue 
 Rewarded , the object of which was to show how a servant-maid might 
 be very virtuous, in the heavenly sense of the word, and very prosper- 
 ous, in the worldly ; a combination which, in the author’s opinion, was 
 effected by making her resist all the efforts of a vicious master to ruin 
 her, and then accept his hand in marriage when he found he could 
 obtain her in no other way. Society is so much advanced in reflec- 
 tion since the writing of that book, that a moral so bad would now 
 meet with contempt from critics of all classes, even though recom- 
 mended by as rare and affecting a genius as his who taught it, and 
 who was no less a person than Samuel Richardson, author of Clarissa 
 Harlowe. With much that is admirable and noble, there is a great 
 deal of lalse morality even in Clarissa; a dangerous exaltation of the 
 formal, aud literal, and self-worshipping, above the heartier dictates 
 of prudence itself. But the moral in Pamela (with leave of a great 
 name, be it said), was a pure vulgar mistake. The master was a 
 scoundrel to whom an honest girl ought not to have been given in 
 marriage at all ; and the heroine was a prig and a schemer, with no 
 real respect for the virtues she professed, otherwise she would not 
 have jumped at the first “ honorable” offer from one who had done all 
 he could to destroy her. 
 
 The healthier genius of Fielding saw the folly of these ethics ; and, 
 seasoning his wish to counteract them with a spice of no ill-natured 
 malice against the author (who was in the habit of making another 
 
PETER POUNCE’S DIALOGUE. 
 
 105 
 
 vulgar mistake, and applying that epithet to all who wrote of humble 
 life not in his own manner, particularly Fielding himself), produced 
 the exquisite novel of Joseph Andrews. In this, not his greatest, but 
 in our opinion most delightful work, he has contrived, with a most 
 unexpected, successful, and (to Richardson, we fear) most provoking 
 admission of the value of his moral when put into right action, to 
 make Joseph Andrews Pamela’s own brother, both in blood and vir- 
 tue ; to maintain his manly character nevertheless, in spite of conven- 
 tional jests and prejudices ; and, at the same time, to show how little 
 of her pretended purity and humility was in the sister, who in admi- 
 rable keeping with the spirit of her matrimonial virtue, objects to her 
 brother’s marrying a girl in her own former condition of society, be- 
 cause it was lowering the family which her “ dear Mr. B.” had 
 “ raised.” As a pleasant instance of Fielding’s quickness and vivacity 
 in small matters as well as great, this “ Mr. B.” of Richardson (for his 
 name never appears in that author except as an initial) is assumed by 
 Fielding to have been a Mr. “ Booby.” Mr. Booby’s fine town-lady 
 aunt, Lady B., thus becomes Lady Booby. She and her nephew ena- 
 ble us to see, that people of no real heart and goodness, whatever be 
 their rank, riches, or gaiety, may deserve the appellation of fool, as 
 well as humbler or more solemn pretenders ; and this is one of the 
 many instances, we think, in which an exception should be made in 
 favor of those characteristical names of persons in works of fiction, to 
 which critics make wholesale objection. Names of the kind often oc- 
 cur in real life, sometimes with ludicrous propriety ; and if similar 
 ones could be taken away from the novels in which we have been 
 used to them, people would reasonably miss the Boobies palmed upon 
 Richardson, the Pickles and Bowlings of Smollett, the Snakes and Sir 
 Anthony Absolutes of Sheridan, and the Marplots and Aimwells of Cent- 
 livre and Farquhar. We confess we should be loth to lose even the 
 Dryasdusts of Sir Walter, excessive as they may appear. Fortune 
 herself, (not to say Nature) seems to take pleasure in these whims of 
 cognomination. Who has not met with stout gentlemen of the name 
 of Onslow and Heaviside ; lively Miss Quicks, and languishing Mrs. 
 Sweets I 
 
 Joseph Andrews is a footman who marries a maid-servant. They 
 are excellent persons, and have a delicious friend in Mr. Abraham 
 Adams, a country curate, who prefers his JEschylus to everything but 
 his duty. He is one of the simplest but at the same time manliest 
 
10(5 
 
 PETER POUNCE' S DIALOGUE 
 
 of men ; is anxious to read a man of the world his sermon on “ van- 
 ity preaches patience under affliction, and is ready to lose his sen- 
 ses on the death of his little boy ; in short, has “every virtue under 
 heaven,” except that of superiority to the common failings of human- 
 ity, or of being able to resist knocking a rascal down when he insults 
 the innocent. He is very poor ; and, agreeably to the notions of re- 
 finement in those days, is treated by the rich as if he were little bet- 
 ter than a servant himself. Even their stewards think it a condescen- 
 sion to treat him on equal terms. In the following scene, which is 
 one of the most exquisite in all novel-writing, the reader experiences 
 a delightful triumph in seeing how a vulgar upstart of this class is led 
 to betray his baseness while he thinks he is most exalting himself— 
 Adams, on the other hand, rising and becoming glorious out of the 
 depths of his humble honesty. The picture gives you such a vivid 
 idea of the two men, that not having read it for some years, we had 
 fancied, in the interval, that when Pounce throws the curate’s hat 
 after him out of the window, Fielding had represented Adams as 
 clapping it triumphantly on his head, and snapping his fingers at him. 
 But this is the way with fine writers. In suggesting more than they 
 say, they write more than they do. 
 
 P ETER, POUNCE, being desirous of having some one to 
 whom he might communicate his grandeur, told the par- 
 son he would convey him home in his chariot. This favor 
 was, by Adams, with many bows and acknowledgments, ac- 
 cepted, though he afterwards said he ascended the chariot 
 rather that he might not offend, than from any desire of rid- 
 ing in it, for that in his heart he preferred the pedestrian 
 even to the vehicular expedition. 
 
 The chariot had not proceeded far before Mr Adams ob- 
 served it was a very fine day. 
 
 u Aye, and a very fine country, too,” answered Pounce. 
 
 “ I should think so more,” returned Adams, “ if I had not 
 lately travelled over the Downs, which I take to exceed this, 
 and all other prospects in the universe.” 
 
WITH PARSON ARAMS. 
 
 107 
 
 xi A fig for prospects,” answered Pounce ; “ one acre here 
 is worth ten there ; for my part, I have no delight in the 
 prospect of any land but my own.y 
 
 “ Sir,” said Adams, “you can indulge yourself in many 
 fine prospects of that kind.” 
 
 “ I thank God I have a little,” replied the other, “ with 
 which I am content, and envy no man. I have a little, Mr. 
 Adams, with which I do as much good as I can.” 
 
 Adams answered, “That riches, without charity, were 
 nothing worth ; for that they were a blessing only to him 
 who made them a blessing to others.” 
 
 “ You and I,” said Peter, “ have different notions of char- 
 ity. I own, as it is generally used, I do not like the word, 
 nor do I think it becomes one of us gentlemen ; it is a mean, 
 parson-like quality ; though I would not infer that many par- 
 sons have it neither.” 
 
 “ Sir,” said Adams, “ my definition of charity is a generous 
 disposition to relieve the distressed.” 
 
 “ There is something in that definition,” answered Peter, 
 “ which I like well enough ; it is, as you say, a disposition — 
 and does not so much consist in the act as in the disposition 
 to do it j but, alas ! Mr. Adams, who are meant by the 
 distressed ? believe me, the distresses of mankind are mostly 
 imaginary, and it would be rather folly than goodness to re- 
 lieve them.” 
 
 “ Sure, sir,” replied Adams, “ hunger and thirst, cold and 
 nakedness, and other distresses which attend the poor, can 
 never be said to be imaginary evils.” - 
 
 “ How can any man complain of hunger,” said Pounce, 
 in a country where such excellent salads are to be gathered 
 almost in every field ? — or of thirst, where every stream and 
 river produce such delicious potations ? — and as for cold and 
 nakedness, they are evils introduced by luxury and custom. 
 
108 
 
 PETER POUNCE'S DIALOGUE 
 
 A man naturally wants clothes no more than a horse or any 
 other animal ; and there are whole nations who go without 
 them. But these are things, perhaps, which you, who do not 
 know the world ” 
 
 “ You will pardon me, sir,” returned Adams ; “ I have 
 read of the Gymnosophists” 
 
 u A plague of your J ehosaphats,” cried Peter ; u the great- 
 est fault in our constitution is the provision made for the poor, 
 except that perhaps made for some others. Sir, I have not 
 an estate which doth not contribute almost as much again to 
 the poor as to the land-tax ; and I do assure you I expect 
 myself to come to the parish in the end.” 
 
 To which Adams giving a dissenting smile, Peter thus 
 proceeded : — “ I fancy, Mr. Adams, you are one of those who 
 imagine I am a lump of money ; for there are many who I 
 fancy believe that not only my pockets, but my whole clothes, 
 are lined with bank bills ; but, I assure you, you are all mis- 
 taken ; I am not the man the world esteems me. If I can 
 hold my head above water, it is all I can. I have injured 
 myself by purchasing; I have been too liberal of my money. 
 Indeed I fear my heir will find my affairs in a worse situa 
 tion than they are reputed to be. Ah ! he will have reason t<3 
 wish I had loved money more and land less. Pray, mj 
 good neighbor, where should I have that quantity of mone^ 
 the world is so liberal to bestow on me ? Where could I 
 possibly, without I had stole it, acquire such a treasure ?” 
 
 u Why truly,” said Adams, “ I have been always of youi 
 opinion ; I have wondered, as well as yourself, with what con 
 fidence they could report such things of you, which have fi 
 me appeared as mere impossibilities ; for you know, sir, and 
 I have often heard you say it, that your wealth is of your own 
 acquisition ; and can it be credible that in your short time 
 vou should have amassed such a heap of treasure as these 
 
WITH PARSON ADAMS. 
 
 109 
 
 people will have you are worth ? Indeed, had you inherited 
 an estate like Sir Thomas Booby, which had descended in 
 your family through many generations, they might have had 
 a color for their assertions.” 
 
 “ Why, what do they say I am worth ?” cries Peter, with 
 a malicious sneer. 
 
 “ Sir,” answered Adams, “ I have heard some aver you 
 are not worth less than twenty thousand pounds.” At which 
 Peter frowned. 
 
 “ Nay, sir,” said Adams, “you ask me only the opinion 
 of others ; for my own part, I have always denied it, nor 
 did I ever believe you could possibly be worth half that 
 sum.” 
 
 “ However, Mr. Adams,” said he, squeezing him by the 
 hand, “ I would not sell them all I am worth for double that 
 sum ; and as to what you believe, or they believe, I care not 
 a fig. I am not poor, because you think me so, nor because 
 you attempt to undervalue me in the country. I know the 
 envy of mankind very well ; but I thank heaven I am above 
 them. It is true, my wealth is of my own acquisition. I 
 have not an estate like Sir Thomas Booby, that hath descend- 
 ed in my family through many generations ; but I know heirs 
 of such estates, who are forced to travel about the country, 
 like some people in torn cassocks, and might be glad to ac- 
 cept of a pitiful curacy, for what I know ; yes, sir, as shabby 
 fellows as yourself, whom no man of my figure, without that 
 vice of good-nature about him, would suffer to ride in a char- 
 tot with him.” 
 
 “ Sir,” said Adams, “ I value not your chariot of a rush ; 
 md if I had known you had intended to affront me, I would 
 have walked to the world’s end on foot, ere I would have 
 accepted a place in it. However, sir, I will soon rid you of 
 that inconvenience !” And so saying, he opened the chariot 
 
110 
 
 PETER POUNCE'S DIALOGUE. 
 
 door, without calling to the coachman, and leaped out into 
 the highway, forgetting to take his hat along with him ; 
 which, however, Mr. Pounce threw after him with great 
 violence. 
 
fforwB written nt nu 3nn nt Brnleif. 
 
 BY SHENSTONE. 
 
 “ Shall I not take,” said FalstafF, with an exquisite duplication 
 of the personal pronoun. “ mine ease at mine INN V* 
 
 The question might induce us to fancy, that he had another 
 abode ; that it was as much as to say, “ Must I go and encounter my 
 difficulty at my lodgings V’ But he meant it as an appeal to the ex- 
 pectations of everybody. Everybody, the moment he entered an 
 inn, looked to being thoroughly at his ease ; to possess comfort and 
 security as surely as he did the things he paid for. 
 
 And this is the feeling we all have of an inn. It is not comparable 
 with home, on the very gravest or the very gayest occasions ; much 
 less as a place to reside in ; but as a place to visit, there is nothing 
 like it. It is like being abroad and at home at the same time ; abroad, 
 in respect to the novelty ; and at home, as regards doing what we 
 please. We are not sufficiently used to it, to feel a thankless indiffer 
 ence ; neither do we entertain such affection for it, as converts interest 
 into anxiety. — But we do it injustice in writing sentences about it. 
 There is nothing sententious at an inn (except on the window-panes) ; 
 it is only free and easy. If you are wise, it is with mirth : if you run 
 the whole round of philosophy with some “ learned Theban” of a 
 friend, it is after dinner, when the blood is running the finer round of 
 cheerfulness, to which you feel that the other round is only subordi- 
 nate. The top things throughout are the dinner, and the inn, and the 
 reciprocity ; and you only wish that all the world were as happy as 
 yourselves, wondering that they are not so, and that everybody does 
 
1 12 VERSES WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. 
 
 not do as he pleases upon the strength of the Rose and Crown’ - and 
 universal benevolence. 
 
 By an inn, however, we do not mean any inn ; no, not even with 
 companions who can make us forget everything else ; for on their ac- 
 count also we desire an inn perfect of its kind; and this, we take it, 
 is an old inn that has been a country-house, with at least a bit of the 
 old garden to it, parterres of flowers, lavender, &c., and good sized old- 
 fashioned rooms, with smaller ones in corners, to choose according as 
 you are few or many, or wish to be roomy or snug. Hazlitt, who loved 
 to escape from his irritabilities into an inn, has noticed such a one in 
 a charming passage. He is speaking of the delight of reading favorite 
 authors. 
 
 “ The last time,” he says, “ I tasted this luxury in its full perfec- 
 tion, was one day after a sultry day’s walk between Farnham and 
 Alton. I was fairly tired out ; I walked into an inn-yard (I think at 
 the latter place) ; I was shown by the waiter to what looked at first 
 like common out-houses at the other end of it, but they turned out to 
 be a suite of rooms, probably a hundred years old — the one I entered 
 opened into an old-fashioned garden, embellished with beds of lark- 
 spur and a leaden Mercury ; it was wainscoted, and there was a grave- 
 looking dark-colored portrait of Charles II. hanging up over the tiled 
 chimney-piece. I had Love for Love in my pocket, and began to read ; 
 coffee was brought in, in a silver coffee-pot ; the cream, the bread and 
 butter, everything was excellent, and the flavor of Congreve’s style 
 prevailed over all. I prolonged the entertainment till a late hour, and 
 relished this divine comedy better even than when I used to see it 
 played by Miss Mellon, as Miss Prue ; Bob Palmer, as Tattle; and 
 Bannister as honest Ben. This circumstance happened just five years 
 ago, and it seems like yesterday. If I count my life so, by lustres, it 
 will soon glide away ; yet I shall not have to repine, if, while it lasts, 
 it is enriched by a few such recollections.”* 
 
 The Henley at which Shenstone wrote his lines on an inn was the 
 Henley on the road to Stratford-on-Avon. Johnson slept at it one 
 night with Boswell, and had quoted a stanza from the lines in the 
 course of the day, when they were dining at an “ excellent inn at 
 Chapelhouse.” 
 
 “ We dined,” Boswell says, “ at an excellent inn at Chapelhouse, 
 where he (Johnson) expatiated on the felicity of England in its taverns 
 
 * Plain Speaker , vol. i. p. 302. 
 
VERSES WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. 113 
 
 and inns, and triumphed over the French for not having, in any per- 
 fection, the tavern life. ‘ There is no private house,’ said he, ‘ in which 
 people can enjoy themselves so well, as at a capital tavern. Let there 
 be ever so great plenty of good things, ever so much grandeur, ever 
 so much elegance, ever so much desire that everybody should be 
 easy, in the nature of things it cannot be ; there must always be some 
 degree of care and anxiety. The master of the house is anxious to 
 entertain his guests ; the guests are anxious to be agreeable to him ; 
 and no man, but a very impudent dog indeed, can as freely command 
 what is in another man’s house, as if it were his own. Whereas, at a 
 tavern, there is a general freedom from anxiety. You are sure you 
 are welcome ; and the more noise you make, the more trouble you 
 give, the more good things you call for, the welcomer you are. No 
 servants will attend you with the alacrity which waiters do, who are 
 incited by the prospect of an immediate reward in proportion as they 
 please. No, sir; there is nothing which has yet been contrived by 
 men, by which so much happiness is produced as by a good tavern or 
 inn.’ He then repeated with great emotion Shenstone’s lines : 
 
 u 1 Whoe’er has tra veil’d life’s dull round, 
 
 Where’er his stages may have been, 
 
 May sigh to think he still has found 
 His warmest welcome at an inn.’ ”* 
 
 Johnson was so fond of this little poem, that Miss Reynolds (sister 
 of Sir Joshua) said she had learnt it by heart from hearing him re- 
 peat it. Some exclusive admirers of great poetry would see nothing 
 in it; but let them try to write as good a one, and they would dis- 
 cover that some portion of the poetical facility was necessary to 
 express and modulate even thoughts like these. 
 
 T O thee, fair Freedom ! I retire, 
 
 From flattery, cards, and dice, and din ; 
 
 Nor art thou found in mansions higher 
 Than the low cot or humble Inn. 
 
 ’Tis here with boundless power I reign ; 
 
 And every health which I begin 
 
 * Boswell , Murray’s Edition, vol. vi. p. 81. 
 
1 1 4 VERSES WRITTEN AT AN INN AT HENLEY. 
 
 Converts dull port to bright champagne ; 
 Such freedom crowns it at an Inn. 
 
 I fly from pomp, I fly from plate ! 
 
 I fly from Falsehood’s specious grin ! 
 Freedom I love and form I hate, 
 
 And choose my lodgings at an Inn, 
 
 Here, waiter, take my sordid ore, 
 
 Which lackeys else might hope to win j 
 It buys what courts have not in store, 
 
 It buys me freedom at an Inn. 
 
 Whoe’er has travelled life’s dull round, 
 Where’er his stages may have been, 
 May sigh to think he still has found 
 The warmest welcome at an Inn. 
 
/id* liters uf iraq. 
 
 Gray appears to us to be the best letter-writer in the language. 
 Others equal him in particular qualities, and surpass him in amount 
 of entertainment ; but none are so nearly faultless. Chesterfield wants 
 heart, and even his boasted “ delicacy Bolingbroke and Pope want 
 simplicity ; Cowper is more lively than strong ; Shenstone reminds 
 you of too many rainy days, Swift of too many things which he af- 
 fected to despise, Gibbon too much of the formalist and the litterateur . 
 The most amusing of all our letter- writers are Walpole and Lady 
 Mary Wortley Montagu ; but though they had abundance of wit, sense, 
 and animal spirits, you are not always sure of their veracity. Now, 
 “ the first quality in a companion,’ 5 as Sir William Temple observes, 
 “ is truth and Gray’s truth is as manifest as his other good quali- 
 ties. He has sincerity, modesty, manliness (in spite of a somewhat 
 effeminate body), learning, good-nature, playfulness, a perfect style ; 
 and if an air of pensiveness breathes over all, it is only of that re- 
 signed and contemplative sort which completes our sympathy with 
 the writer. 
 
 Mark what he says in these letters about his sitting in the forest ; 
 about Southern ; about lords and their school-days ; about Shaftes- 
 bury ; about having a garding” of one’s own ; about Akenside com- 
 pared with himself ; about the Southampton Abbot, the Grand Duch- 
 ess of Tuscany, &c. &c.; and about sunrise — wondering “ whether 
 anybody ever saw it before,” he is so astonished at their not having 
 said more on the subject. 
 
 Gray is the melancholy Jaques” of English literature, without 
 the sullenness or causticity. His melancholy is of the diviner sort of 
 Milton and Beaumont and is always ready to assume a kindly cheer 
 fulness. 
 
116 
 
 . FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY. 
 
 TO HORACE WALPOLE.* 
 
 [a FOX-IIUNTER A poet’s SOLITUDE SOUTHERN THE 
 
 DRAMATIST.] 
 
 September, 1737 . 
 
 I WAS hindered in my last, and so could not give you all 
 the trouble I would have done. The description of road 
 which your coach-wheels have so often honored, it would be 
 needless to give you. Suffice it, that I arrived safe at my 
 uncle’s, who is a great hunter in imagination. His dogs take 
 up every chair in the house, so I am forced to stand at this 
 present writing ; and though the gout forbids him galloping 
 after them in the field, yet he continues to regale his ears 
 and nose with their comfortable noise and stink. f He holds 
 me mighty cheap, I perceive, for walking when I should ride, 
 and reading when I should hunt. My comfort amidst all 
 this is, that I have, at the distance of half a mile, through a 
 green lane, a forest (the vulgar call it a common), all my 
 own ; at least as good as so, for I spy no human thing in it 
 but myself. It is a little chaos of mountains and precipices 
 — mountains, it is true, that do not ascend much above the 
 
 * Walpole and Gray liad been school-fellows at Eton ; and. though 
 differing greatly in some respects, had tastes alike in others, particu- 
 larly a love for romantic fiction and Gothic architecture. Their differ- 
 ences were found to render them unsuitable as fellow-travellers, when 
 they visited Italy ; but they renewed their intercourse at home, and 
 continued correspondents as long as Gr.ay lived. 
 
 At the date of the letter before us, Walpole was a youth of twenty, 
 residing with hi3 father, Sir Robert, at Haughton ; Gray, twenty-one, 
 on a visit to an uncle, at Burnham, in Buckinghamshire. The reader 
 will observe the mature manliness of his style. 
 
 -f Some readers of the present day might suppose that coarse hab- 
 its are here but coarsely described by the delicate young poet. But 
 such language was not considered coarse in the time of Gray. 
 
FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY . 
 
 117 
 
 clouds ; nor are the declivities quite so amazing as Dover 
 cliff ; but just such hills as people who love their necks as 
 well as I do may venture to climb ; and crags that give the 
 eye as much pleasure as if they were dangerous. Both vale 
 and hill are covered with most venerable beeches, and other 
 very reverend vegetables,* that, like most other ancient peo- 
 ple, are always dreaming out their old stories to the winds : 
 
 “ And as they bow their hoary tops, relate 
 In murmuring sounds the dark decrees of fate ; 
 
 While visions, as poetic eyes avow. 
 
 Cling to each leaf, and swarm on every bough.” 
 
 At the foot of one of these squats me I (il penseroso\ and 
 there I grow to the trunk for a whole morning. The timo- 
 rous hare and sportive squirrel gambol around me, like 
 Adam in paradise, before he had an Eve ; but I think he did 
 not use to read Virgil, as I coriimonly do there. In this sit- 
 uation I often converse with my Horace, aloud too ; that is, 
 talk to you ; but I do not remember that I ever heard you 
 answer me. I beg pardon for taking all the conversation to 
 myself ; but it is entirely your own fault. We have old Mr. 
 Southern! at a gentleman’s house, a little way off, w T ho often 
 comes to see us ; he is now seventy-seven years old, and has 
 almost wholly lost his memory, but is as agreeable as an old 
 man can be ; at least I persuade myself so when I look at 
 him, and think of Isabella ’and Oroonoko. I shall be in 
 town in about three weeks. Adieu.” 
 
 * 11 Reverend vegetable” is a phrase of Steele’s for a common-place 
 old man. 
 
 f Southern lived nine years longer. When he was a young man, 
 he knew Dryden ; and here is Gray, a youth, in company with Dry- 
 den’s acquaintance. It is always pleasant to observe these links of 
 celebrity. 
 
.18 
 
 FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY . 
 
 TO RICHARD WEST* 
 
 [BAD SPIRITS RECOLLECTIONS OF HUSBANDS AND STATESMEN 
 
 AT SCHOOL.] 
 
 London, May 27th, 1742. 
 
 INE, you are to know, is a white melancholy, or rather 
 
 -H-L leucocholy,f for the most part ; which, though it seldom 
 laughs, or dances, nor ever amounts to what one calls joy or 
 pleasure, yet is a good easy sort of a state, and qa ne laisse 
 que de s’ amuser.\ The only fault of it is insipidity ; which 
 is apt now and then to give a sort of ennui , which makes 
 one form certain little wishes that signify nothing. But 
 there is another sort, black indeed, which I have now and 
 then felt, that has somewhat in it like Tertullian’s rule of 
 faith, credo quia impossibile est for it believes, nay, is 
 sure of everything that is unlikely, so it be but frightful ; 
 and, on the other hand, excludes and shuts its eyes to the 
 most possible hopes, and everything that is pleasurable. 
 From this, the Lord deliver us; for none but he and sun- 
 shiny weather can do it. In hopes of enjoying this kind of 
 weather, I am going into the country for a few weeks, but 
 shall be never the nearer any society, so if you have any 
 
 * Son of the Lord Chancellor of Ireland, by a daughter of Bishop 
 Burnet. His tastes were very like Gray’s, and he promised to attain 
 celebrity, but died of a consumption the year following the date of 
 this letter, at the age of twenty-six. 
 
 f Melancholy signifying black choler, leucocholy would be white 
 choler. Gray pleasantly coins the word for the occasion. 
 
 X Does nothing but trifle. 
 
 § I believe because it is impossible. Gray might have added (and 
 perhaps he meant to do so by what follows) that Tertullian, who was 
 a cruel bigot, held another rule of faith, equally reasonable, namely, 
 
 I believe because it is horrible. 
 
FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY. 
 
 119 
 
 charity you will contrive to write. My life is like Harry 
 the Fourth’s supper of hens: “ poulets d la broche^ poulets 
 en ragout , poulets en hdcliis , poulets en fricasees ;* reading 
 here, reading there ; nothing but books with different sauces. 
 Do not let me lose my dessert then ; for though that be read- 
 ing too, yet it has a very different flavor. The May seems 
 to be come since your invitation ;f and I promise to bask in 
 her beams, and dress me in her roses : 
 
 “ Et caput in verna semper habere rosa.”f 
 
 I shall see Mr. and his wife, nay, and his child 
 
 too, for he has got a boy. Is it not odd to consider one’s 
 contemporaries in the grave light of husband and father? 
 
 There are my Lords and , they are statesmen ; do 
 
 not you remember them dirty boys playing at cricket ? As 
 for me, I am never a bit the older, nor the bigger, nor the 
 wiser than I was then ; no, not for having been beyond sea : 
 Pray, how are you ? 
 
 TO THE REVEREND NORTON NICHOLLS. 
 
 [BANTER OF FORMAL EXCUSES AND FINE EXORDIUMS SOUTH- 
 AMPTON AN ABBOT SUNRISE.] 
 
 Nov. 19, 1764. 
 
 I RECEIVED your letter at Southampton ; and as I would 
 wish to treat everybody according to their own rule and 
 measure of good breeding, have, against my inclination, 
 waited till now before I answered it. purely out of fear and 
 
 * Roast chicken, ragooed chicken, hashed chicken, fricaseed 
 chicken. 
 
 •f West had written an ode to May, addressed to his friend. 
 
 $ “ And have my head forever in spring roses.” 
 
 A line in u Propertius lib. iii. v. 22. 
 
1*20 
 
 FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY. 
 
 respect, and an ingenuous diffidence in my own abilities. It 
 you will not take this as an excuse, accept it at least as a well- 
 turned period, which is always my principal concern.* 
 
 So I proceed to tell you, that my health is much improv- 
 ed by the sea Not that I drank it, or bathed in it, as the 
 common people do ; no ! I only walked by it, and looked 
 upon it. The climate is remarkably mild, even in October 
 and November ; no snow has been seen to lie there for these 
 thirty years past ; the myrtles grow in the ground against the 
 houses, Guernsey lilies bloom in every window ; the town, 
 clean and well-built, surrounded by its old stone walls, with 
 their towers and gateways, stands at the point of a peninsula, 
 and opens full south to an arm of the sea, which, having form- 
 ed two beautiful bays on each hand of it stretches away in 
 direct view, till it joins the British Channel. It is skirted 
 on either side with gently rising grounds, clothed with thick 
 wood ; and directly across its mouth rise the high lands of 
 the Isle of Wight at distance, but distinctly seen. In the 
 bosom of the woods (concealed from profane eyes) lie hid the 
 ruins of Nettley Abbey ; there may be richer and greater 
 houses of religion, but the abbot is content with his situation. 
 See there, at the top of that hanging meadow, under the shade 
 of those old trees that bend into a half-circle about it, he is 
 walking slowly (good man !) and bidding his beads for the 
 souls of his benefactors, interred in that venerable pile that 
 lies beneath him. Beyond it (the meadow still descending) 
 nods a thicket of oaks that mask the building, and have ex- 
 cluded a view too garish and luxuriant for a holy eye ; only 
 on either hand they leave an opening to the blue glittering 
 sea. Bid you not observe how, as that white sail shot by and 
 was lost, he turned and crossed himself, to drive the tempter 
 
 * A banter probably of some apologetical formality on the part 
 of Nicholls. 
 
FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY. 
 
 121 
 
 from him that had thrown that distraction in his way ? I 
 should tell you that the ferryman who rowed me, a lusty 
 young fellow, told me that he would not for all the world 
 pass a night at the Abbey (there were such things seen near 
 it), though there was a power of money hid there. From 
 thence I went to Salisbury, Wilton, and Stonehenge : but of 
 these things I say no more. They will be published at the 
 University press. 
 
 P.S. — I must not close my letter without giving you one 
 principal event of my history ; which was, that (in the course 
 of my late tour) I set out one morning before five o’clock, the 
 moon shining through a dark and misty autumnal air, and 
 got to the sea-coast time enough to be at the sun’s levee. I 
 saw the clouds and dark vapors open gradually to right and 
 left, rolling over one another in great smoky wreaths, and the 
 tide (as it flowed gently in upon the sands) first whitening, 
 then slightly tinged with gold and blue, and all at once a 
 little line of insufferable brightness that (before I can write 
 these five words) was grown to half an orb, and now to a 
 whole one too glorious to be distinctly seen. It is very odd 
 it makes no figure on paper ; yet I shall remember it as long 
 as the sun, or at least as long as I endure. I wonder whether 
 anybody ever saw it before ? I hardly believe it. 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 [a MOTHER SCENERY OF KENT.] 
 
 1765. 
 
 I T is a long time since, that I heard you w T ere gone in hast 
 into Yorkshire on account of your mother’s illness ; an 
 the same letter informed me that she was recovered, other 
 wise I had then wrote to you only to beg you would take 
 care of her, and to inform you that I had discovered a thing 
 6 
 
122 
 
 FIVE JjETTERS OF GRAY. 
 
 very little known, which is, that in one’s whole life one can 
 never have any more than a single mother. You may think 
 this is obvious, and (what 3-011 call) a trite observation. You 
 are a green gosling ! I was at the same age (very near) as 
 wise as 3 r ou ; and yet I never discovered this (with full evi- 
 dence and conviction, I mean) till it was too late. It is thir- 
 teen years ago, and seems but as yesterday, and every day I 
 live it sinks deeper into my heart. Many a corollary could 
 I draw from this axiom for your use (not for my own), but I 
 will leave you the merit of doing it for 3 T ourself. Pray tell 
 me how your health is ; I conclude it perfect, as I hear } t ou 
 offered yourself as a guide to Mr. Palgrave into the Sierra 
 Morena of Yorkshire. For me, I passed the end of May, and 
 all June, in Kent, not disagreeably, In the west part of it, 
 from every eminence, the eye catches some long reach "ff the 
 Thames or Medway, with all their shipping : in the east, the 
 sea breaks in upon 3 t ou, and mixes its white transient sails, 
 and glittering blue expanse, with the deeper and brighter 
 green of the woods and corn. This sentence is so fine I am 
 quite ashamed, but no matter ! You must translate it into 
 prose. Palgrave, if he heard it, would co^er his face with 
 his pudding sleeve.^ I do not tell 3 T ou of the great and 
 small beasts, and creeping things innumerable, that I met 
 with, because you do not suspect that this world is inhabited 
 by anything but men, and women, and clergy, and such two- 
 legged cattle. Now I am here again, ve v y disconsolate and 
 all alone, for Mr. Brown is gone, and the cares of this world 
 are coming thick upon me ; you, I hope, are better off, riding 
 and walking in the woods of Studley, &c &c. I must not 
 wish for you here 5 besides, I am going to town at Michae 
 mas, by no means for amusement. 
 
 * He was a clergyman ; rector of Palgrave and Thrandeston, in 
 Suffolk. 
 
FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY. 
 
 123 
 
 TO THE SAME. 
 
 [HAVING A GARDEN OF one’s OWN SHENSTONE SECOND BAN- 
 
 TER ON FORMAL APOLOGIES. 
 
 Pembroke College, June 24th, 1769. 
 
 ND so you have a garden of your own, and you plant and 
 
 -tA transplant, and are dirty and amused. Are not you 
 ashamed of yourself? Why, I have no such thing, you 
 monster ; nor ever shall be either dirty or amused as long as 
 I live.^ My gardens are in my windows, like those of a 
 lodger up three pair of stairs in Petticoat Lane, or Camomile 
 Street, and they go to bed regularly under the same roof that 
 I do. Dear ! how charming it must be to walk out in one’s 
 own garding , and sit on a bench in the open air, with a foun- 
 tain and leaden statue, and -a rolling-stone, and an arbor i 
 Have a care of sore throats though, and the agoe. 
 
 However, be it known to you, though I have no garden, 
 I have sold my estate,! and got a thousand guineas and 
 fourscore pounds a-year for my old aunt, and a twenty-pound 
 prize in the lottery, and Lord knows what arrears in the 
 treasury, and am a rich fellow enough, go to ; a fellow that 
 hath had losses, and one that hath two gowns, and every- 
 thing handsome about him and in a few days shall have 
 new window-curtains : are you avized of that ? Aye, and a 
 new mattress to lie upon. 
 
 * This pleasantry becomes the more charming, when read in con- 
 nection with some previous letters to Nicholls, which were in a strain 
 of serious and somewhat remonstrating advice on carelessness in his 
 affairs, though full of the most touching kindness. 
 
 t Some houses on the west side of Hand Alley, in Cornhill. 
 
 f From Dogberry’s speech in Much ado about Nothing , Act iv. sc. 2 
 
124 
 
 FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY. 
 
 My Ode* * * § Las been rehearsed again and again, and the 
 scholars have got scraps by heart. I expect to see it torn 
 piecemeal in the North Briton, f before it is born. If you 
 will come, you shall see it, and sing in it amidst a chorus 
 from Salisbury and Gloucester music-meeting, great names 
 there, and all well versed in Judas Maccabaeus.J I wish it was 
 once over, for then I immediately go for a few days to Lon- 
 don. and so with Mr. Brown to Aston, though I fear it will 
 rain the whole summer, and Skiddaw will be invisible and 
 inaccessible to mortals. 
 
 I have got De la Lande’s Voyage through Italy in eight 
 volumes. He is a member of the Academy of Sciences, and 
 pretty good to read. I have read, too, an octavo volume of 
 Shenstone’s Letters. Poor man ! he w T as always wishing for 
 money, for fame, and other distinctions ; and his whole phi- 
 losophy consisted in living against his will in retirement, and 
 in a place which his taste had adorned, but which he only 
 enjoyed when people of note came to see and commend it. 
 His correspondence is about nothing else but this place and 
 his own writings, with two or three neighboring clergymen 
 who wrote verses too.§ 
 
 * “ On the Installation of the Duke of Grafton as Chancellor of the 
 University of Cambridge.” 
 
 t A periodical publication now forgotten. 
 
 % Handel’s Oratorio of that name. 
 
 § This is a true view of the weak side of Shenstone’s character; 
 and Gray, perhaps, confined himself to that side of it for some purpose 
 connected with his correspondent. Otherwise Shenstone must inevi- 
 tably have reaped great enjoyment from the lovely and surprising 
 landscapes he created on his estate, which were the admiration of the 
 best judges, and the site of his own gentle verse-making. Shenstone, 
 like most people, was a different man under different phases of health. 
 Gray was a warm admirer of the poem in these volumes, The School- 
 mistress. He pronounced it “ excellent in its kind, and masterly.” 
 
FIVE LETTERS OF GRAY. 
 
 125 
 
 I have just found the beginning of a letter, which some- 
 body had dropped : I should rather call it first-thoughts for 
 the beginning of a letter, for there are many scratches and 
 corrections. As I cannot use it myself (having got a begin- 
 ning already of my own), I send it for your use on some 
 great occasion. 
 
 a Dear Sir, 
 
 “ After so dong silence, the hopes of pardon, and prospect 
 of forgiveness, might seem entirely extinct, or at least very 
 remote, was I not truly sensible of your goodness and can 
 dor, which is the only asylum that my negligence can fly to, 
 since every apology would prove insufficient to counterbalance 
 it, or alleviate my fault : how then shall my deficiency pre- 
 sume to make so bold an attempt, or be able to suffer the 
 hardships of so rough a campaign ?” &c. &c. &c # 
 
 * See note * p. 125. 
 
Stimantogra nf (Moating a $nste fur |Htttorra. 
 
 BY JONATHAN RICHARDSON. 
 
 Jonathan Richardson was a portrait-painter and critic in the time 
 of Pope, whom he knew. He was esteemed in his art, and still more 
 for his knowledge and admiration of art in others. He wrote treatises 
 on Painting, notes on Milton, a poem in Nichols's Collection , evincing 
 his inquiring and amiable turn of mind, called an Address to the Morn- 
 ing Star ; and he was famous for his industry, early-rising, and the 
 affection existing between him and his son. His writings have perhaps 
 created more enthusiasm for pictures than those of any other man in 
 England. He is not an accomplished writer, like Sir Joshua ; nor has 
 he the depth of Hazlitt ; much less any of the transcendental insights 
 of the promising critical genius who has lately made his appearance 
 among us under the title of the “ Oxford Graduate.” His style is col- 
 loquial, to a degree of slovenliness : and, with the tendencies natural 
 perhaps to his art in a professional point of view, he is too much in- 
 clined to confound prosperity with success. But he w T ould interest us 
 less if he did not pour forth all he thought. Candor, honesty, good- 
 ness, vivacity, and a considerable amount of taste and knowledge, 
 constitute the charms of his w T riting. Sir Joshua respected him ; 
 Pope, who dabbled in painting himself, was attached to him ; Hazlitt 
 quoted him with delight. 
 
 The following remarks are on a subject which is yet far too little 
 appreciated, but which is destined, we suspect, to play a great and 
 delightful part in the universal world of civilization. “ Knowledge is 
 power but it is not only power to command (which is the sense in 
 
CULTIVATING A TASTE FOR PICTURES . 
 
 12 ? 
 
 which the axiom is generally taken), it is also power to enjoy. Every- 
 body who knows anything of anything, knows how much that knowl- 
 edge adds to the sum of his ordinary satisfaction ; what strength it 
 gives him, what ennui and vacuity it saves him. The smallest bota- 
 nist or geologist knows it, by the way-side ; the least meteorologist, 
 as he gazes at a rack of clouds. Pictures make themselves known at 
 once, more or less ; yet nobody, who has not in some measure thought 
 on the subject as Richardson here teaches to think, has any concep- 
 tion how much is to be got out of a good picture, the more he knows 
 of the art, and of nature. He learns to know everything which the 
 painter intends ; everything which he intimates ; and thus to discover 
 volumes of meaning and entertainment where others see little but a 
 colored page. And the more we know of pictures, the more we come 
 to value engravings, and to know what companions they can be made ; 
 what little treasures of art we may possess, even in those faint repre- 
 sentations, compared with the nothing to be got out of the finest paint- 
 ings by the eyes of ignorance. 
 
 And then there is the reflex of Painting itself on Nature ; the 
 grateful light which she throws in her turn on the source of her in- 
 spiration ; so that the more we know of objects on canvas, the more 
 we learn to know of the objects themselves, and thus become qualified 
 to discern pictures in everything, and to be critics of our instructor. 
 But Richardson has touched on this point also, and the reader must 
 not be detained from him. We would only beg leave to add, by way 
 of individual experience in such matters, without pretending to any 
 remarkable insight into them, either natural or acquired, that Mr. 
 Hazlitt, whom we had the pleasure of knowing, converted us from a 
 wrong admiration of white cottages in landscapes to the right one of 
 the honest old red ; that Mr. Haydon (whom we will not call “ unfor- 
 tunate,” even for his end, knowing what pleasure he got out of his 
 art in life) was the first, in our youth, to give us an eye to the atti- 
 tudes and groups of people in company ; and that we have reason to 
 regard the having been conversant with a house full of paintings 
 during childhood as one of the blessings of our existence. We have 
 never since entered a room of that sort without a tendency to hush 
 and move softly, as if in the presence of things above the ordinary 
 course of nature, of spirits left behind them by great men, looking at 
 us with divine eyes, or informing the most beautiful visions of nature 
 with art as wonderful. And we are so. 
 
128 
 
 ADVANTAGES OF CULTIVATING 
 
 117 HAT is beautiful and excellent, is naturally adapted to 
 ' » please : but all beauties and excellencies are not, natu- 
 rally, seen. Most gentlemen see pictures and drawings as the 
 generality of people see the heavens in a clear, starry night ; 
 they perceive a sort of beauty there, but such a one as pro- 
 duces no great pleasure in the mind ; but when one considers 
 the heavenly bodies as other worlds, and that there are an 
 infinite number of these in the empire of God (Immensity), 
 and worlds which our eyes, assisted by the best glasses, can 
 never reach, and so far remote from the most distant of what 
 we see, that these visible ones are as it were our neighbors, 
 as the continent of France is to Great Britain ; when one 
 considers farther, that as there are inhabitants on this conti- 
 nent, though we see them not when we see that , it is alto- 
 gether unreasonable to imagine that those innumerable worlds 
 are uninhabited and desert ; there must be beings there, some 
 perhaps more, others Tess noble and excellent than man. 
 When one thus views this vast prospect, the mind is other- 
 wise affected than before, and feels a delight which common 
 notions never can administer. So those who at present can- 
 not comprehend there can be such pleasure in a good picture 
 or drawing as connoisseurs pretend to find, may learn to see 
 the same thing themselves ; their eyes being once opened, 
 they may be said to obtain a new sense ; and new pleasures 
 flow in as often as the objects of that superinduced sight 
 present themselves, which (to people of condition especially) 
 very frequently happens, or may be procured, whether here 
 at home, or in their travels abroad. When a gentleman has 
 learned to see the beauties and excellencies that are really 
 in good pictures and drawings and which may be learnt by 
 conversing with such, and applying himself to the considera- 
 tion of them, he will look upon that with joy which he now 
 passes over with very little pleasure, if not with indifference ; 
 
A TASTE FOR PICTURES. 
 
 129 
 
 nay, a sketch, a scrabble of the hand of a great master, will 
 be capable of administering to him a greater degree of pleas- 
 ure than those who know it not by experience can have any 
 conception of. Besides the graceful and noble attitudes, the 
 beauty of colors and forms, and the fine effects of light and 
 shadow, which none sees as a connoisseur does, such a one 
 enters farther than any other can do into the beauties of the 
 invention, expression, and other parts of the work he is con- 
 sidering. He sees strokes of art, contrivances, expedients, a 
 delicacy and spirit, that others see not, or very imperfectly. 
 
 He sees what force of mind the great masters had to 
 conceive ideas; what judgment to see things beautifully, or 
 to imagine beauty from what they saw ; and what a power 
 their hands were endued withal, in a few strokes and with 
 ease, to show to another what themselves conceived. 
 
 What is it that gives us pleasure in reading a history or 
 poem, but that the mind is thereby furnished with a variety 
 of images? And what distinguishes some authors, and sets 
 them above the common level, but their knowing how to 
 raise their subject? The Trojan or Peleponnesian wars 
 would never have been thought of by us, if a Homer or 
 Thucydides had not told the stories of them, who knew how 
 to do it so as to fill the minds of their readers with great and 
 delightful ideas. He who converses with the works of the 
 best masters is always reading such admirable authors ; and 
 his mind consequently, in proportion, entertained and delight- 
 ed with the histories, fables, characters, the ideas of magnifi- 
 cent buildings, fine prospects, &c. 
 
 And he sees these things in those different lights which 
 the various manners of thinking of the several masters sets 
 them ; he sees them as they are represented by the capri- 
 cious but vast genius of Leonardo da Vinci ; the fierce and 
 gigantic one of Michael Angelo ; the divine and polite one 
 
130 
 
 ADVANTAGES OF CULTIVATING 
 
 of Raphael ; the poetical fancy of Guido ; the angelical mind 
 of Corregio, or Parmegiano ; the haughty, sullen, but accom- 
 plished Annibal, the learned Augustino Caracci. 
 
 A connoisseur hath this further advantage, that he not 
 only sees beauties in pictures and paintings, which to common 
 eyes are invisible ; but he learns by these to see such in na- 
 ture, in the exquisite forms and colors, the fine effects of 
 lights, and shadows, and reflections, which in her are always 
 to be found, and from whence he hath a pleasure which other- 
 wise he could never have had, and which none with untaught 
 eyes can possibly discern : he has a constant pleasure of this 
 kind even in the most common things, and the most familiar 
 to us, so that what people usually look upon with the utmost 
 indifference, creates an home-felt delight in his mind. The 
 noblest works of Raphael, the most ravishing music of Han- 
 del, the most masterly strokes of Milton, touch not people 
 who are without discernment. 
 
 So, the beauties themselves of those all-perfect works of 
 the great author of nature are not seen but by enlightened 
 eyes, that is, those eyes wdiich are taught to see ; to those 
 they appear far otherwise than before they were ; so, so far 
 otherwise ! that one sees through a glass darkly (through the 
 gross medium of ignorance) ; the other , that of a connoisseur, 
 as w T hen the angel had removed the film from Adam’s eyes, 
 and purged with euphrasy and rue, the visual nerve, seeth 
 beauty divine and human, as far as human may, as we hope 
 to see everything, still nearer to its true beauty and perfec- 
 tion, in a better state ; when we shall u see what eye 
 hath not seen, neither hath it entered the heart of man to 
 conceive.” 
 
 By conversing with the works of the best masters, our 
 imaginations are impregnated with great and beautiful 
 images, which present themselves on all occasions in 
 
A TASTE FOR PICTURES. 
 
 131 
 
 reading an author, or ruminating upon some great action, 
 ancient or modern ; everything is raised, everything improved 
 from what it would have been otherwise. Nay, those lovely 
 images with which our minds are thus enriched, arise there 
 continually, and give us pleasure, with or without any par- 
 ticular application. 
 
 What is rare and curious, exclusive of any other consider- 
 ation, we naturally take pleasure in ; because, as variable as 
 our circumstances are, there is so much of repetition in life 
 that more variety is still desirable. The works of the great 
 masters would thus recommend themselves to us, though 
 they had not that transcendent excellency that they have ; 
 they are such as are rarely seen ; they are the works of a 
 small number of the species in one little country of the world, 
 and in a short space of time. But their excellency being put 
 into the scale makes the rarity of them justly considerable. 
 They are the works of men like whom none are now to be 
 found, and when there will be, God only knows ! 
 
 “ Art et guides, tout est dans les Champs Elysees.” 
 
 La Fontaine. 
 
 What the old man Melanthius says of Polygnotus (as he 
 is cited by Plutarch in the life of Cimon), may, with a little 
 alteration, be applied to these men in general ; it is thus al- 
 ready translated : 
 
 “ This famous painter, at his own expense, 
 
 Gave Athens beauty and magnificence ; 
 
 New life to all the heroes did impart ; 
 
 Embellish’d all the temples with his art ; 
 
 The splendor of the state restor’d again ; 
 
 And so he did oblige both gods and men.” 
 
 What still adds to the rarity of the excellent works we 
 
132 
 
 ADVANTAGES OF CULTIVATING 
 
 are speaking of is. their number must necessarily diminish 
 by sudden accidents, or the slow, but certain injuries of 
 time. 
 
 Another pleasure belonging to connoissance is when we 
 find anything particular and curious ; as the first thoughts 
 of a master for some remarkable picture ; the original of a 
 work of a great master, the copy of which we have already 
 by some other considerable hand ; a drawing of a’ picture, or 
 after an antique very famous, or which is now lost ; or when 
 we make some new acquisition upon reasonable terms, chiefly 
 when we get for ourselves something we much desired, but 
 could not hope to be masters of ; when we make some new 
 discovery, something that improves our knowledge in connois- 
 sance or painting, or otherwise ; and abundance of such like 
 incidents, and which very frequently happens to a diligent 
 connoisseur. 
 
 The pleasure that arises from a knowledge of hands is 
 not like, or equal to that of the other parts of the business 
 of a connoisseur, but neither is this destitute of it. When 
 one sees an admirable piece of art, it is part of the connois- 
 seur to know to whom to attribute it, and then to know his 
 history ; which arises, I hope, from a natural justice in the 
 human mind that loves and desires to pay a little tribute of 
 gratitude where it discovers it to be due to that merit of 
 another which it is actually enjoying. The custom of put- 
 ting the author’s portrait or life at the beginning of his book, 
 is kindly giving us an opportunity of doing this. 
 
 When one is considering a picture or a drawing,* and at 
 the same time thinks this was done by him who had man} T 
 
 * The passage here commencing is one enormously long sen- 
 tence, continued to the words “ these reflections,” at p. 140. It 
 may be supposed, however, to be very agreeably poured forth in the 
 heat of conversation. 
 
A TASTE FOR PICTURES. 
 
 133 
 
 sxtraordinary endowments of body and mind, and was withal 
 a, virtuous man and a fine gentleman in his whole life, and 
 still more at his death, expiring in the arms of one of the 
 greatest princes of that age, Francis I., king of France, who 
 loved him as a friend ; # — another is of him who lived a long 
 and happy life beloved of the Emperor Charles V., and 
 many others of the first princes of Europe ;f — when one has 
 another in his hand, and thinks that this was done by one 
 who so excelled in three arts, as that any one of them, in that 
 degree he possessed them all, had rendered him worthy of 
 immortality, and who moreover dared to contend with his 
 sovereign (one of the haughtiest popes that ever was) upon 
 a slight offered to him, and extricated himself with honor 
 — another is the work of that great self-formed, authentic 
 genius, who was the model of supernatural grace ; who alone 
 painted heaven, as surely it is ; and hath represented to hu- 
 man weakness the angelic nature ; this, too, by inspiration ! 
 not having had any master, or none but whom he left quite 
 out of sight in the earliest progresses of his divine pencil ; he 
 even never saw the works of other great masters, having always 
 confined himself to his native Lombardy, except one single 
 one of Raphael, and a great one indeed that was, his St. Ce- 
 cilia when brought to Bologna ; and then, after considering 
 it with long attention, and the admiration it deserved, he had 
 the spirit (and he had a right to that spirit) to say, “ Well, I 
 am a painter, too he was so little known to the rest of 
 Italy, that he passed till very lately, in the opinion of the 
 world, for a low, poor, indigent creature, from the ill-informa- 
 tion or malice of Yasari, always prejudiced against the Lom- 
 bard painters, when his character was rescued from its affect- 
 ed obscurity, and his noble birth and connections, and splen- 
 
 * Leonardo da Vinci. 
 $ Michael Angelo. 
 
 t Titian. 
 
 § Corregio. 
 
134 
 
 ADVANTAGES OF CULTIVATING 
 
 did wealth, asserted boyond all possibility and dispute by the 
 indefatigable industry of Ludiovico Antonio David, a Milan- 
 ese painter, and published at Bologna ; — another we shall 
 consider as the work of him who restored painting when it 
 was almost sunk ; of him whom his art made honorable ; but 
 who neglecting and despising greatness with a sort of cynical 
 pride, was treated suitably to the figure he gave himself, not 
 to his intrinsic merit ; which not having philosophy enough 
 to bear, it broke his heart another is performed by one, 
 who (on the contrary) was a fine gentleman, and of great 
 magnificence, and was much honored by his own and foreign 
 princes ; who was a courtier, a statesman, and a painter ; and 
 so much all these, that when he acted in either character, 
 that seemed to be his business, and the others his diversion ;f 
 — when one thus reflects, besides the pleasure arising from 
 the beauties and excellencies of the work, the fine ideas it 
 gives us of natural things, the noble way of thinking one finds 
 in it, and the pleasing thoughts it may suggest to us, an ad- 
 ditional pleasure results from these reflections. 
 
 But, oh ! the pleasure ! when a connoisseur and lover of 
 art has before him a picture or drawing, of which he can say, 
 this is the hand, these the thoughts of him who was one of 
 the politest, best-natured gentlemen that ever was ; who was 
 beloved and assisted by the greatest wits, and the greatest 
 men then at Rome, at a time when politeness and all those 
 arts which make life taste truly agreeable, were carried to a 
 greater height than at any period since the reign of Augus- 
 tus : of him who lived in great fame, honor, and magnificence, 
 and died universally lamented ; and even missed a cardinal’s 
 hat only by dying a few months too soon ; but was, above 
 all, highly esteemed and favored by two popes, the only ones 
 
 Caravaggio ? 
 
 f Rubens. 
 

 A TASTE TOR PICTURES . 135 
 
 who filled the chair of St. Peter in his time ; — one (in short) 
 who could have been a Leonardo, a Michael Angelo, a Ti- 
 tian, a Corregio, a Parinegiano, an Annibal, a Rubens, or any 
 other when he pleased, but none of them could ever have 
 been a Raphael 
 
(Me Bit h Distant ^rnsjiert nf Clan College, 
 
 Tins poem has been noticed in our preface, and in the introduc- 
 tion to the Long Story. It is full of thought, tenderness, and music, 
 and should make the writer beloved by all persons of reflection, es- 
 pecially those who know what it is to visit the scenes of their school- 
 days. They may not all regard them in the same melancholy light; 
 but the melancholy light will cross them, and then Gray’s lines will 
 fall in upon the recollection, at once like a bitter and a balm. 
 
 Y E distant spires, ye antique towers, 
 
 That crown the watery glade, 
 
 Where grateful science still adores 
 Her Henry’s holy shade ; 
 
 And ye that from the stately brow 
 Of Windsor’s heights th’ expanse below 
 Of grove, of lawn, of mead survey, 
 
 Whose turf, whose shade, whose flowers among 
 Wanders the hoary Thames along 
 His silver-winding way. 
 
 Ah, happy hills, ah, pleasing shade, 
 
 Ah, fields beloved in vain, 
 
ODE ON A PROSPECT OF ETON COLLEGE. 
 
 137 
 
 Where once my careless childhood stray’d, 
 A stranger yet to pain ? 
 
 I feel the gales that from ye blow 
 A momentary bliss bestow, 
 
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing 
 My weary sonl they seem to soothe, 
 
 And, redolent of joy and youth, 
 
 To breathe a second spring. 
 
 Say, father Thames, for thou hast seen 
 Full many a sprightly race, 
 
 Disporting on thy margent green. 
 
 The paths of pleasure trace, 
 
 Who foremost now delight to cleave 
 With pliant arm thy glassy wave ? 
 
 The captive linnet which enthrall $ 
 
 What idle progeny succeed 
 To chase the rolling circle’s speed, 
 
 Or urge the flying ball '{ 
 
 While some, on earnest business bent, 
 Their murmuring labors ply 
 ’Gainst graver hours, that bring constraint 
 To sweeten liberty, 
 
 Some bold adventurers disdain 
 The limits of their little reign, 
 
 And unknown regions dare descry ; 
 
 Still as they run they look behind, 
 
 They hear a voice in every wind, 
 
 And snatch a fearful joy. 
 
 Gay hope is theirs, by fancy fed, 
 
 Less pleasing when possest ; 
 
138 
 
 ODE ON A DISTANT PROSPECT 
 
 The tear forgot as soon as shed. 
 
 The sunshine of the breast : 
 
 Theirs, buxom health of rosy hue, 
 
 Wild wit, invention ever new, 
 
 And lively cheer, of vigor born ; 
 
 The thoughtless day, the easy night, 
 
 The spirits pure, the slumbers light, 
 That fly th’ approach of morn. 
 
 Alas, regardless of their doom, 
 
 The little victims play ! 
 
 No sense have they of ills to come, 
 
 Nor care beyond to-day : 
 
 Yet see how all around them wait 
 The ministers of human fate, 
 
 And black misfortune’s baleful train ; 
 Ah, show them where in ambush stand, 
 To seize their prey, the murderous band 
 Ah, tell them they are men ! 
 
 These shall the fury passions tear, 
 
 The vultures of the mind, 
 
 Disdainful anger, pallid fear, 
 
 And shame that skulks behind ; 
 
 Or pining love shall waste their youth 
 Or jealousy, with rankling tooth, 
 
 That inly gnaws the secret heart , 
 And envy wan, and faded care, 
 Grim-visag’d comfortless despair, 
 
 And sorrow’s piercing dart 
 
 Ambition this shall tempt to rise, 
 
 Then whirl the wretch from high, 
 
OF ETON COLLEGE. 
 
 139 
 
 To bitter scorn a sacrifice. 
 
 And grinning infamy ; 
 
 The stings of falsehood those shall try, 
 
 And hard unkindness’ alter’d eye, 
 
 That mocks the tear it forc’d to flow ; 
 And keen remorse, with blood defil’d, 
 
 And moody madness laughing wild 
 Amidst severest woe. 
 
 Lo, in the vale of years beneath 
 A grisly troop are seen, 
 
 The painful family of death, 
 
 More hideous than their queen ; 
 
 This racks the joints, this fires the veins, 
 That every laboring sinew strains, 
 
 Those in the deeper vitals rage : 
 
 Lo, poverty, to fill the band, 
 
 That numbs the soul with icy hand, 
 
 And slow consuming age. 
 
 To each his sufferings ; all are men, 
 Condemn’d alike to groan ; 
 
 The tender for another’s pain, 
 
 The unfeeling for his own. 
 
 Yet, ah ! why should they know their fate ! 
 Since sorrow never comes too late, 
 
 And happiness too swiftly flies : 
 
 Thought would destroy their paradise. — 
 
 No more. Where ignorance is bliss, 
 
 ’Tis folly to be wise. 
 
SI long Itonj. 
 
 The Long Story is so entitled in deprecation of any tedium which 
 the reader might experience in perusing a personal adventure of the 
 author’s who was too sensitive on such points. lie pleasantly pre- 
 tends that he has omitted five hundred stanzas. The occasion of the 
 poem was a visit paid him by two ladies, who did him the honor of 
 being their own introducers. Gray was at the house of his aunt, in 
 his native village of Stoke Pogeis, near Windsor. His mother was 
 there also. The Viscountess Cobham,* who possessed the mansion- 
 house of the place, wished to make the poet’s acquaintance. The la- 
 dies in question undertook to break the ice for her. Not finding him 
 at home, they left a card, intimating that they came to tell him of the 
 good health of a Lady Brown, a friend of his. Shy and sequestered 
 as he was, the poet returned the visit ; and he takes the opportunity 
 of describing the house, and complimenting its inmates. 
 
 Walpole said of Gray, that, however well he might write in moods 
 altogether serious, his real forte was pleasantry. Undoubtedly Gray’s 
 pleasantry is of a more original cast than his seriousness ; less indebt- 
 ed to that of his predecessors. Yet there is reason to believe that 
 every thought which he transferred to paper had passed through his 
 own mind, though his love of the writings of others too often induced 
 him to express it in their words. Half his verses are centos ; and yet 
 we feel them to be rather sympathies than echoes. His Ode on the 
 Prospect of Eton College , and his Elegy in a Country Churchyard , are 
 the regrets of all his fellow-mortals, and of himself. Gray was a 
 scholarly, thoughtful, affectionate man j a little effeminate in his hab- 
 
 * Sister of Pope’s Lord Cobham, and subsequently Countess Temple. 
 
A LONG STORY * 
 
 141 
 
 its, owing to a feeble constitution ; but manly in Ms judgments, and 
 superior to every kind of sophistry and meanness* 
 
 Gray’s pleasantry came to him through his melancholy, assisted by 
 the general delicacy of his perceptions, and his willingness to be 
 pleased. Though a little too cautious of committing his dignity, he 
 was not one of those who “ take a calamity for an affront.” He was 
 willing to give and to receive pleasure, and this is a disposition which 
 Nature is sure to reward. In the Long Story we see him hesitating 
 at first whether he should go to the “ great house.” He was not only 
 loth to be disturbed in his sequestered habits \ he was jealous of what 
 might be thought of his humble independence, and his footing as a 
 “gentleman.” (He was the son of a scrivener.) But good-nature 
 prevails, not unaccompanied by a willingness to find himself among 
 ladies of rank and elegance- and though he might as well have 
 dropped the circumstance of his secreting himself, he has made a 
 charming picture both of the interview of the ladies with his mother 
 and aunt (whom lie pretends they pinched and “ rummaged” like 
 fairies), and of the great Elizabethan house, with its old associa- 
 tions, — things in which he delighted ; for he was an antiquary with all 
 the zest of a poet* The whole poem is full of picturesqueness, fancy, 
 and wit. 
 
 I N Britain r s isle, no matter where, 
 
 An ancient pile of building stands ; 
 
 The Huntingdons and Hattons there 
 Employ’d the power of fairy hands 
 
 To raise, the ceiling’s fretted height, 
 
 Each panel in achievements clothing, 
 
 Rich windows that exclude the light, 
 
 And passages that lead to nothing.^ 
 
 Full oft within the spacious walls, 
 
 When he had fifty winters o’er him, 
 
 * A line that has become a favorite quotation with critics, es- 
 pecially as applied to passages in music. 
 
142 
 
 A LONG STORY. 
 
 My grave Lord-Keeper led the brawls ;* 
 
 The seal and maces danc’d before him. 
 
 Ilis bushy beard and shoe-strings green, 
 
 His high-crown’ d hat and satin doublet, 
 
 Mov’d the stout heart of England’s Queen, 
 
 Though Pope and Spaniard could not trouble it 
 
 What, in the very first beginning? 
 
 Shame of the versifying tribe ! 
 
 Your history wdiither are you spinning? 
 
 Can you do nothing but describe ? 
 
 A house there is (and that’s enough) 
 
 From whence one fatal morning issues 
 
 A brace of warriors, not in buff, 
 
 But rustling in their silks and tissues. 
 
 The firstf came cap-a-pie from France, 
 
 Her conquering destiny fulfilling, 
 
 Whom meaner beauties eye askance, 
 
 And vainly ape her art of killing. 
 
 * The brawl ( branle ) was a fashionable dance. The Lord Keeper 
 is Sir Christopher Hatton, a handsome man, who is said to have danced 
 himself into the office. It is unquestionable that he made way some- 
 how into the heart of Elizabeth. Dancing, however, appears to have 
 been so much admired by this great queen, that another and graver 
 lawyer, Sir John Davies, no mean philosophical poet, who was also 
 one of her most devoted panegyrists, divided his leisure thoughts be- 
 tween metrical treatises on the Art of Dancing and on the Immortality 
 of the Soul. Biographers, by the way, tell us, that Hatton never 
 possessed a house at Stoke Pogeis. Gray, however, says he did ; and 
 there he is in consequence, living forever, 
 t Lady Schaub. 
 
A LONG- STORY. 
 
 143 
 
 The other Amazon* kind lieav’n 
 
 Had arm’d with spirit, wit, and satire ; 
 
 *>ut Cobham had the polish giv’n, 
 
 And tipp’d her arrows with good-nature. 
 
 To celebrate her eyes, her air — 
 
 Coarse panegyrics would but tease her : 
 
 Melissa is her nom cle guerre ; 
 
 Alas ! whc would not wish to please her ? 
 
 With bonnet blue, and capuchin, 
 
 And aprons long, they hid their armor, 
 
 And veil’d their weapons bright and keen 
 In pity to the country farmer. 
 
 Fame in the shape of Mr. P 1 
 
 (By this time all the parish know it) 
 
 Had told that thereabouts there lurk’d 
 A wicked imp they call’d a poet.f 
 
 Who prowl’d the country far and near, 
 
 Bewitch’d the children of the peasants, 
 
 Dry’d up the cows and lam’d the deer, 
 
 And suck’d the eggs and kill’d the pheasants. 
 
 My Lady, heard their joint petition, 
 
 Swore, by her coronet and ermine, 
 
 She’d issue out her high commission 
 To rid the manor of such vermin. 
 
 * Miss Harriett Speed. She was a descendant of the historian, 
 and became the wife of the Sardinian ambassador, the Count de Yeri. 
 
 •j* Mr. P was a Mr. Part or Purkt. He is said to have been 
 
 displeased with this allusion, — Mason thinks unreasonably ; but no- 
 body likes to be thought a gossip. Mason knew that Gray was a 
 good-natured man • but of this. Mr. P. might not have been so sure. 
 
144 
 
 A LONG STORY. 
 
 The heroines undertook the task ; 
 
 Thro’ lanes unknown, o’er stiles they ventur’d, 
 Happ’d at the door, nor stay’d to ask, 
 
 But bounce into the parlor enter’d. 
 
 The trembling family they daunt ; 
 
 They flirt, they sing, they laugh, they tattle ; 
 Rummage his mother, pinch his aunt, 
 
 And up stairs in a whirlwind rattle. 
 
 Each hole and cupboard they explore, 
 
 Each creek and cranny of his chamber, 
 
 Run hurry-skurry round the floor, 
 
 And o’er the bed and tester clamber ; 
 
 Into the drawers and china pry, 
 
 Papers and books, a huge imbroglio ; 
 
 Under a tea-cup he might lie, 
 
 Or creas’d, like dogs-ears, in a folio. 
 
 On the first marching of the troops, 
 
 The Muses, hopeless of his pardon, 
 
 Conveyed him underneath their hoops 
 To a small closet in the garden. 
 
 So Rumor says (who will, believe) ; 
 
 But that they left the door ajar, 
 
 Where safe, and laughing in his sleeve, 
 
 He heard the distant din of war. 
 
 Short was his joy ; he little knew 
 The power of magic was no fable ; 
 
 Out of the window whisk they flew, 
 
 But left a spell upon the table. 
 
A LONG STORY. 
 
 145 
 
 The words too eager to unriddle, 
 
 The poet felt a strange disorder ; 
 
 Transparent bird-lime form’d the middle, 
 And chains invisible the border. 
 
 So cunning was the apparatus, 
 
 The powerful pot-hooks did so move him, 
 
 That will-he, nill-he, to the great house 
 He went as if the devil drove him. 
 
 Yet on his way (no sign of grace, 
 
 For folks in fear are apt to pray) 
 
 To Phoebus he preferred his case, 
 
 And begg’d his aid that dreadful day. 
 
 The godhead would have back’d his quarrel ; 
 But, with a blush, on recollection, 
 
 Own’d that his quiver and his laurel 
 
 ’Gainst four such eyes were no protection. 
 
 The court was set, the culprit there ; 
 
 Forth from their gloomy mansion creeping 
 
 The Lady Janes and Joans repair, 
 
 And from the gallery stand peeping : 
 
 Such as in silence of the night 
 
 Come (sweep) along some winding entry 
 
 (Styack* has often seen the sight), 
 
 Or at the chapel-door stand sentry ; 
 
 In peaked hoods and mantles tarnish’d, 
 
 Sour visages enough to scare ye, 
 
 High dames of honor once that garnish’d 
 The drawing-room of fierce Queen Mary ! 
 
 * The housekeeper. * 
 
 7 
 
146 
 
 A LONG STORY. 
 
 The peeress comes ; the audience stare, 
 
 And doff their hats with due submission ; 
 
 She curt’sies, as she takes her chair, 
 
 To all the people of condition. 
 
 The bard with many an artful fib 
 Had in imagination fenc’d him, 
 
 Disprov’d the arguments of Squib,* 
 
 And all that Groomf could urge against him 
 
 But soon his rhetoric forsook him, 
 
 When he the solemn hall had seen ; 
 
 A sudden fit of ague shook him — 
 
 He stood as mute as poor Macleane.J 
 
 Yet something he was heard to mutter 
 u How in the park, beneath an old tree, 
 
 Without design to hurt the butter, 
 
 Or any malice to the poultry, 
 
 He once or twice had penn’d a sonnet, 
 
 Yet hop’d that he might save his bacon ; 
 
 Numbers would give their oath upon it, 
 
 He ne’er was for a conj’rer taken.” 
 
 The ghostly prudes with hagged face 
 Already had condemn’d the sinner ; 
 
 My Lady rose, and with a grace — 
 
 She smil’d, and bid him come to dinner. 
 
 u Jesu Maria ! Madam Bridget, 
 
 Why what can the Viscountess mean ?” 
 
 * The groom of the chamber. f The steward. 
 
 X A famous highwayman who had just been executed 
 
A LONG STORY. 
 
 147 
 
 Cry ? d the square hoods in woful fidget ; 
 
 “ The times are alter’d, quite and clean : 
 
 u Decorum’s turn’d to mere civility ! 
 
 Her air and all her manners show it. 
 Commend me to her affability ! 
 
 Speak to a commoner and poet !” 
 
 [ Here 500 Stanzas are lost.\ 
 
 And so God save our noble King, 
 
 And guard us from long-winded lubbers, 
 That to eternity would sing, 
 
 And keep my lady from her rubbers. 
 
!ir Engtr h ifnnirltq. 
 
 from addison’s papers in the u spectator.” 
 
 Sir Roger de Coverley is one of those truthful types of charac- 
 ter, which, though created by the mind of man, yet, by the ordination 
 of Nature herself (for Nature includes art among her works), outlasts 
 the successive generations of flesh and blood which it represents. 
 The individuals perish, and leave no memorial ; nay, we hardly care 
 to know them while living. We might find them tiresome. We feel 
 that Nature has done well in making them ; we are grateful for the 
 race ; especially on behalf of others, and of the poor ; but we do not 
 particularly see the value of their society ; when, lo ! in steps one of 
 Nature’s imitators— called men of genius — and, by the mere fact of 
 producing a likeness of the species to the mind’s eye, enchants us for- 
 ever both with it and himself. A little philosophy may easily explain 
 this ; but perhaps a little more may still leave it among the most in- 
 teresting of mysteries. 
 
 We have said a word elsewhere (see Gradations of Clubs ) respect- 
 ing the first invention of Sir Roger by Steele, and the compatibility 
 of his early fopperies with a genuine simplicity. But unquestionably 
 Addison took up the invention of Steele, and enriched and completed 
 it in a way that left the invention itself at a distance. The whole of 
 the following papers are from his exquisite pen. They render com- 
 ment superfluous. One has nothing to do but repeat passages, and 
 admire them. 
 
 SIR ROGER’S HOUSEHOLD ESTABLISHMENT. 
 
 TTAVING 0 ft en received an invitation from my friend Sir 
 H Roger de Coverley to pass away a month with him in 
 the country, I last week accompanied him thither, and am 
 
HOUSEHOLD ESTABLISHMENT. 
 
 149 
 
 settled with him for some time at his country-house, where I 
 intend to form several of my ensuing speculations. Sir Roger, 
 who is very well acquainted with my humor, lets me rise and 
 go to bed when I please, dine at his own table or in my own 
 chamber as I think fit, sit still and say nothing without bid- 
 ding me be merry. When the gentlemen of the country 
 come to see him, he only shows me at a distance. As I have 
 been walking in his fields I have observed them stealing a 
 sight of me over a hedge, and have heard the knight desir- 
 ing them not to let me see them, for that I hated to be 
 stared at. 
 
 I am the more at ease in Sir Roger’s family, because it 
 consists of sober and staid persons ; for, as the knight is the 
 best master in the world, he seldom changes his servants ; 
 and as he is beloved by all about, his servants never care 
 for leaving him ; by this means his domestics are all in years, 
 and grown old with their master. You would take his valet- 
 de-chambre for his brother ; his butler is gray-headed, his 
 groom is one of the gravest men that I have ever seen, and 
 his coachman has the looks of a privy-councillor. You see 
 the goodness of the master even in the old house-dog, and in 
 a gray pad that is kept in the stable with great care and ten- 
 derness, out of regard for his past services, though he has been 
 useless for several years. 
 
 I could not but observe, with a great deal o£ pleasure, the 
 joy that appeared in the countenances of these ancient do- 
 mestics upon my friend’s arrival at his country-seat. Some 
 of them could not refrain from tears at the sight of their old 
 master ; every one of them pressed forward to do something 
 for him, and seemed discouraged if they were not employed. 
 At the same time, the good old knight, with a mixture of a 
 father and the master of a family, tempered the inquiries 
 after his own affairs with several kind questions about them- 
 
150 
 
 SIR ROGER DE COVERLETS 
 
 selves. This humanity and good-nature engages everybody 
 to him, so that when he is pleasant upon any of them, all his 
 family are in good-humor, and none so much as the person he 
 diverts himself with. On the contrary, if he coughs, or be- 
 trays any infirmity of old age, it is easy for a stander-by to 
 observe a secret concern in the looks of all his servants. 
 
 My worthy friend has put me under the particular care 
 of his butler, who is a very prudent man, and, as well as the 
 rest of his fellow-servants, wonderfully desirous of pleasing 
 me, because they have often heard their master talk of me as 
 his particular friend. 
 
 My chief companion, when Sir Roger is diverting himself 
 in the woods or the fields, is a very venerable man who is 
 ever with Sir Roger, and has lived at his house in the nature 
 of a chaplain above thirty years. This gentleman is a per- 
 son of good sense and some learning ; of a very regular life 
 and obliging conversation : he heartily loves Sir Roger, and 
 knows that he is very much in the old knight’s esteem, so 
 that he lives in the family rather as a relation than as a de- 
 pendant. 
 
 I have observed in several of my papers, that my friend 
 Sir Roger, amidst all his good qualities, is something of an 
 humorist ; and that his virtues, as well as imperfections, are, 
 as it were, tinged by a certain extravagance which makes 
 them particularly his , and distinguishes them from those of 
 other men. This cast of mind, as it is generally very inno- 
 cent in itself, so it renders his conversation highly agreeable, 
 and more delightful than the same degree of sense and virtue 
 would appear in their ordinary colors. As I was walking with 
 him last night, he asked me how I liked the good man I have 
 just now mentioned ? And without staying for an answer told 
 me, u That he was afraid of being insulted with Latin and 
 Greek at his own table ; for which reason he desired $ par- 
 
HOUSEHOLD ESTABLISHMENT. 
 
 151 
 
 ticular friend of his at the University to find him out a 
 clergyman rather of plain sense than much learning ; of a 
 good aspect, a clear voice, a sociable temper, and, if possible, 
 a man that understood a little of backgammon. My friend,” 
 says Sir Roger, “ found me out this gentleman, who, besides 
 the endowments required of him, is, they tell me, a good 
 scholar, though he does not show it. I have given him the 
 parsonage of the parish ; and, because I know his value, have 
 settled upon him a good annuity for life. If he outlives me, 
 he shall find that he was higher in my esteem than perhaps 
 he thinks he is. He has now been with me thirty years, and 
 though he does not know I have taken notice of it, has never 
 in all that time asked anything of me for himself, though he is 
 every day soliciting me for something in behalf of one or other 
 of my tenants his parishioners. There has not been a law-suit 
 in the parish since he has lived among them : if any dispute 
 arises, they apply themselves to him for the decision ; if they do 
 not acquiesce in his judgment, which I think never happened 
 above once or twice at most, they appeal to me. At his first 
 settling with me, I made him a present of all the good sermons 
 that have been printed in English, and only begged of him, 
 that every Sunday he would pronounce one of them in the 
 pulpit. Accordingly, he has digested them into such a series, 
 that they follow one another naturally, and make a continued 
 series of practical divinity.” 
 
 As Sir Roger was going on in his story, the gentleman 
 we were talking of came up to us ; and upon the knight 
 asking him who preached to-morrow (for it was Saturday 
 night), told us the Bishop of St. Asaph* in the morning, and 
 Dr. South in the afternoon. He then showed us his list of 
 preachers for the year, where I saw, with a great deal of 
 pleasure, Archbishop Tillotson, Bishop Saunderson, Dr. Bar- 
 
 * Dr. Fleetwood, afterwards Bishop of Ely. 
 
1 52 
 
 SIR ROGER EE COVERLETS 
 
 row, Dr. Galamy, with several living authors who have pub* 
 lished discourses of practical divinity. I no sooner saw this 
 venerable man in the pulpit, but I very much approved of my 
 friend’s insisting upon the qualifications of a good aspect and 
 a clear voice ; for I was so charmed with the gracefulness of 
 his figure and delivery, as well as with the discourses he pro- 
 nounced, that I think I never passed any time more to my 
 satisfaction. A sermon repeated after this manner, is like 
 the composition of a poet in the mouth of a graceful actor. 
 
 I could heartily wish that more of our country clergy 
 would follow this example ; and, instead of wasting their 
 spirits in laborious compositions of their own, would endeav- 
 or after a handsome elocution, and all those other talents 
 that are proper to enforce what has been penned by greater 
 masters. This would not only be more easy to themselves, 
 but more edifying to the people. 
 
 SIR ROGER’S BEHAVIOR IN CHURCH ON A 
 SUNDAY. 
 
 I AM always very well pleased with a country Sunday, and 
 think, if keeping holy the seventh day were only a human 
 institution, it would be the best method that could have been 
 thought of for the polishing and civilizing of mankind. It 
 is certain the country people would soon degenerate into a 
 kind of savages and barbarians, were there not such frequent 
 returns of a stated time, in which the whole village meet to- 
 gether with their best faces, and in their cleanliest habits, 
 to converse with one another upon indifferent subjects, hear 
 their duties explained to them, and join together in adora- 
 tion of the Supreme Being. Sunday clears away the rust 
 of the whole week, not only as it refreshes in their minds 
 
BEHAVIOR IN CHURCH . 
 
 153 
 
 the notions of religion, but as it puts both sexes upon ap- 
 pearing in their most agreeable forms, and exerting all such 
 qualities as are apt to give them a figure in the eye of the 
 village. A country fellow distinguishes himself as much in 
 the churchyard as a citizen does upon ’Change, the whole 
 parish politics being generally discussed there, either after 
 sermon or before the bell rings. 
 
 My friend Sir Roger, being a good church-man, has beau- 
 tified the inside of his church with several texts of his own 
 choosing : he has likewise given a handsome pulpit-cloth, and 
 railed in the communion-table at his own expense. He has 
 often told me, that at his coming to his estate he found his 
 parishioners very irregular ; and that, in order to make them 
 kneel and join in the responses, he gave every one of them 
 a hassock and a common-prayer book ; and at the same time 
 employed an itinerant singing-master, who goes about the 
 country for that purpose, to instruct them rightly in the 
 tunes of the psalms ; upon which they now very much value 
 themselves, and outdo most of the country churches that I 
 have ever heard. 
 
 As Sir Roger is landlord to the whole congregation, he 
 keeps them in very good order, and will suffer nobody to 
 sleep in it besides himself ; for if by chance he has been sur- 
 prised into a short nap at sermon, upon recovering out of it 
 he stands up and looks about him, and if he sees anybody 
 else nodding, either wakes them himself or sends his servants 
 to them. Several other of the old knight’s particularities 
 break out upon these occasions ; sometimes he will be length- 
 ening out a verse in the singing-psalms, half a minute after 
 the rest of the congregation have done with it ; sometimes, 
 when he is pleased with the matter of his devotion, he pro- 
 nounces Amen three or four times to the same prayer ; and 
 sometimes stands up when everybody else is on their knees. 
 
154 
 
 SIR ROGER EE COVERLETS 
 
 to count the congregation, or see if any of his tenants aie 
 missing. 
 
 I was yesterday very much surprised to hear my old 
 friend, in the midst of the service, calling out to one John 
 Matthews to mind what he was about, and not disturb the 
 congregation. This John Matthews, it seems, is remarkable 
 for being an idle fellow, and at that time was kicking his 
 heels for his diversion. This authority of the knight, though 
 exerted in that odd manner which accompanies him in all 
 circumstances of life, has a very good effect upon the parish, 
 who are not polite enough to see anything ridiculous in his 
 behavior ; besides that the general good sense and worthi- 
 ness of his character makes his friends observe these little 
 singularities as foils that rather set off than blemish his good 
 qualities. 
 
 As soon as the sermon is finished, nobody presumes to 
 stir till Sir Roger is gone out of the church. The knight 
 walks down from his seat in the chancel between a double 
 row of his tenants, that stand bowfing to him on each side, 
 and every now and then inquires how such an one’s wife, or 
 mother, or son, or father do, whom he does not see at church ; 
 which is understood as a secret reprimand to the person that 
 is absent. 
 
 The chaplain has often told me, that upon a catechizing 
 day, when Sir Roger has been pleased with a boy that an- 
 swers well, he has ordered a bible to be given him next day 
 for his encouragement ; and sometimes accompanies it with 
 a flitch of bacon to his mother. Sir Roger has likewise 
 added five pounds a-year to the clerk’s place : and that he 
 may encourage the young fellows to make themselves per- 
 fect in the church-service, has promised, upon the death of 
 the present incumbent, who is very old, to bestow it accord- 
 ing to merit. 
 
SIR ROGER AND THE GIPSIES. 
 
 155 
 
 The fair understanding between Sir Roger and his chap- 
 lain, and their mutual concurrence in doing good, is the 
 more remarkable, because the very next village is famous 
 for the differences and contentions that rise between the par- 
 son and the squire, who live in a perpetual state of war. 
 The parson is always preaching at the squire, and the squire, 
 to be revenged on the parson, never comes to church. The 
 squire has made all his tenants atheists and tithe-stealers ; 
 while the parson instructs them every Sunday in the dignity 
 of his order, and insinuates to them, in almost every sermon, 
 that he is a better man than his patron. In short, matters 
 are come to such an extremity, that the squire has not said 
 his prayers either in public or private this half-year ; and 
 that the parson threatens him, if he does not mend his man- 
 ners, to pray for him in the face of the whole congregation. 
 
 Feuds of this nature, though too frequent in the country, 
 are very fatal to the ordinary people ; who are so used to be 
 dazzled with riches, that they pay as much deference to the 
 understanding of a man of an estate, as of a man of learning ; 
 and are very hardly brought to regard any truth, how impor- 
 tant soever it may be, that is preached to them, when they 
 know r there are several men of five hundred a-year who do 
 not believe it. 
 
 SIR ROGER AND THE GIPSIES. 
 
 A S I was yesterday riding out in the fields with my friend 
 Sir Roger, we saw at a little distance from us a troop of 
 gipsies. Upon the first discovery of them, my friend was in 
 some doubt whether he should not exert the justice of the 
 peace upon such a band of lawless vagrants, but not having 
 his clerk with him, who is a necessary counsellor on these oc 
 
156 
 
 SIR ROGER AND THE GIPSIES. 
 
 casions, and fearing that his poultry might fare the worse for 
 it, he let the thought drop ; but, at the same time, gave me 
 a particular account of the mischief they do in the country, 
 in stealing people’s goods and spoiling their servants. “ If a 
 stray piece of linen hangs on the hedge/’ says Sir Roger, 
 “ they are sure to have it ; if the hog loses his way in the 
 field, it is ten to one but he becomes their prey ; our geese 
 cannot live in peace for them ; if a man prosecutes them with 
 severity, his hen-roost is sure to pay for it : they generally 
 straggle into these parts about this time of the year ; and set 
 the heads of our servant-maids so agog for husbands, that we 
 do not expect to have any business done as it should be 
 whilst they are in the country. I have an honest dairy-maid 
 who crosses their hands with a piece of silver every summer, 
 and never fails being promised the handsomest young fellow 
 in the parish for her pains. Your friend the butler has been 
 fool enough to be seduced by them, and although he is sure 
 to lose a knife, a fork, or a spoon every time his fortune is 
 told him, generally shuts himself up in the pantry with an old 
 gipsy for about half an hour once in a twelvemonth. Sweet- 
 hearts are the things they live upon, which they bestow very 
 plentifully upon all those that apply themselves to them. You 
 see now and then some handsome jades amongst them ; the 
 sluts have very often white teeth and black eyes.” 
 
 Sir Roger observing that I listened with great attention 
 to his account of a people who were so entirely new to me, 
 told me, that if I would, they should tell us our fortunes. 
 As I was very well pleased with the knight's proposal, we 
 rid up and communicated our hands to them. A Cassandra 
 of the crew, after having examined my lines very diligently, 
 told me, that I loved a pretty maid in a corner, that I was 
 a good woman’s man, with some other particulars, which I 
 do not think proper to relate. My friend Sir Roger alight* 
 
SIR ROGER AND THE GIPSIES. 
 
 157 
 
 ed from his horse, and exposed his palm to two or three that 
 stood by him ; they crumpled it into all shapes, and dili- 
 gently scanned every wrinkle that could be made in it ; 
 when one of them, who was older and more sun-burnt than 
 the rest, told him, that he had a widow in his line of life : 
 upon which the knight cried, “ Go, go, you are an idle bag- 
 gage j” and at the same time smiled upon me. The gipsy, 
 finding he was not displeased in his heart, told him, after a 
 farther inquiry into his hand, that his true-love was constant, 
 and that she should dream of him to-night ; my old friend 
 cried pish, and bid her go on. The gipsy told him that he 
 was a bachelor, but would not be so long ; and that he was 
 dearer to somebody than he thought : the knight still repeat- 
 ed “ she was an idle baggage,” and bid her go on. “ Ah, 
 master,” says the gipsy, “ that roguish leer of yours makes a 
 pretty woman’s heart ache ; you han’t that simper about the 
 mouth for nothing.” The uficouth gibberish with which all 
 this was uttered, like the darkness of an oracle, made us more 
 attentive to it. To be short, the knight left the money with 
 her that he had crossed her hand with, and got up again on 
 his horse. 
 
 As we were riding away, Sir Roger told me, that he knew 
 several sensible people who believed these gipsies now and 
 then foretold very strange things ; and for half an hour to- 
 gether appeared more jocund than ordinary. In the height 
 of his good-humor, meeting a common beggar on the road 
 who was no conjurer, as he went to relieve him he found his 
 pocket was picked ; that being a kind of Palmistry at which 
 this race of vermin are very dexterous. 
 
 I might here entertain my reader with historical remarks 
 on this idle profligate people, who infest all the countries of 
 Europe, and live in the midst of governments in a kind of 
 Commonwealth by themselves. But instead of entering into 
 
158 
 
 SIR ROGER AND THE GITSIES. 
 
 observations of this nature, I shall fill the remaining part of 
 my paper with a story which is still fresh in Holland, and 
 was printed in one of our monthly accounts, about twenty 
 years ago. “ As the Trekschuyt or Hackney-boat which car- 
 ries passengers from Leyden to Amsterdam, was putting off, 
 a boy running along the side of the canal desired to be taken 
 in, which the master refused, because the lad had not quite 
 money enough to pay his fare. An eminent merchant, being 
 pleased with the looks of the boy, and secretly touched with 
 compassion towards him, paid the money for him, and order- 
 ed him to be taken on board. Upon talking with him after- 
 wards, he found that he could speak readily in three or four 
 languages, and learned upon further examination that he had 
 been stolen away when he was a child by a gipsy, and had 
 rambled ever since with a gang of those strollers up and 
 down several parts of Europe. It happened that the mer- 
 chant, whose heart seems to have inclined towards the boy 
 by a secret kind of instinct, had himself lost a child some 
 years before. The parents, after a long search for him, gave 
 him for drowned in one of the canals with which that country 
 abounds ; and the mother was so afflicted at the loss of a fine 
 boy, who was her only son, that she died for grief of it. 
 Upon laying together all particulars, and examining the sev- 
 eral moles and marks by which the mother used to describe 
 the child when he w T as first missing, the boy proved to be the 
 son of the merchant whose heart had so unaccountably melt- 
 ed at the sight of him. The lad was very well pleased to find a 
 father who was so rich, and likely to leave him a good estate ; 
 the father, on the other hand, w T as not a little delighted to 
 see a son return to him, whom he had given for lost, with 
 such a strength of constitution, sharpness of understanding, 
 and skill in languages.” Here the printed story leaves off; 
 but if I may give credit to reports, our linguist, having re- 
 
SIR ROGER'S VISIT TO WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 159 
 
 ceived such extraordinary rudiments towards a good educa- 
 tion, was afterwards trained up in everything that becomes a 
 gentleman ; wearing off, by little and little, all the vicious 
 habits and practices that he had been used to in the course 
 of his peregrinations : nay, it i- said, that he has since been 
 employed in foreign courts upon national business, with great 
 reputation to himself and honor to those who sent him, and 
 that he has visited several countries as a public minister, in 
 which he formerly wandered as a gipsy. 
 
 SIR ROGER’S VISIT TO THE TOMBS IN 
 WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 M Y friend Sir Roger de Coverley told me t’other night, 
 that he had been reading my paper upon Westminster 
 Abbey, in which, says he, there are a great many ingenious 
 fancies. He told me, at the same time, that he observed I 
 had promised another paper upon the tombs, and that he 
 should be glad to go and see them with me, not having 
 visited them since he had read history. I could not imagine 
 how this came into the knight’s head, till I recollected he had 
 been very busy all last summer upon Baker’s Chronicle, 
 w r hich he has quoted several times in his disputes with Sir 
 Andrew Freeport, since his last coming to town. According- 
 ly, I promised to call upon him the next morning, that we 
 might go together to the abbey. 
 
 I found the knight under his butler’s hands, who always 
 shaves him. He was no sooner dressed, than he called for a 
 glass of the Widow Truby’s Water, which he told me he al- 
 ways drank before he went abroad. He recommended me to 
 a dram of it at the same time, with so much heartiness, that 
 I could not forbear drinking it. As soon as I had got it 
 
.GO 
 
 SIR ROGER'S VISIT TO TIIE TOMBS 
 
 down, I found it very unpalatable ; upon which the knight, 
 observing that I had made several wry faces, told me that he 
 knew I should not like it at first, but that it was the best 
 thing in the world against the stone or gravel. 
 
 I could have wished indeed that he had acquainted me 
 with the virtues of it sooner ; but it was too late to complain, 
 and I knew what he had done was out of good-will. Sir 
 Roger told me further, that he got together a quantity of it 
 upon the first news of the sickness being at Dantzick ; when, 
 of a sudden turning short to one of his servants who stood 
 behind him, he bid him call a hackney coach, and take care 
 it was an elderly man that drove it. 
 
 He then resumed his discourse upon Mrs. Truby’s Water, 
 telling me that the Widow Truby was one who did more good 
 than all the doctors and apothecaries in the country ; that she 
 distilled every poppy that grew within five miles of her : that 
 she distributed her water gratis among all sorts of people : 
 to which the knight added that she had a very great jointure, 
 and that the whole country would fain have it a match be- 
 tween him and her ; “ and truly,” says Sir Roger, u if I had 
 not been engaged, perhaps I could not have done better.” 
 
 His discourse was broken off by his man’s telling him he 
 had called a fcoach. Upon our going to it, after having cast 
 his eye upon the wheels, he asked the coachman if his axle- 
 tree was good ; upon the fellow’s telling him he would war- 
 rant it, the knight turned to me, told me he looked like an 
 honest man, and went in without further ceremony. 
 
 We had not gone far, when Sir Roger, popping out his 
 head, called the coachman down from his box, and upon pre- 
 senting himself at the window, asked him if he smoked. As 
 I was considering what this would end in, he bid him stop by 
 the way at any good tobacconist’s, and take in a roll of their 
 best Virginia. Nothing material happened in the remaining 
 
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 161 
 
 part of our journey, till we were set down at the west end of 
 the abbey. 
 
 As we went up the body of the church, the knight pointed 
 at the trophies upon one of the new monuments, and cried 
 out, “ A brave man, I warrant him !” Passing afterwards by 
 Sir Cloudesly Shovel, he flung his hand that way, and cried, 
 “ Sir Cloudesly Shovel ! a very gallant man.” As we stood 
 before Busby’s tomb, the knight uttered himself again after 
 the same manner : “ Dr. Busby ! a great man ! he whipped 
 my grandfather : a very great man ! I should have gone to 
 him myself, if I had not been a blockhead : a very great man !” 
 
 We were immediately conducted into the little chapel on 
 the right hand. Sir Boger, planting himself at our historian’s 
 elbow, was very attentive to everything he said, particularly 
 to the account he gave us of the lord who had cut off the 
 King of Morocco’s head. Among several other figures, he 
 was very much pleased to see the statesman Cecil upon his 
 knees : and concluding them all to be great men, was con- 
 ducted to the figure which represents that martyr to good 
 housewifery, who died by the prick of a needle. Upon our 
 interpreter’s telling us that she was maid of honor to Queen 
 Elizabeth, the knight was very inquisitive about her name 
 and family : and, after having regarded her finger for some 
 time, u I wonder,” says he, a that Sir Ilichard Baker has said 
 nothing of her in his Chronicle.” 
 
 We were then conveyed to the two coronation chairs, 
 where my old friend, after having heard that the stone under- 
 neath the most ancient of them, which was brought from 
 Scotland, was called Jacob’s pillar, sat himself down in the 
 chair, and, looking like the figure of an .old Gothic king, asked 
 our interpreter, what authority they had to say that Jacob 
 had ever been in Scotland ? The fellow, instead of returning 
 him an answer, told him that he begged his honor would pay 
 
162 
 
 SIR ROGER'S VISIT TO TILE TOMBS 
 
 his forfeit. I could observe Sir Roger a little ruffled upon 
 being thus trepanned ; but our guide not insisting on his de- 
 mand, the knight soon recovered his good-humor, and whis- 
 pered in my ear, that if Will Wimble were with us, and saw 
 those chairs, it would go hard but he would get a tobacco- 
 stopper out of one or t’other of them. 
 
 Sir Roger, in the next place, laid his hand upon Edward 
 the Third’s sword, and leaning upon the pummel of it, gave 
 us the whole history of the Black Prince ; concluding, that 
 in Sir Richard Baker’s opinion, Edward the Third was one 
 of the greatest princes that ever sat upon the English throne. 
 
 We were then shown Edward the Confessor’s tomb ; upon 
 which Sir Roger acquainted us, that he was the first who 
 touched for the evil; and afterwards Henry the Fourth’s, 
 upon which he shook his head, and told us there was fine 
 reading in the casualties of that reign. 
 
 Our conductor then pointed out that monument where 
 there is the figure of one of our English kings without a head ; 
 and upon giving us to know, that the head, which was of 
 beaten silver, had been stolen away several years since ; 
 “ Some Whig, I’ll warrant you,” said Sir Roger ; “ you ought 
 to lock up your kings better : they will carry off the body 
 too, if you don’t take care.” 
 
 The glorious names of Henry the Fifth and Queen Eliz- 
 abeth gave the knight great opportunities of shining, and of 
 doing justice to Sir Richard Baker, who, as our knight ob- 
 served with some surprise, had a great many kings in him 
 whose monuments he had not seen in the abbey. 
 
 For my own part, I could not but be pleased to see the 
 knight show such an honest passion for the glory of his coun- 
 try, and such a respectful gratitude for the memory of its 
 princes. 
 
 I must not omit, that the benevolence of my good old 
 
IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY. 
 
 163 
 
 friend which flows out towards every one he converses with, 
 made him very kind to our interpreter, whom he looked upon 
 as an extraordinary man ; for which reason he shook him by 
 the hand at parting, telling him that he should be very glad 
 to see him at his lodgings in Norfolk Buildings, and talk over 
 these matters with him more at leisure* 
 
3Ennnra nf \\)i /rtnrjr. 
 
 About thirty years ago a volume appeared from the pen of a trav- 
 eller in France, which set u all the world” in England upon going to 
 that country, and living on the charming “ banks of the Loire a 
 river not so well known then, as it has lately been, for an ugly trick it 
 has of overflowing its banks, and frightening its Paradisaical inhabit- 
 ants out of their wits. We allude to the travels of Lieutenant-Colonel 
 Pinckney, an officer in the American service, who made the greater 
 part of his tour in company with another American gentleman and 
 two French ladies, one of whom was his friend’s wife. This circum- 
 stance will account for the different modes in which he speaks of him- 
 self in the following extracts, one of them implying that he was alone 
 Our extracts are what the reviewers would call “ favorable specimens 
 that is, of French character ; and we make them advisedly such, for 
 neighborly purposes. Englishmen like to see favorable specimens of 
 their own travellers in the accounts given of them by Frenchmen ; 
 and we therefore do as we would be done by. Both Englishmen and 
 Frenchmen have faults to mend and customs to get rid of ; and they 
 cannot do better than by regarding with kindness what is best on 
 both sides. 
 
 T HE main purpose of my journey (says the gallant Colo- 
 nel) being rather to see the manners of the people, than 
 the brick and mortar of the towns, I had formed a resolution 
 to seek the necessary refreshment as seldom as possible at 
 
MANNERS OF THE FRENCH. 
 
 165 
 
 inns, and as often as possible in the houses of the humbler 
 farmers, and the better kind of peasantry. About fifteen 
 miles from Calais my horse and myself were looking out for 
 something of this kind, and one shortly appeared about three 
 hundred yards on the left side of the road. It was a cot- 
 tage in the midst of a garden, and the whole surrounded by 
 a hedge, which looked delightfully green and refreshing. The 
 garden was all in flower and bloom. The walls of the cot- 
 tage were robed in the same livery of nature. I had seen 
 such cottages in Kent and Devonshire, but in no other part 
 of the world. The inhabitants were simple people, small far- 
 mers, having about ten or fifteen acres of land. Some grass 
 was immediately cut for my horse, and the coffee which I 
 produced from my pocket was speedily set before me, with 
 cakes, wine, some meat, and cheese — the French peasantry 
 having no idea of what we call tea. Throwing the windows 
 up, so as to enjoy the scenery and freshness of the garden ; 
 sitting upon one chair, and resting a leg upon the other ; al- 
 ternately pouring out my coffee, and reading a pocket edition 
 of Thomson’s Scaso7is , I enjoyed one of those moments which 
 gave a zest to ‘life ; I felt happy, and in peace and in love 
 with all around me. 
 
 Proceeding upon my journey, two miles on the Calais 
 side of Boulogne I fell in with an overturned chaise, which 
 the postilion was trying to raise. The vehicle was a chaise 
 de poste, the ordinary travelling carriage of the country, and 
 a thing in a civilized country wretched beyond conception. 
 It was drawn by three horses, one in the shafts, and one on 
 each side. The postillion had ridden on the one on the 
 driving side ; he was a little punch fellow, and in a pair of 
 boots like fire buckets. The travellers consisted of an old 
 French lady and gentleman ; madame in a high crimped cap, 
 and stiff long whalebone stays. Monsieur informed me very 
 
MANNERS OF TIIE FRENCH. 
 
 166 
 
 courteously of the cause of the accident, whilst madame al 
 ternately curtsied to me, and menaced and scolded the pos 
 tilion. 
 
 A single cart, and a wagon, were all the vehicles that J 
 saw between Boulogne and Abbeville. In England, in the 
 same space, I should have seen a dozen or score. 
 
 Not being pressed for time, the beauty of a scene at some 
 little distance from the road-side tempted me to enter into a 
 bye-lane, and take a nearer view of it. A village church, 
 embosomed in a chestnut-wood, just rose above the trees on 
 the top of a hill ; the setting sun was on its casements, and 
 the foliage of the wood was burnished by the golden reflec- 
 tion. The distant hum of the village green was just audible ; 
 but not so the French horn, which echoed in full melody 
 through the groves. Having rode about half a mile through 
 a narrow sequestered lane, which strongly reminded me of 
 the half-green and half-trodden bye-roads in Warwickshire, I 
 came to the bottom of the hill, on the brow and summit of 
 which the village and church were situated. I now saw 
 whence the sound of the horn proceeded. On the left of the 
 road was an ancient chateau, situated in a park or very ex- 
 tensive meadow, and ornamented as well by some venerable 
 trees, as by a circular fence of flowering shrubs, guarded on 
 the outside by a paling on a raised mound. The park or 
 meadow having been newly mown, had an air at once orna- 
 mented and natural. A party of ladies were collected under 
 a patch of trees situated in the middle of the lawn. I stopped 
 at the gate to look at them, thinking myself unperceived ; 
 but in the same moment the gate was opened to me by a gen- 
 tleman and two ladies, who were walking the round. An ex- 
 planation was now necessary, and was accordingly given. The 
 gentleman informed me, upon his part, that the chateau be- 
 longed to Mons. St. Quentin, a member of the French senate, 
 
MANNERS OF THE FRENCH 
 
 167 
 
 and a judge of the district ; that he had a party of friends 
 with him upon the occasion of his lady’s birthday, that they 
 were about to begin dancing, and that Mons. St. Quentin 
 would highly congratulate himself on my accidental arrival. 
 One of the ladies, having previously apologized and left us, 
 had seemingly explained to Mons. St. Quentin the main cir- 
 cumstance belonging to me ; for he now appeared, and re- 
 peated the invitation in his own person. The ladies added 
 their kind importunities. I dismounted, gave my horse to a 
 servant in waiting, and joined this happy and elegant party — 
 for such it really was. 
 
 I had now, for the first time, an opportunity of forming 
 an opinion of French beauty, the assemblage of ladies being 
 very numerous, and all of them most elegantly dressed. 
 Travelling, and the imitative arts, have given a most surpris- 
 ing uniformity to all the fashions of dress and ornament ; and 
 whatever may be said to the contrary, there is a very slight 
 difference between the scenes of a French and English polite 
 assembly. If anything, however, be distinguishable, it is 
 more in degree than in substance. The French fashions, as 
 I saw them here, differed in no other point from what I had 
 seen in London, but in degree. The ladies were certainly 
 more exposed about the necks, and their hair was dressed 
 with more fancy ; but the form was in almost everything the 
 same. The most elegant novelty was a hat, which doubled 
 up like a fan, so that the ladies carried it in their hands. 
 There were more colored than white muslins ; a variety 
 which had a very pretty effect amongst the trees and flowers. 
 The same observation applies to the gentlemen. Their 
 Presses were made as in England ; but the pattern of the 
 cloth, or some appendage to it, was different. One gentle- 
 man habited in a grass-colored silk coat, had very much the 
 appearance of Beau Mordecai in the farce : the ladies, how* 
 
108 
 
 MANNERS OF THE FRENCH. 
 
 ever, seemed to admire him ; and in some conversation with 
 him I found him, in spite of his coat, a very well-informed 
 man. There were likewise three or four fancy dresses ; a 
 Dian, a wood nymph, and a sweet girl playing upon a flute, 
 habited according to a picture of Calypso by David. On the 
 whole, there was certainly more fancy, more taste, and more 
 elegance, than in an English party of the same description ; 
 though there w T as not so many handsome women as would 
 have been the proportion of such an assembly in England. 
 
 From La Fleche to Angers, and thence to Ancennis, the 
 country is a complete garden. The hills were covered with 
 vines ; every wood had its chateau, and every village its church. 
 The peasantry were clean and happy, the children cheerful 
 and healthful looking, and the greater part of the younger 
 women spirited and handsome. There was a great plenty 
 of fruit ; and as we passed through the villages, it was invari- 
 ably brought to us, and almost as invariably any pecuniary 
 return refused with a retreating curtsey. One sweet girl, a 
 young peasant, with eyes and complexion which would be es- 
 teemed handsome even in Philadelphia, having made Mr. 
 Young and myself an offering of this kind, replied very pret- 
 tily to our offer of money, that the women of La Fleche 
 never sold either grapes or water ; as much as to say that the 
 one was as plentiful as the other. Some of these young girls 
 were dressed not only neatly but tastily. Straw hats are the 
 manufacture of the province ; few of them, therefore, but had 
 a straw bonnet, and few of these bonnets were without rib- 
 bons or flowers. 
 
 We remained at Oudon till near sunset, when we resum- 
 ed our road to Ancennis, where we intended to sleep. As 
 this was only a distance of seven miles, we took it very lei- 
 surely, sometimes riding and sometimes walking. The even- 
 ing was as beautiful as is usual in the southern parts of 
 
MANNERS OF THE FRENCH 
 
 169 
 
 Europe at this season of the year. The road was most ro- 
 mantically recluse, and so serpentine as never to be visible 
 beyond a hundred yards. The nightingales were singing in 
 the adjoining woods. The road, moreover, was bordered 
 on each side by lofty hedges, intermingled with fruit-trees, 
 and even vines in full bearing. At every half-mile a cross- 
 road, branching from the main one, led into the recesses of 
 the country, or to some castle or villa on the high grounds 
 which look to the river. At some of these bye-ways were 
 very curious inscriptions, painted on narrow boards affixed to 
 a tree. Such were, “ The way to : My Heart’s Content’ is half 
 a league up this road, and then turn to the right, and keep on 
 till you reach it.” And another, “ The way to 4 Love’s Her- 
 mitage’ is up this lane, till you come to the cherry-tree by 
 the side of a chalk-pit, where there is another direction.” 
 Mademoiselle Sillery informed me, that these kind of inscrip- 
 tions were characteristic of'the banks of the Loire. 
 
 “ The inhabitants along the whole of the course of this 
 river,” said she, “ have the reputation, from time immemorial, 
 of being all native poets ; and the reputation, like some pro- 
 phecies, has perhaps been the means of realizing itself. You 
 do not perhaps know that the Loire is called in the provinces 
 the River of Love : and doubtless its beautiful banks, its 
 green meadows, and its woody recesses, have what the musi- 
 cians w T ould call a symphony of tone with that passion.” I 
 have translated this sentence verbally from my note-book, as 
 it may give some idea of Mademoiselle Sillery. If ever a 
 figure was formed to inspire the passion of which she spoke, 
 it was this lady. Many days and years must pass over be- 
 fore I forget our walk on the green road from Oudon to An- 
 cennis — one of the sweetest, softest scenes in France. 
 
 We entered the forest of Ancennis as the sun was setting. 
 This forest is celebrated, in every ancient French ballad, as 
 8 
 
170 
 
 MANNERS OF THE FRENCH. 
 
 being the haunt of fairies, and the scene of the ancient 
 archery of the provinces of Bretagne and Anjou. The road 
 through it was over a green turf, in which the marks of a 
 wheel were scarcely visible. The forest on each side was 
 very thick. At short intervals, narrow footpaths struck 
 into the wood. Our carriage had been sent before to 
 Ancennis, and we were walking merrily on, when the well- 
 known sound of the French horn arrested our steps and 
 attention. Mademoiselle Sillery immediately guessed it to 
 proceed from a company of archers ; and in a few moments 
 her conjecture was verified by the appearance of two ladies 
 and a gentleman, who issued from one of the narrow paths. 
 The ladies, who were merely running from the gentleman, 
 were very tastily habited in the favorite French dress after 
 the Dian of David ; whilst the blue silk jacket and hunting- 
 cap of the gentleman gave him the appearance of a groom 
 about to ride a race. Our appearance necessarily took their 
 attention; and after an exchange of salutes, but in which 
 no names were mentioned on either side, they invited us to 
 accompany them to their party, who were refreshing them- 
 selves in an adjoining dell. “ We have had a party at arch- 
 ery,” said one of them, “ and Madame St. Amande has won 
 the silver bugle and bow. The party is now at supper, after 
 which we go to the chateau to dance. Perhaps you will not 
 suffer us to repent having met you, by refusing to accompany 
 us.” Mademoiselle Sillery was very eager to accept this 
 invitation, and looked rather blank when Mrs. Young declin- 
 ed it, as she wished to proceed on her road as quickly as pos- 
 sible. “You will at least accompany us, merely to see the 
 party.” “ By all means,” said Mademoiselle Sillery. “ I 
 must really regret that I cannot,” said Mrs. Young. “If it 
 must be so,” resumed the lady who was inviting us, “ let us 
 exchange tokens, and we may meet again.” This proposal, 
 
MANNERS OF THE FRENCH. 
 
 171 
 
 so perfectly new to me, was accepted : the fair archers gave 
 onr ladies their pearl crescents, which had the appearance of 
 being of considerable value. Madame Young returned some- 
 thing which I did not see : Mademoiselle Sillery gave a silver 
 Cupid, which had served her for an essence-bottle. The 
 gentleman then shaking hands with us, and the ladies embrac- 
 ing each other, we parted mutually satisfied. “ Who are these 
 ladies?” demanded I. “ You know them as well as we do,” 
 replied Mademoiselle Sillery. “And is it thus,” said I, 
 “that you receive all strangers indiscriminately?” “ Yes,” 
 replied she, “ all strangers of a certain condition. Where 
 they are evidently of our own rank, we know of no reserve. 
 Indeed, why should we ? It is to general advantage to be 
 pleased, and to please each other.” “But you embraced 
 them as if you really felt an affection for them.” “ And I 
 did feel that affection for them,” said she, “ as long as I was 
 with them. I would have done them every service in my 
 power, and would even have made sacrifices to serve them.” 
 “ And yet if you were to see them again, you would perhaps 
 not know them.” “ Very possibly,” replied she. “ But I can 
 see no reason why every affection should be necessarily per- 
 manent. We never pretend to permanence. We are cer- 
 tainly transient, but not insincere.” 
 
 In this conversation we reached Ancennis, a village on a 
 green surrounded by forests. Some of the cottages, as we 
 saw them by moonlight, seemed most delightfully situated ; 
 and the village had altogether that air of quietness and of 
 rural retreat, which characterizes the scenery of the Loire. 
 Our horses having preceded us by an hour or more, every- 
 thing was prepared for us when we reached our inn. A 
 turkey had been put down to roast, and I entered the kitchen 
 in time to prevent its being spoilt by French cookery. 
 Mademoiselle Sillery had the table provided in an instant 
 
172 
 
 MANNERS OF THE FRENCH. 
 
 with silver forks and table-linen. Had a Parisian seen a 
 table thus set out at Ancennis, without knowing that we had 
 brought all these requisites with us, he would not have 
 credited his senses. The inns in France along the banks of 
 the Loire are less deficient in substantial comforts than in 
 these ornamental appendages. Poultry is everywhere cheap, 
 and in great plenty ; but a French inn-keeper has no idea of 
 a table-cloth, and still less of a clean one. He will give you 
 food and a feather-bed, but you must provide yourselves with 
 sheets and table-cloths. 
 
51 23 diise mill dm on lifts. 
 
 FROM COWLEY, SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE, LADY WINCHILSEA, 
 AND MACKENZIE. 
 
 “ I’ve often wished that I had clear, 
 
 For life, six hundred pounds a-year, 
 
 A handsome house to lodge a friend, 
 
 A river at my garden’s end, 
 
 A terrace walk, and half a rood 
 Of land set out to plant a wood.” 
 
 Few indeed are the persons that in the course of their lives have 
 not entertained wishes of the like sort. Sometimes they have realized 
 them ; sometimes been disappointed by the realization itself. In the 
 latter case, the fault is neither in the wish nor in the things wished 
 for. The wish is good, if only as a pleasure of the imagination and 
 an encouragement to the means for attaining its object; and the 
 things are found to be very good indeed, by those whose tempera- 
 ments and habits qualify them for the enjoyment. Stories of unhappy 
 millionaires who retire only to find the country tedious, of tallow- 
 chandlers who yearn for their melting days, and even of poets discon- 
 tented with their “groves,” prove but the want of previous fitness, or 
 of sufficient good health. The tallow-chandler should have cultivated 
 something besides long-sixes, and the poet should not have sate read- 
 ing about his groves till the state of his biliary vessels hindered his 
 enjoyment when he got them. There is, however, a great deal of 
 difference in those cases. That of the tallow-chandler, if he knows 
 
174 
 
 A HOUSE AND GROUNDS. 
 
 nothing but tallow and is not in a patient state of health, is hopeless, 
 for he is neither clever nor poor enough to be able to go and help the 
 village carpenter. He must needs quit his roses for the melting-tub, 
 and in very desperation grows richer than he was before. But the 
 love of groves and gardens being a habit of the poet’s mind, he bears 
 ill-health better with them than without them ; complaint itself com- 
 forts him more than it does other men, for he complains in verse ; and 
 it is not to be supposed that Shenstone, with all his desire of visitors, 
 and Cowley, with all his child-like disappointments as to “rustic in- 
 nocence,” did not pass many happy, or at least many soothing, days 
 in their country abodes. Shenstone, in particular, must have largely 
 partaken of the pleasures of a creator, for he invented the lovely 
 scenes about his house, and saw to their execution. 
 
 It would be a good work in some writer to collect instances of this 
 kind of disappointment and the reverse, and show how entirely each 
 was to be attributed to particular circumstances, and not to that uni- 
 versal doom so falsely predicated of all human expectations. Great 
 names prove nothing against counter-examples. Solomon himself 
 may have been disappointed: but it was not because he was the 
 “ wisest of men it was because he had been too rich and luxurious, 
 and so far one of the foolishest. We do not find that his brother phi- 
 losopher, Epicurus, was disappointed ; for he was poor and temperate, 
 and thus was enabled to enjoy his garden to the last. There have been 
 abdicated monarchs who wished to resume their thrones — royal tal- 
 low-chandlers who could not do without their melting levee-days ; 
 but such was not the case with Diocletian, who had a taste for gar- 
 dening. On the contrary, he told the ambassadors who came to tempt 
 him back to power, that if they knew what pleasure he took in his 
 “ cabbages,” they would hate to go back themselves. Swift, who imi- 
 tated from Horace the verses at the head of this article, would never 
 have been happy in retirement, for he had a restless blood, and his 
 good consisted in the attainment of power. He must have written 
 with greater zest the lines a little further on : — 
 
 “ But here a grievance seems to lie, 
 
 All this is mine but till I die: 
 
 I can’t but think ’twould sound more clever, 
 
 To me and to my heirs forever.” 
 
 But his friend Pope set up his rest early in life at Twickenham, and 
 never desired to leave it. Ill-health itself in him was luckily of a kind 
 
A HOUSE AND GROUNDS. 
 
 175 
 
 that made him tranquil. The author of the Seasons never tired of 
 the country. White of Selborne never tired of it. Both found inces- 
 sant occupation in watching the proceedings of the Nature they loved. 
 
 It must be observed of Thomson, however, that he lived so near 
 town as to be able to visit it whenever he chose. His house was at 
 beautiful Richmond. I doubt not he would have been happy any- 
 where with a few trees and friends ; but he liked a play also, and 
 streets, and human movement. He would fain not go so far from 
 London as not to be able to interchange the delights of towrn and 
 country. And why should anybody that can help it I The loveliest 
 country can be found within that reasonable distance, especially in 
 these days of railroads. You may bury yourself in as healthy, if not 
 as wide, a solitude as if you were in the Highlands ; and, in an hour 
 or two, you can enhance the pleasures of returning to it, by a book 
 of your own buying, or a toy for your children. To resign forever the 
 convenience and pleasures of intercourse with a great city would be 
 desired by few ; and it would be least of all desired (except under 
 very particular circumstances) by those who can enjoy the country 
 most ; because the power to discern, and the disposition to be pleased, 
 are equally the secrets of the enjoyment in both cases. These, and a 
 congenial occupation, will make a conscientious man happy anywhere 
 if he has decent health ; and if he is sickly, no earthly comforts can 
 supply the want of them, no, not even the affection of those about 
 him : for what is affection, if it show nothing but the good hearts of 
 those who feel it, and is wasted on a thankless temper 1 Acquire- 
 ment of information, benignity, something to do, and as many things 
 as possible to love, these are the secrets of happiness in town or coun- 
 try. If White of Selborne had been a town instead of a country cler- 
 gyman, he would have told us all about the birds in the city as well 
 as the suburbs. We should have had the best reason given us why 
 lime-trees flourish in London smoke ; lists of flowers for our windows 
 would have been furnished us, together with their times of bloom- 
 ing ; we should have been told of the Ratopolis under ground, as well 
 as of the dray-horses above it ; and perhaps the discoverer of the 
 double spiracula in the noses of stags would have found out the reason 
 why tallow-chandlers have no noses at all. 
 
 Now, what sort of house would most take the fancy of readers who 
 enjoy a book like the present! We mean for repose and comfort, 
 apart from the nobler and severer pleasures (very rare ones) arising 
 
176 
 
 A HOUSE AND GROUNDS. 
 
 from discharging the duties belonging to a large estate. Certainly not 
 the house belonging to such an estate ; not a house like Pliny's, the 
 size and “set out” of which it is a labor to read of; not the cold 
 southern halls of the Romans or Italians, unfit for this climate ; nor an 
 ancient Greek, nor modern Eastern house, with the women’s apart- 
 ments imprisoned off from the rest ; nor an old French chateau (ex- 
 cept in Mrs. Radcliffe’s romances) — for though pretty to read of, as 
 belonging to the Montmorencys or the Rambouillets, it was inconve- 
 nient inside, and had formal grounds without ; nor the lumbering old 
 German house, such as Goethe describes it, though habit and love 
 may have sanctified all these ; no, nor even the princely palace of 
 Chatsworth, though it be as full of taste as the owner, and of fra- 
 grance from conservatories as of blessings from the poor. Comfortable 
 rooms, doubtless, are to be found in that palace ; nay, snug ones ; for 
 the height of taste implies the height of good sense ; and such a nest 
 and corner-loving mood of the mind as that epithet designates, we 
 may be sure is not unprovided for. Yet the corner still is in the great 
 house ; is a part of it ; cannot get rid of it ; is shouldered and (of any 
 other such mansion you might say) scorned by it. We must have 
 been used to such houses all our lives (which is seldom the case with 
 those whose luxuries lie in books), otherwise w r e cannot settle our- 
 selves comfortably in idea to the extent and responsibilities of all those 
 suits of apartments, those corridors, pillars, galleries, looks out and 
 looks in, and to the visitations of the steward. It is not a house, but 
 a set of houses thrown into one ; not a nest, but a range under cover; 
 not a privacy, but a publicity and an empire ! Admiration and bless- 
 ing be upon it, for it is the great house of a good man and his large 
 heart fits it well; and yet assuredly, in the eyes of us lovers of nooks 
 and books, the idea of him never seems so happy as when it con- 
 tracts its princely dimensions, and stoops into such cottage rooms as 
 some in which we have had the pleasure of beholding him. 
 
 But we must not digress in this manner, with an impertinence how- 
 ever respectful. 
 
 The house to be desiderated by the lover of books in ordinary, is 
 a warm, cosy, picturesque, irregular house, either old but not fragile, 
 or new but built upon some good principle ; a house possessing, never- 
 theless, modern comforts ; neither big enough to require riches, nor 
 small enough to cause inconvenience ; more open to the sun than 
 otherwise ; yet with trees about it, and the sight of more ; a prospect 
 
A HOUSE AND GROUNDS. 
 
 177 
 
 on one of the sides, to give it a sense of freedom, but a closer 
 scene in front, to insure the sense of snugness ; a garden neither 
 wild nor formal; or rather two gardens, if possible, though not of ex- 
 pensive size ; one to remind him of the time of his ancestors, a li trim 
 garden,” with pattern beds of flowers, lavender, &c. , and a terrace — 
 the other of a freer sort, with a shrubbery, and turf and trees ; a 
 bowling-green by all means ; (what sane person would be without a 
 bowling-green 7) a rookery; a dove-cote; a brook; a paddock; a 
 heath for air ; hill and dale for variety ; walks in a forest, trunks of 
 trees for seats ; towers li embosomed” in their companions ; pastures, 
 cottages ; a town not far off; an abbey close by; mountains in the 
 distance ; a glimpse of sails in a river, but not large sails ; a combina- 
 tion, in short, of all which is the most 
 
 But hold. One twentieth part of all this will suffice, if the air be 
 good, and the neighbors congenial ; a cottage, an old farm-house, any- 
 thing solid and not ugly, always excepting the mere modern house, 
 which looks like a barrack, or like a workhouse, or like a chapel, or 
 like a square box with holes cut into it for windows, or a great bit of 
 cheese or hearth-stone, or yellow ochre. It has a gravel walk up to 
 the door, and a bit of unhappy creeper trying to live upon it ; and 
 (under any possible circumstances of quittal) is a disgrace to inhabit. 
 
 As to the garden, the only absolute sine qua non is a few good 
 brilliant beds of flowers, some grass, some shade, and a bank. But 
 if there is a bee-hive in a corner it is better; and if there is a 
 bee-hive, there ought to be a brook, provided it is clear, and the soil 
 gravelly. 
 
 “ There, in some covert, by a brook, 
 
 Where no profaner eye may look, 
 
 Hide me from day’s garish eye ; 
 
 While the bee with honied thigh, 
 
 That at her flowery work doth sing, 
 
 And the waters murmuring, 
 
 With such concert as they keep, 
 
 \ Eniice the dewy-feather’d sleep.” 
 
 Beware, though, as Gray says, t: of o.goesR It is good in the land of 
 poetry, to sleep by a brook ; but in Middlesex it is best to do it in 
 one’s chamber. The best place to take a nap in. out of doors, in this 
 lovely but moist country, is a hay-field. 
 
 But we are detaining the reader from the houses and gardens pro- 
 vided for him by his books. What signify any others, while the en- 
 
 8 * 
 
THOUGHTS OF COWLEY ON A GARDEN. 
 
 w8 
 
 joyment of these is upon usl May-Fair or Saint Mary Axe can alike 
 rejoice in them. The least luxurious room in a street, provided there 
 be but quiet enough to read by, or imagination enough to forget one’s 
 self, enables us to be put in possession of a paradise. 
 
 We shall begin with the modest retreat desiderated by Cowley, and 
 the eulogy which he has delivered on gardens in general. His style is 
 as sweet and sincere as his wishes. The poetical portion of his essay is 
 addressed to the famous English country gentleman and sylvan patriot, 
 his friend Evelyn, who realized all and more than the sensitive poet 
 did, because his means were greater and his complexion more healthy. 
 But Cowley must have had delicious morflents both in fancy and pos- 
 session ; and if there be gardens in heaven resembling those on earth 
 (which some have thought, and which is not so unlieavenly a notion 
 as many that are held divine), his innocent heart is surely the inhabi- 
 tant of one of the best of them. 
 
 THOUGHTS OF COWLEY ON A GARDEN. 
 
 FROM A LETTER TO EVELYN. 
 
 I NEVER had any other desire so strong, and so like to 
 covetousness, as that one which I have had always, that I 
 might be master at last of a small house and large garden, 
 with very moderate conveniences joined to them, and there 
 dedicate the remainder of my life, only to the culture of them, 
 and study of nature ; 
 
 “ And there (with no design beyond my wall) whole and entire to lie, 
 In no unactive ease, and no unglorious poverty.” 
 
 Or, as Virgil has said, shorter and better for me, that I 
 might there 
 
 “ Studiis florere ignobilis oti 
 
 though I could wish that he had rather said, u Nobilis otj\ ,! 
 when he spoke of his own. 
 
 [Take studious flower in undistinguished ease.] 
 
THOUGHTS OF COWLEY ON A GARDEN 
 
 179 
 
 Among many other arts and excellences which yon en- 
 joy, I am glad to find this favorite of mine the most predom- 
 inant. I know nobody that possesses more private happi- 
 ness than you do in your garden ; and yet no man who 
 makes his happiness more public, by a free communication 
 of the art and knowledge of it to others. All that I myself 
 am able yet to do, is only to recommend to mankind the 
 search of that felicity, which you instruct them how to find 
 out and to enjoy. 
 
 Happy art thou, whom God does bless 
 With the full choice of thine own happiness ; 
 
 And happier yet, because thou’rt blest 
 With prudence how to choose the best. 
 
 In books and gardens, thou hast plac’d aright 
 (Things which thou well dost understand, 
 
 And both dost make with thy laborious hand) 
 
 Thy noble innocent delight : 
 
 And in thy virtuous wife, where thou again dost meet 
 Both pleasures more refin’d and sweet, 
 
 The fairest garden in her looks, 
 
 And in her mind the wisest books. 
 
 Oh, who would change these soft, yet solid joys, 
 
 For empty shows, and senseless noise ; 
 
 And all which rank ambition breeds, 
 
 Which seem such beauteous flowers, and are such poisonous 
 weeds ? 
 
 When Epicurus to the world had taught 
 That pleasure was the chiefest good, 
 
 (And was perhaps i’ th’ right, if rightly understood), 
 
 His life he to his doctrine brought, 
 
 And in a garden’s shade that sovereign pleasure sought : 
 
ISO 
 
 THOUGHTS OF COWLEY ON A GARDEN. 
 
 Whoever a true epicure would be, 
 
 May there find cheap and virtuous luxury 
 Vi tell ills’ table, which did hold 
 As many creatures as the ark of old, 
 
 That fiscal table to which every day 
 All countries did a constant tribute pay, 
 
 Could nothing more delicious afford, 
 
 Than nature’s liberality 
 Help’d with a little art and industry 
 Allows the meanest gard’ner’s board. 
 
 The wanton taste no fish or fowl can choose, 
 For which the grape or melon she would lose 
 Though all th’ inhabitants of sea and air 
 Be listed in the glutton’s bill of fare, 
 
 Yet still the fruits of earth we see 
 Plac’d the third story high in all her luxury. 
 
 Where does the wisdom and the power divine 
 In a more bright and sweet reflection shine, — 
 Where do we finer strokes and colors see 
 Of the Creator’s real poetry, 
 
 Than when we with attention look 
 Upon the third day’s volume of the book % 
 
 If we could open and intend our eye, 
 
 We all, like Moses, should espy, 
 
 Ev’n in a bush, the radiant Deity. 
 
 But we despise these his inferior ways 
 (Though no less full of miracle and praise) : 
 
 Upon the flowers of heaven we gaze ; 
 
 The stars of earth no wonder in us raise, 
 
 Though these perhaps do, more than they, 
 The life of mankind sway. 
 
 Although no part of mighty nature be 
 
THOUGHTS OF COWLEY ON A GARDEN. 
 
 181 
 
 More stor’d with beauty, power and mystery, 
 
 Yet, to encourage human industry, 
 
 God has so order’d, that no other part 
 Such space and such dominion leaves for art. 
 
 We nowhere art do so triumphant see, 
 
 As when it grafts or buds the tree : 
 
 In other things we count it to excel, 
 
 If it a docile scholar can appear 
 To nature, and but imitate her well ; 
 
 It over-rules and is her master here. 
 
 It imitates her Maker’s power divine, 
 
 And changes her sometimes and sometimes does refine 
 It does, like grace, the fallen tree restore, 
 
 To its blest state of Paradise before. 
 
 Who would not joy to see his conquering hand 
 O’er all the vegetable world command ? 
 
 And the wild giants of the w 7 ood receive 
 What law lie’s pleas’d to give ? 
 
 He bids th’ ill-natur’d crab produce 
 The genfler apple’s winy juice, 
 
 The golden fruit that worthy is 
 Of Galatea’s purple kiss : 
 
 He does the savage hawthorn teach 
 To bear the medlar and the pear ; 
 
 He bids the rustic plum to rear 
 A noble trunk, and be a peach. 
 
 Even Daphne’s coyness he doth mock, 
 
 And weds the cherry to her stock. 
 
 Though she refus’d Apollo’s suit, 
 
 Even she, that chaste and virgin tree, 
 
 Now wonders at herself to see 
 That she’s a mother made, and blushes in her fruit. 
 
182 
 
 THOUGHTS OF COWLEY ON A GARDEN . 
 
 Methinks I see great Dioclesian walk 
 In the Salonian garden’s noble shade, 
 
 Which by his own imperial hands was made ; 
 
 I see him smile (methinks) as he does talk 
 With tli’ ambassadors who come in vain 
 T’ entice him to a throne again. 
 
 If I, my friends (said he), should to you show 
 All the delights which in these gardens grow, 
 
 ’Tis likelier much that you should with me stay, 
 
 Than ’tis that you should carry me away. 
 
 And trust me not, my friends, if every day 
 I walk not here with more delight 
 Than ever, after the most happy fight 8 
 In triumph to the capitol I rode, 
 
 To thank the gods, and to be thought, myself, almost a god. 
 
 A noble finish that, to a sometimes prosaical, often poetical, and 
 always engaging and thoughtful effusion. 
 
 The garden possessed by Cowley’s friend Evelyn was at his seat 
 of Sayes Court, Deptford. It contained, among other beauties, an 
 enormous hedge of holty, which made a glorious show in winter time 
 with its shining red berries. The Czar Peter, who came to England 
 in Evelyn’s time, and occupied his house, took delight (by way of 
 procuring himself a strong Russian sensation), in being drawn through 
 this hedge “ in a wheel-barrow !” He left it in sad condition accord- 
 ingly, to the disgust and lamentation of the owner. The garden cuts 
 rather a formal and solemn figure, to modern eyes, in the engraving? 
 that remain of it. But such engravings can suggest little of color and 
 movement of flowers and the breathing trees ; and our ancestors hac 
 more reason to admire those old orderly creations of theirs than mod- 
 ern improvement allows. We are too apt to suppose that one thing 
 cannot be good, because another is better ; or that an improvement 
 cannot too often reject what it might include or ameliorate. There 
 was no want of enthusiasm in the admirers of the old style, whethei 
 they were right or wrong. Hear what an arbiter of taste in the nex 
 age said of it, the famous Sir William Temple. He w r as an honest 
 
THOUGHTS ON RETIREMENT. 
 
 183 
 
 statesman and mild Epicurean philosopher, in the real sense of that 
 designation ; that is to say, temperate and reflecting, and fonder of a 
 garden and the friends about him than of anything else. He was a 
 great cultivator of fruit. He had the rare pleasure of obtaining the 
 retirement he loved ; first at Sheen, near Richmond, in Surrey, which 
 is the place alluded to in the following “ Thoughts on Retirement 
 and, secondly, at Moor Park, near Farnham, in the same county — a 
 residence probably named after the Moor Park which he eulogizes in 
 the subsequent description of a garden. In the garden of his house 
 at Farnham he directed that his heart should he buried ; and it was. 
 The sun-dial, under which he desired it might be deposited, is still 
 remaining. 
 
 SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE’S THOUGHTS ON 
 RETIREMENT. 
 
 FROM ONE OF HIS LETTERS. 
 
 S the country life, and this part of it more particularly 
 
 -IL (gardening), were the inclination of my youth itself, so 
 they are the pleasure of my age ; and I - can truly say, that, 
 among many great employments that have fallen to my share, 
 I have never asked or sought for any one of them, but often 
 endeavored to escape from them into the ease and freedom 
 of a private scene, where a man may go his own way and his 
 own pace, in the common paths or circles of life. 
 
 “ Inter cuncta leges et per cunctabere doctos 
 Qua ratione queas traducere leniter sevum, 
 
 Quid minuat curae, quid te tibi reddet amicum ; 
 
 Quid pure tranquillet, honos, an dulce lucellum, 
 
 An secretum iter, et fallentis semita vitae. ” 
 
 But above all the learned read, and ask 
 By what means you may gently pass your age, 
 
 What lessens care, what makes thee thine own friend, 
 
 What truly calms the mind ; honor, or wealth, 
 
 Or else a private path of stealing life 
 
184 
 
 THOUGHTS ON RETIREMENT. 
 
 These are the questions that a man ought at least to ask 
 himself, whether he asks others or no, and to choose his 
 course of life rather by his own humor and temper, than by 
 common accidents, or advice of friends ; at least if the 
 Spanish proverb be true, That a fool knows more in his own 
 house than a wise man in another’s. 
 
 The measure of choosing well is, whether a man likes 
 what he has chosen ; which, I thank God, is what has be- 
 fallen me ; and though among the follies of my life, building 
 and planting have not been the least, and have cost me more 
 than I have the confidence to own, yet they have been fully 
 recompensed by the sweetness and satisfaction of this retreat, 
 where, since my resolution taken of never entering again into 
 any public employments, I have passed five years without 
 ever going once to town, though I am almost in sight of it 
 and have a house there always ready to receive me. Nor 
 has this been any sort of affectation, as some have thought 
 it, but a mere want, of desire or humor to make so small a 
 remove : for when I am in this corner, I can truly say with 
 Horace, 
 
 “ Me quoties reficit gelidus Digentia rivus, 
 
 Quid sentire putas, quid credis, amice, piecari 1 
 Sit mihi, quod nunc est, etiam minus, ut mihi vivai: 
 
 Quod superest aevi, si quid superesse volunt Di. 
 
 Sit bona librorum, et provisas frugis in annum 
 Copia, ne fluitem dubias spe pendulus boras ; 
 
 Hoc satis est orare Jovem, qui donat et aufert.’’ 
 
 Me when the cold Digentian stream revives, 
 
 What does my friend believe I think or ask 'l 
 Let me yet lesf possess, so I may live, 
 
 Whate’er of life remains, unto myself. 
 
 May I have books enough, and one year’s store, 
 
 Not to depend upon each doubtful hour; 
 
 This is enough of mighty Jove to pray, 
 
 Who, as he pleases, gives and takes away. 
 
AN OLD ENGLISH GARDEN. 
 
 185 
 
 AN OLD ENGLISH GARDEN OF THE SEVEN- 
 TEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 FROM THE ESSAYS OF SIR WILLIAM TEMPLE. 
 
 T HE perfectest figure of a garden I ever saw, either at 
 home or abroad, was that of Moor Park in Hertfordshire, 
 when I knew it about thirty years ago. It was made by the 
 Countess of Bedford, esteemed among the greatest wits of 
 her time, and celebrated by Dr. Donne. I will describe it 
 for a model to those that meet with such a situation, and are 
 above the regards of common expense. It lies on the side 
 of a hill (upon which the house stands), but not very steep. 
 The length of the house, where the best rooms and of most 
 use or pleasure are, lies upon the breadth of the garden. 
 The great parlor opens into the middle of a terras gravel- 
 walk that lies even with it, and which may be, as I remember, 
 about three hundred paces long, and broad in proportion; 
 the border set with standard laurels, and at large distances, 
 which have the beauty of orange-trees, out of flower and fruit. 
 From this walk are three descents by many stone steps, in 
 the middle and at each end, into a very large parterre. This 
 is divided into quarters by gravel-walks, and adorned by two 
 fountains- and eight statues in the several quarters. At the 
 end of the terras-walk are two summer-houses, and the sides 
 of the parterre are ranged with two large cloisters, open to 
 the garden, upon arches of stone, and ending with two other 
 summer-houses even with the cloisters, which are paved with 
 stone, and designed for walks of shade, there being none 
 other in the whole parterre. Over these two cloisters are 
 two terrasses covered with lead, and fenced with balusters ; 
 and the passage into these airy walks is out of the two sum- 
 mer-houses at the end of the first terras-walk. The cloister 
 
186 
 
 AN OLD ENGLISH GARDEN 
 
 facing the south is covered with vines, and would have been 
 proper for an orange-house, and the other for myrtles, or 
 other more common greens,* and had, I doubt not, been cast 
 for that purpose, if this piece of gardening had been in as 
 much vogue as it is now. 
 
 From the middle of the parterre is a descent by many 
 steps, flying on each side of a grotto that lies between them 
 (covered with lead, and flat) into the lower garden, which is 
 all fruit-trees, ranged about the several quarters of a wilder- 
 ness which is very shady. The walks here are all green, the 
 grotto embellished with figures of shell-rock-work, fountains, 
 and water-works. If the hill had not ended with the lower 
 garden, and the wall were not bounded by a common way that 
 goes through the park, they might have added a third quar- 
 ter of all greens ; but this want is supplied by a garden on 
 the other side the house, which is all of that sort, very wild 
 very shady, and adorned with rough rock-work and fountains. 
 
 This was Moor Park when I was acquainted with it, and 
 the sweetest place, I think, that I have seen in my life, either 
 before or since, at home or abroad. What it is now I can 
 give little account, having passed through several hands that 
 have made great changes in gardens as well as houses ; but 
 the remembrance of what it was is too pleasant ever to forget. 
 
 The taste of Sir William Temple in gardening prevailed more or 
 less up to the time of George the Third ; but though Milton had in 
 some degree countenanced it, or appeared to do so, in the couplet in 
 which he speaks of 
 
 “Retired leisure. 
 
 That in trim gardens takes his pleasure , 77 
 
 yet the very universality of right feeling natural to a poet could not 
 help running out of such bounds, when he came to describe a garden 
 fit for paradise. Spenser had set him the example in his “ Bower of 
 
 * Orecns formerly meant plants in general. 
 
OF THE SEVENTEENTH CENTURY. 
 
 187 
 
 Bliss and Tasso, who is supposed to have drawn from some actual 
 gardens in his own time, had set Spenser himself the example in his 
 beautiful account of the bowers of Armida. The probability is, that 
 in all great ages Nature had spoken on the subject, in particular in- 
 stances, to the feelings of genius. Even the Chinese are thought to 
 have anticipated the modern taste, though with their usual semi-bar- 
 barous mixture of clumsy magnificence and petty details; possibly 
 not always so much so, as the startled invidiousness of their betters 
 has supposed. The Chinese, at all events, are very fond of flowers, 
 and show a truly poetical appreciation of their merits, as may be seen 
 in the charming novel of Ju-Kiao-Li. Milton’s garden of Eden made 
 a great impression, when Addison dug it up for the general benefit in 
 his articles on the great poet in the Spectator. Pope’s good sense was 
 naturally on the side of it ; and Shenstone gave into it with practical 
 and masterly enthusiasm. Hence the rise of what is called landscape 
 gardening. The new taste ran a little wild at first in the hands of 
 “ Kent and Nature then incurred another danger in more mechani- 
 cal hands ; but has finally become the best that ever existed, by the 
 combination of a liberal feeling for nature with the avowed and local 
 reasonableness of art. Gardens a re now adapted to places, to climates, 
 and to the demands of the presence of a house ; that is to say, to the 
 compromise which the house naturally tends to make between some- 
 thing like the orderliness and comfort inside of it. and the nature 
 which art goes forth to meet. This is the reason why we have said 
 we should like to have two gardens, if possible : one modified from the 
 old terraces and parterres and formal groves of our ancestors, and the 
 other from the wildness of “ Kent and Nature.” If required to choose 
 between the two, we should say, Give us anything comprising a few 
 trees, a few flowers, a plot of grass, a bench, and seclusion ; — anything 
 in which we could pace up and down, sit when we pleased, see a little 
 brilliant color, a good deal of green, and not be overlooked. What- 
 ever did this best, we should like best, whether made by art or nature. 
 
 There was a lady in the time of Pope, a true poetess (if she had 
 but known it and taken pains), Lady Winchilsea, a friend of his, who 
 had as thorough a taste for seclusion on the romantic side as ever ex- 
 isted. Her maiden name was Kingsmill; her husband the fifth Earl 
 of Winchilsea, of the same family that now possess the title. Anne 
 Kingsmill was an open-hearted, excellent creature ; she made a loving 
 friend and wife ; is one of the very few original cbservers of nature 
 
188 PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT. 
 
 (as Wordsworth has remarked) who appeared in an artificial age; and 
 deserves to have been gathered into collections of English verse far 
 more than half of our minor poets. We will give a taste or two of 
 this lady’s style from her poem on the subject of retirement, and then 
 conclude the present department of our book with two papers out of 
 the periodical works of Mackenzie, worthy to have been read by her- 
 self, and more suited to the desires of readers in general. There is a 
 great deal more of the poem, all creditable to the writer’s turn of 
 mind, but not choice enough in style for a book of selection. AVe beg 
 the reader’s admiration for the burden at the close of each paragraph. 
 
 PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT. 
 
 FROM A POEM BY THE COUNTESS OF AYINCHILSEA. 
 
 G IVE me, 0 indulgent Fate, 
 
 Give me yet before I die, 
 
 A sweet, but absolute retreat, 
 
 ’Mongst paths so lost, and trees so high, 
 
 That the world may ne’er invade, 
 
 Through such windings and such shade, 
 
 My unshaken liberty. 
 
 No intruders thither come, 
 
 Who visit but to be from home ; 
 
 None who their vain moments pass 
 Only studious of their glass. 
 
 News, that charm to listening ears, 
 
 That false alarm to hopes and fears, 
 
 That common theme for every fop 
 From the statesman to the shop, 
 
 In these coverts ne’er be spread ; 
 
 Of who’s deceas’d or who’s to wed 
 Be no tidings thither brought ; 
 
 But silent as a midnight thought, 
 
PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT. 189 
 
 Where the world may ne’er invade. 
 
 Be those windings and that shade. 
 
 Courteous Fate ! afford me there 
 A table spread, without my care, 
 
 With what the neighb’ring fields impart, 
 Whose cleanliness be all its art. 
 
 When of old the calf was drest 
 (Though to make an angel’s feast) 
 
 In the plain, unstudied sauce 
 Nor truffle, nor morillia was, 
 
 Nor cou’d the mighty patriarch’s board 
 One far-fetch’d ortolan afford. 
 
 Courteous Fate, then give me there 
 Only plain and wholesome fare. 
 
 Fruits indeed (wou’d Heaven bestow) 
 
 All that did in Eden grow, 
 
 All, but the forbidden tree 7 
 Wou’d be coveted by me ; 
 
 Grapes with juice so crowded up, 
 
 As breaking thro’ the native cup; 
 
 Figs (yet growing) candy’d o’er 
 By the sun’s attracting pow’r ; 
 
 Cherries, with the downy peach, 
 
 All within my easy reach ; 
 
 Whilst creeping near the humble ground 
 Shou’d the strawberry be found, 
 
 Springing wheresoe’er I stray’d 
 Thro’ those windings and that shade. 
 
 Give me there (since Heaven has shown 
 It was not good to be alone) 
 
 A partner suited to my mind, 
 
 Solitary, pleas’d, and kind ; 
 
190 PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT 
 
 Who, partially, may something see 
 Preferr’d to all the world in me ; 
 
 Slighting, by my humble side, 
 
 Fame and splendor, wealth and pride. 
 When but two the earth possest, 
 
 ’Twas their happiest days, and best ; 
 
 They by business, nor by wars, 
 
 They by no domestic cares, 
 
 From each other e’er were drawn, 
 
 But in some grove or flow’ry lawn 
 Spent the swiftly flying time, 
 
 Spent their own and nature’s prime 
 In love, that only passion given 
 To perfect man, whilst friends with Heaven, 
 Rage, and jealousy, and hate, 
 
 Transports of his fallen state, 
 
 When by Satan’s wiles betray’d, 
 
 Fly those windings, and that shade ! 
 
 Let me then, indulgent Fate ! 
 
 Let me still in my retreat 
 From all roving thoughts be freed, 
 
 Or aims that may contention breed ; 
 
 Nor be my endeavors led 
 By goods that perish with the dead ! 
 
 Fitly might the life of man 
 Be indeed esteem’d a span, 
 
 If the present moment were 
 Of delight his only share ; 
 
 If no other joys he knew 
 
 Than what round about him grew : 
 
 But as those whose stars would trace 
 From a subterranean place, 
 
PETITION FOR AN ABSOLUTE RETREAT. 
 
 Through some engine lift their eyes 
 To the outward glorious skies ; 
 
 So tli’ immortal spirit may, 
 
 When descended to our clay, 
 
 From a rightly govern’d frame 
 
 Yiew the height from whence she came ; 
 
 To her Paradise be caught, 
 
 And things unutterable taught. 
 
 Give me, then, in that retreat, 
 
 Give me, 0 indulgent Fate ! 
 
 For all pleasures left behind, 
 Contemplations of the mind 
 Let the fair, the gay, the vain, 
 
 Courtship and applause obtain ; 
 
 Let tli’ ambitious rule the earth ; 
 
 Let the giddy fool have mirth ; 
 
 Give the epicure his dish, 
 
 Every one their several wish ; 
 
 Whilst my transports I employ 
 On that more extensive joy, 
 
 When all Heaven shall be survey’d 
 From those windings and that shad**. 
 
$tt nli Cntmirq J&rnt mt an nli jCnilij. 
 
 from Mackenzie’s “lounger” no. 87. 
 
 The old lady described in the following charming paper of Mac- 
 kenzie (which was a favorite with Sir Walter Scott), is not of so large- 
 minded an order as Lady Wiuchilsea, but she has as good a heart ; is 
 very touching and pleasant ; and her abode suits her admirably. It 
 is the remnant of something that would have been greater in a greater 
 age. We fancy her countenance to have been one that w T ould have re- 
 minded us of the charming old face in Drayton : 
 
 u Ev’n in the aged’st face where beauty once did dwell, 
 
 And Nature in the least but seemed to excel, 
 
 Time cannot make such waste, but something will appear 
 To show some little tract of delicacy there.” 
 
 Polyolbion. 
 
 The reader, perhaps, hardly requires to be told that Mackenzie, 
 whose writings have been gathered into the British classics, was a 
 Scottish gentleman, bred to the bar, who in his youth wrote the once 
 popular novel called the Man of Feeling , and died not long ago at a 
 reverend age, universally regretted. He was the editor and principal 
 writer of the two periodical works called the Mirror and Lounger , to 
 which several of the reigning Scottish wits contributed. He was not 
 a very original or powerful writer, but he was a very shrewd, elegant, 
 and pleasing one, a happy offset from Addison ; and he sometimes 
 showed great pathos. His stories of La Roche and Louisa Venoni are 
 among the most affecting in the world, and free from the somewhat 
 
AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE. 
 
 193 
 
 morbid softness of his novel. We are the happier in being able to do 
 this tardy, though very unnecessary justice to the merits of a good 
 man and a graceful essayist, because in the petulance and presumption 
 of youth we had mistaken our incompetence to judge them for the 
 measure of their pretensions. 
 
 I HAVE long cultivated a talent very fortunate for a man 
 of my disposition, that of travelling in my easy chair ; 
 of transporting myself, without stirring from my parlor, to 
 distant places and to absent friends ; of drawing scenes in 
 my mind’s eye ; and of peopling them with the groups of 
 fancy, or the society of remembrance. When I have some- 
 times lately felt the dreariness of the town, deserted by my 
 acquaintance ; when I have returned from the coffee-house, 
 where the boxes were unoccupied, and strolled out from my 
 accustomed walk, which even the lame beggar had left, I 
 was fain to shut myself up in my room, order a dish of my 
 best tea (for there is a sort of melancholy which disposes 
 one to make much of one’s self), and calling up the powers 
 of memory and imagination, leave the solitary town for a 
 solitude more interesting, which my younger days enjoyed 
 in the country, which I think, and if I am wrong I do not 
 wish to be undeceived, was the most Elysian spot in the 
 world. 
 
 ’Twas at an old lady’s, a relation and godmother of 
 mine, where a particular incident occasioned my being left 
 during the vacation of two successive seasons. Her house 
 was formed out of the remains of an old Gothic castle, of 
 which one tower was still almost entire ; it was tenanted 
 by kindly daws and swallows. Beneath, in a modernized 
 part of the house, resided the mistress of the mansion. The 
 house was skirted by a few majestic elms and beeches, and 
 the stumps of several others showed that once they had been 
 9 
 
194 
 
 AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE 
 
 more numerous. To the west a clump of firs covered a rug 
 ged rocky dell, where the rooks claimed a prescriptive seign 
 ory. Through this a dashing rivulet forced its way, which 
 afterwards grew quiet in its progress ; and gurgling gently 
 through a piece of downy meadow-ground, crossed the bottom 
 of the garden, where a little rustic paling enclosed a washing- 
 green, and a wicker seat, fronting the south, was placed for 
 the accommodation of the old lady, whose lesser tour, when 
 her fields did not require a visit, used to terminate in this 
 spot. Here, too, were ranged the hives for her bees, whose 
 hum, in a still warm sunshine, soothed the good old lady’s 
 indolence, while their proverbial industry was sometimes 
 quoted for the instruction of her washers. The brook ran 
 brawling through some underwood on the outside of the gar- 
 den, and soon after formed a little cascade, which fell into 
 the river that winded through a valley in front of the house. 
 When hay-making or harvest was going on, my godmother 
 took her long stick in her hand, and overlooked the labors of 
 the mowers or reapers ; though I believe there was little 
 thrift in the superintendency, as the visit generally cost her 
 a draught of beer or a dram, to encourage their diligence. 
 
 Within doors she had so able an assistant, that her labor 
 was little. In that department an old man-servant was her 
 minister, the father of my Peter, who serves me not the less 
 faithfully that we have gathered nuts together in my god- 
 mother’s hazel-bank. This old butler (I call him by his 
 title of honor, though in truth he had many subordinate 
 offices) had originally enlisted with her husband, who went 
 into the army a youth (though he afterwards married and be- 
 came a country gentleman), had been his servant abroad, and 
 attended him during his last illness at home. His best hat, 
 which he wore on Sundays, with a scarlet waistcoat of his 
 master’s, had still a cockade in it. 
 
AND AN OLD LADY. 
 
 195 
 
 Her husband’s books were in a room at the top of a screw 
 staircase, which had scarce been opened since his death ; but 
 her own library, for Sabbath or rainy days, was ranged in a 
 little book-press in the parlor. It consisted, so far as I can 
 remember, of several volumes of sermons, a Concordance , 
 Thomas d Kempis , Antoninus’s Meditations , the works of 
 the author of the Whole Duty of Man , and a translation of 
 Boethius ; the original editions of the Spectator and Guar- 
 dian^ Coivley’s Poems (of which I had lost a volume soon 
 after I first came about her house), Baker’s Chronicle , Bur- 
 net’s History of his oion Times , Lamb’s Royal Cookery , Aber- 
 cromby’s Scots Warriors , and Nisbet’s Heraldry . 
 
 The subject of the last-mentioned book was my god- 
 mother’s strong ground ; and she could disentangle a point 
 of genealogy beyond any one I ever knew. She had an ex- 
 cellent memory for anecdotes ; and her stories, though some- 
 times long, were never tiresome ; for she had been a woman 
 of great beauty and accomplishment in her youth, and had 
 kept such company as made the drama of her stories respec- 
 table and interesting. She spoke frequently of such of her 
 own family as she remembered when a child, but scarcely 
 ever of those she had lost, though one could see she thought 
 of them often. She had buried a beloved husband and four 
 children. Her youngest, Edward, s( her beautiful her brave,” 
 fell in Flanders, and was not entombed with his ancestors. 
 His picture, done when a child, an artless red and white por- 
 trait, smelling at a nosegay, but very like withal, hung at her 
 bed-side, and his sword and gorget were crossed under it. 
 When she spoke of a soldier, it was in a style above her usual 
 simplicity ; there was a sort of swell in her language, which 
 sometimes a tear (for her age had not lost the privilege of 
 tears) made still more eloquent. She kept her sorrows, like 
 her devotions that solaced them, sacred to herself. They 
 
196 
 
 AN OLD COUNTRY HOUSE 
 
 threw nothing of gloom over her deportment ; a gentle shade 
 only, like the fleckered clouds of summer, that increase, not 
 diminish, the benignity of the season. 
 
 She had few neighbors, and still fewer visitors ; but her 
 reception of such as did visit her was cordial in the extreme. 
 She pressed a little too much, perhaps ; but there was so 
 much heart and good-will in her importunity, as made her 
 good things seem better than those of any other table. Nor 
 was her attention confined only to the good fare of her guests, 
 though it might have flattered her vanity more than that of 
 most exhibitors of good dinners, because the cookery was 
 generally directed by herself. Their servants lived as well 
 in her hall, and their horses in her stable. She looked after 
 the airing of their sheets, and saw their fires mended if the 
 night was cold. Her old butler, who rose betimes, would 
 never suffer anybody to mount his horse fasting. 
 
 The parson of the parish was her guest every Sunday, 
 and said prayers in the evening. To say truth, he was no 
 great genius, nor much a scholar. I believe my godmother 
 knew rather more of divinity than he did ; but she received 
 from him information of another sort : he told her who were 
 the poor, the sick, the dying of the parish, and she had some 
 assistance, some comfort for them all. 
 
 I could draw the old lady at this moment ! dressed in 
 gray, with a clean white hood nicely plaited (for she was 
 somewhat finical about the neatness of her person), sitting in 
 her straight-backed elbow-chair, which stood in a large win- 
 dow, scooped out of the thickness of the ancient wall. The 
 middle panes of the window were of painted glass — the story 
 of Joseph and his brethren. On the outside waved a honey- 
 suckle tree, which often threw its shade across her book or 
 her work ; but she would not allow it to be cut down. “ It 
 has stood there many a day,” said she, “and we old inhabi 
 
AND AN OLD LADY. 
 
 197 
 
 tants should bear with one another.” Me thinks I see her 
 thus seated, her spectacles on, but raised a little on her brow 
 for a pause of explanation, their shagreen case laid between 
 the leaves of a silver-clasped family Bible. On one side, her 
 bell and snuff-box ; on the other, her knitting apparatus in a 
 blue damask bag. — Between her and the fire an old Spanish 
 pointer, that had formerly been her son Edward’s, teased, but 
 not teased out of his gravity, by a little terrier of mine. — All 
 this is before me, and I am a hundred miles from town, its 
 inhabitants, and its business. In town I may have seen such 
 a figure : but the country scenery around, like the tasteful 
 frame of an excellent picture, gives it a heightening, a relief, 
 which it would lose in any other situation. 
 
 Some of my readers, perhaps, will look with little relish 
 on the portrait. I know it is an egotism in me to talk of 
 its value ; but over this dish of tea, and in such a temper of 
 mind, one is given to egotism. It will be only adding another 
 to say, that when I recall the rural scene of the good old 
 lady’s abode, her simple, her innocent, her useful employ- 
 ments, the afflictions she sustained in this world, the comforts 
 she drew from another, I feel a serenity of soul, a benignity 
 of affections, which I am sure confer happiness, and I think 
 must promote virtue. 
 
 This delightful paper appears to have had its just effect on the 
 readers of the Lounger. It produced some pleasant remarks from a 
 correspondent who signed himself “Urbanus;” and these remarks 
 produced a letter from the Editor himself, under the signature of 
 “ Adrastus,” which contains a sort of character of an Old Gentleman 
 to match that of the Old Lady, and has also a tone of reflection that 
 will sensibly affect most readers, especially those at a similar time 
 of life. 
 
198 
 
 LOVE OF THE COUNTRY 
 
 LOVE OF THE COUNTRY IN THE DECLINE 
 OF LIFE. 
 
 FRPM THE SAME, NO. 93. 
 
 S IR, — I, as well as your correspondent Urbanus, was very 
 much pleased with your late paper on the moral use of 
 the country, and the portrait of the excellent lady it contain- 
 ed. I am an old man, sir, but thank God, with all my facul- 
 ties and feelings entire and alive about me ; and your de- 
 scription recalled to my memory some worthy characters with 
 which my youth was acquainted, and which, I am inclined to 
 believe, I should find it a little difficult, were I even disposed 
 to look out for them, to supply now. At my time of life, 
 friends are a treasure which the fortunate may have preserv- 
 ed, but the most fortunate can hardly acquire ; and if I am 
 not mistaken in my opinion of the present race, there are not 
 many friendships among them which I would be solicitous to 
 acquire or they will be likely to preserve. It is not of their 
 little irregularities or imprudencies I complain ; I know these 
 must always be expected and pardoned in the young ; and 
 there are few of us old people who can recollect our youthful 
 days without having some things of that sort to blush for. 
 No, Mr. Lounger, it is their prudence, their wisdom, their 
 foresight, their policy, I find fault with. They put on the 
 livery of the world so early, and have so few of the weaknesses 
 of feeling or of fancy ! To this cause I impute the want of 
 that rural sentiment which your correspondent Urbanus seems 
 to suppose is banished only from the country retreats of 
 town dissipation, from the abodes of fashionable and frivolous 
 people, who carry all the follies and pleasures of a city into 
 scenes destined for rural simplicity and rural enjoyment. 
 But in truth, sir, the people of the country themselves, who 
 
IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 
 
 199 
 
 never knew fashionable life, or city dissipation, have now ex- 
 changed the simple-hearted pleasures which in my younger 
 days were common among them, for ideas of a much more 
 selfish sort. Most of my young acquaintance there (and I 
 spend at least eight months of the year in the country) are 
 really arrived at that prudent way of estimating things which 
 we used to be diverted with in Hudibras : 
 
 “ For what’s the value of a thing, 
 
 But as much money as ’twill bring V’ 
 
 Their ambition, their love, their friendship, all have this ten- 
 dency ; and their no-ambition, their no-love, their no-friend- 
 ship, or, in one word, their indifference about every object 
 from which some worldly advantage is not to be drawn, is 
 equally observable on the other hand. On such a disposition, 
 Mr. Lounger, what impression is to be made by rural objects 
 or rural scenery ? The visions which these paint in fancy, or 
 the tender ties they have on remembrance, cannot find room 
 in an imagination or a heart made callous by selfish and in- 
 terested indifference. 5 Tis with regret rather than resent- 
 ment that I perceive this sort of turn so prevalent among 
 the young people of my acquaintance, or those with whom 
 I am connected. I have now, alas ! no child of my own in 
 whom I can either lament such a failing, or be proud of the 
 want of it. 
 
 I think myself happy, sir, that, even at my advanced pe- 
 riod of life, I am still susceptible of such impressions as those 
 which our 87th Number imputes to rural contemplation. At 
 this season, above all others, methinks they are to be enjoy- 
 ed. Now in this fading time of the year, when the flush of 
 vegetation and the glow of maturity is past, when the fields 
 put oji a sober or rather saddened appearance, I look on the 
 well-known scenery around my country dwelling, as I would 
 
200 
 
 LOVE OF THE COUNTRY 
 
 on a friend fallen from the pride of prosperity to a more 
 humble and more interesting situation. The withering grass 
 that whistles on the unsheltered bank; the fallen leaves 
 strewed over the woodland path ; the silence of the almost 
 naked copse, which not long ago rung with the music of the 
 birds ; the flocking of their little tribes that seem mute with 
 the dread of ills to come ; the querulous call of the partridge 
 in the bare brown field, and the soft low song of the red- 
 breast from the household shed ; this pensive landscape, with 
 these plaintive accompaniments, dimmed by a gray October 
 sky, which we look on with the thoughts of its shortened and 
 still shortening light ; all this presses on my bosom a certain 
 still and gentle melancholy, which I would not part with for 
 all the pleasure that mirth could give, for all the luxury that 
 wealth could buy. 
 
 You say, truly, in one of your late papers, that poetry is 
 almost extinguished among us : it is one of my old-fashioned 
 propensities to be fond of poetry, to be delighted with its 
 descriptions, to be affected by its sentiments. I find genuine 
 poetry a sort of opening to the feelings of my mind, to 
 which my own expression could not give vent ; I see in its 
 descriptions a picture more lively and better composed, than 
 my own less distinct and less vivid ideas of the objects 
 around me could furnish. It is with such impressions that 
 I read the following lines of Thomson’s Autumn introduc- 
 tive of the solemn and beautiful apostrophe to philosophic 
 melancholy : — 
 
 *'■ But see the fading many-color’d woods, 
 
 Shade deepening over shade, the country round 
 Imbrown ; a crowded umbrage, dusk and dun, 
 
 Of every hue, from wan declining green 
 To sooty dark. These now the lonesome muse, 
 
 Low whispering, lead into their leaf-strown walks, 
 
 And give the season in its latest view. 
 
IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE. 
 
 201 
 
 “ Meantime, light-shadowing all, a sober calm 
 Fleeces unbounded ether ; whose least wave 
 Stands tremulous, uncertain where to turn 
 The gentle current; while illumined wide 
 The dewy-skirted clouds imbibe the sun, 
 
 And through their lucid veil his soften’d force 
 Shed o’er the peaceful world. Then is the time, 
 
 For those whom wisdom and whom nature charm, 
 
 To steal themselves from the degenerate crowd, 
 
 And soar above this little scene of things ; 
 
 To tread low-thoughted vice beneath their feet, 
 
 To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, 
 
 And woo lone quiet in her silent walks.” 
 
 About this time three years, sir, I had the misfortune to 
 lose a daughter, the last survivor of my family, whom her 
 mother, dying at her birth, left a legacy to my tenderness, 
 who closed a life of the most exemplary goodness, of the 
 most tender filial duty, of the warmest benevolence, of the 
 most exalted piety, by a very gradual but not unperceived 
 decay. 
 
 When I think on the returning season of this calamity, 
 when I see the last fading flowers of autumn, which my 
 Harriet used to gather with a kind of sympathetic sadness, 
 and hear the small chirping note of the flocking linnets, which 
 she used to make me observe as the elegy of the year ! when 
 I have drawn her picture in the midst of this rural scenery, 
 and then reflected on her many virtues and accomplishments, 
 on her early and unceasing attention to myself, her gentle 
 and winning manners to every one around her ; when I re- 
 member her resignation during the progress of her disorder, 
 her unshaken and sublime piety in its latest stages ; when 
 these recollections filled my mind, in conjunction with the 
 drooping images of the season, and the . c ense of my own 
 waning period of life I feel a mixture of sadness and of com 
 
 9 * 
 
202 
 
 LOVE OF THE COUNTRY 
 
 posure, of humility and of elevation of spirit, which I think, 
 sir, a man would ill exchange for any degree of unfeeling 
 prudence, or of worldly wisdom and indifference. 
 
 The attachment to rural objects is like that family affec- 
 tion which a warm and uncorrupted mind preserves for its 
 relations and early acquaintance. In a town, the lively par- 
 tiality and predilections for these relations or friends is 
 weakened or lost in the general intercourse of the multitude 
 around us. In a town, external objects are so common, so 
 unappropriated to ourselves, and are so liable to change and 
 to de‘cay, that we cannot feel any close or permanent connec- 
 tion with them. In the country we remember them un- 
 changed for a long space of time, and for that space known 
 and frequented by scarce any but ourselves. u Methinks I 
 should hate,” says a young lady, the child of fiction, yet drawn 
 with many features like that excellent girl I lost, “ methinks 
 I should hate to have been born in a town. When I say my 
 native brook, or my native hill, I talk of friends, of whom 
 the remembrance warms my heart.” When the memory of 
 persons we dearly loved is connected with the view of those 
 objects, they have then a double link to the soul. It were 
 tender enough for me to view some ancient trees that form 
 my common evening walk, did I only remember what I was 
 when I first sported under their shade, and what I am when 
 I rest under it now ; but it is doubly tender when I think 
 of those with whom I have walked there ; of her whom but 
 a few summers ago I saw beneath those beeches, smiling in 
 health, and beauty, and happiness, her present days lighted 
 up with innocence and mirth, and her future drawn in the 
 flattering colors of fancy and of hope. 
 
 But I know not why I should trouble you with this re- 
 cital of the situation and feelings of an individual, or indeed 
 why I should have written to you at all, except that I catched 
 
IN THE DECLINE OF LIFE . 
 
 203 
 
 a sort of congenial spirit from your 87 tli Number, and was 
 led by the letter of Urbanus to compare your description of 
 a personage in former times with those whose sentiments I 
 sometimes hear in the present days. I am not sure that 
 these have gained in point of substance what they have lost 
 in point of imagination. Power, and wealth, and luxury, are 
 relative terms ; and if address, and prudence, and policy, can 
 only acquire us our share, we shall not account ourselves 
 more powerful, more rich, or more luxurious, than when in 
 the little we possessed we were still equal to those around us. 
 But if we have narrowed the sources of internal comfort and 
 internal enjoyment, — if we have debased the powers of purity 
 of the mind, — if we have blunted the sympathy or contracted 
 the affections of the heart, we have lost some of that treasure 
 which was absolutely our own, and derived not its value from 
 comparative estimation. Above all, if we have allowed the 
 prudence or the interests of this world to shut out from our 
 souls the view or the hopes of a better, we have quenched 
 that light which would have cheered the darkness of affliction 
 and the evening of old age, which at this moment, Mr. Loun- 
 ger (for like an old man I must come back to myself), I feel 
 restoring me my virtuous friends, my loved relations, my 
 dearest child ! — I am, &c. Adrastus. 
 
€tnn Intuihs, ml an Siisrriptinn an a Ipring. 
 
 BY THOMAS WARTON. 
 
 It is curious that Warton, who was by no means a great poet, 
 should have written some of the most favorite sonnets in the lan- 
 guage. The reason is, that they were upon subjects he understood, 
 and that the writer was in earnest. Upon most, indeed upon any oc- 
 casions, Warton’s mind was not sufficiently active or excitable to be 
 moved into much eloquence of expression. The Fellow of Trinity 
 College, Oxford, w r as a luxurious Protestant monk, who found some- 
 thing to minister to his satisfaction in everything around him, Gothic 
 architecture, books, country walks, &c., not omitting the club-room 
 and the pipe ; but he was content, in general, to admire them through 
 the medium of the thoughts of others, and so let the companions of 
 his mind speak for him. He was susceptible, however, of strong 
 general impressions ; and as these, in the instances before us, were 
 made by his favorite subjects, they are given with corresponding 
 truth. Almost all his sonnets (they are only nine), but especially 
 these two, notwithstanding conventional phrases, have elegance, sim- 
 plicity, and a touching fervor. Nobody had written on the particular 
 topics before him, at least not poetically ; so that his modesty was 
 not tempted into imitation. It makes us regret that he did not oftener 
 take up new subjects, especially when we see the original eye for na- 
 ture which is discernible even in his half centos from the poets he ad- 
 mired. It must be allowed, nevertheless, that the good comfortable 
 collegian was made rather to feel sentiment in others, than to express 
 it in his own sturdy person. 
 
WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON HOUSE. 205 
 
 INSCRIPTION OYER A CALM AND CLEAR SPRING. 
 
 H ERE quench your thirst, and mark in me 
 An emblem of true charity ; 
 
 Who, while my bounty I bestow, 
 
 Am neither heard, nor seen, to flow. 
 
 WRITTEN IN A BLANK LEAF OF DIIGD ALE’S 
 “ MONASTICON ”* 
 
 D EEM not devoid of elegance the sage, 
 
 By fancy’s genuine feelings unbeguil’d, 
 
 Of painful pedantry the poring child, 
 
 Who turns of these proud domes th’ historic page. 
 
 Now sunk by time and Henry’s fiercer rage. 
 
 Think’st thou the warbling muses never smil’d 
 On his lone hours ? Ingenuous views engage 
 His thoughts, on themes, unclassic falsely styl’d, 
 
 Intent. While cloistered piety displays 
 Her mouldering rolls, the piercing eye explores 
 New manners and the pomp of elder days, 
 
 Whence culls the pensive bard his pictured stores. 
 
 Nor rough, nor barren, are the winding ways 
 Of hoar antiquity, but strewn with flowers. 
 
 WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON IIOUSE.t 
 
 F ROM Pembroke’s princely dome, where mimic art 
 Decks with a magic hand the dazzling bowers, 
 
 Its living hues where the warm pencil pours, 
 
 And breathing forms from the rude marble start, 
 
 * The Monasticon is an account of the monasteries existing in 
 England before the Reformation. 
 
 f The seat of the Pembroke family; where there was, and is, a 
 fine collection of pictures. 
 
06 WRITTEN AFTER SEEING WILTON HOUSE. 
 
 How to life’s humbler scene can I depart, 
 
 My breast all glowing from those gorgeous towers ? 
 In my low cell how cheat the sullen hours ? 
 
 Yain the complaint. For fancy can impart 
 (To fate superior and to fortune’s doom) 
 
 Whate’er adorns the stately storied hall. 
 
 She, ’mid the dungeon’s solitary gloom, 
 
 Can dress the graces in their Attic pall ; 
 
 Bid the green landskip’s vernal beauty bloom, 
 
 And in bright trophies clothe the twilight wali 
 
Srsrriptinns nf Jligljt. 
 
 FROM THE NOTES TO OSSIAN. 
 
 The dispute respecting the merits and authenticity of the poems 
 of Ossian has long settled down, we believe, into an admission of the 
 former, and a conclusion that Macpherson invented them, assisted by 
 traditional fragments. It is a pity Macpherson ever suffered the dis- 
 pute to take place ; for it has lefjt him a doubtful reputation both for 
 genius and honesty, when perhaps nobody would have questioned 
 either. The fragments may have excelled the inventions ; but hardly 
 any one, except a man of genius, could have put them so well together, 
 notwithstanding the violation of times and manners. There is a great 
 deal of repetition and monotony ; yet somehow these faults them- 
 selves contribute to the welcome part of the impression. They affect 
 us like the dreariness of the heaths and the moaning of the winds. 
 But the work would not have stood its ground, and gained the admir- 
 ers it has, did it not possess positive beauties ; veins of genuine feel- 
 ing and imagination. It is understood that an Italian translation was 
 a favorite with Bonaparte and his officers during the early republican 
 times. The present king of Sweden, Oscar Bernadotte, is said, we be- 
 lieve, to have been named after the son of Ossian. But even these 
 illustrious testimonies to its merit are unnecessary after the single one 
 of Gray, who in his Letters repeatedly expresses his admiration, par- 
 ticularly of the passages before us. We shall extract his notice of 
 them by way of argument as well as critique. It is hardly requisite 
 to mention, that Macpherson does not attribute these passages to Os- 
 sian. He has put them in a note, and says they were written by some 
 imitator “a thousand years afterwards !” Gray takes no notice of 
 
203 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT. 
 
 this ; nor shall we. If they are not of the same manufacture as the 
 rest, ghost is not like ghost, nor a wind a wind. 
 
 Observe how beautifully Gray talks of the gust of wind “ recollect- 
 ing itself,” and resembling the voice of a spirit. 
 
 “ I have received,” he says to his friend Mr. Stonhewer, another 
 Scotch packet with a third specimen, inferior in kind (because it is 
 merely description), but full of nature and noble wild imagination. 
 Five bards pass the night at the castle of a chief (himself a principal 
 bard) ; each goes in his turn to observe the face of things, and returns 
 with an extempore picture of the changes he has seen (it is an October 
 night, the harvest month of the Highlands). This is the wdiole plan ; 
 yet there is a contrivance, and a preparation of ideas, that you would 
 not expect. The oddest thing is, that every one of them sees ghosts 
 (more or less). The idea that struck me and surprised me most, is 
 the following : — One of them (describing a storm of wind and rain) 
 says, 
 
 “ Ghosts rido on the tempest to-night ; 
 
 Sweet is thoir voice between the gusts of wind ; 
 
 Their songs are of other worlds !” 
 
 Did you never observe (while rocking winds are piping loud) that 
 pause, as the gust is recollecting itself, and rising upon the ear in a 
 shrill and plaintive note, like the swell of an iEolian harp I I do as- 
 sure you there is nothing in the world so like the voice of a spirit. 
 Thomson had an ear sometimes : he was not deaf to this ; and has de- 
 scribed it gloriously, but given it another different turn, and of more 
 horror. I cannot repeat the lines : it is in his Winter. There is 
 another very fine picture in one of them. It describes the breaking 
 of the clouds after the storm, before it is settled into a calm, and when 
 the moon is seen by short intervals. 
 
 “ The waves are tumbling on the lake, 
 
 And lash the rocky sides, 
 
 The boat is brimful in the cove, 
 
 The oars on the rocking tide. 
 
 Sad sits a maid beneath a cliff, 
 
 And eyes the rolling stream ; 
 
 Her lover promised to come. 
 
 She saw his boat (when it was evening) on the lake; 
 
 Are these his groans on the gale ? 
 
 Is this his broken boat on the shore ?” 
 
DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT . 
 
 209 
 
 Note, that Gray has written out these sentences in distinct lines, 
 as thorugh the}' had been metrically disposed in the original, and not 
 prose. And indeed it is difficult not to discern a music in them., or to 
 think they want a music of any other sort. But the effect would be 
 different in long compositions. 
 
 FIRST BARD. 
 
 IGHT is dull and dark. The clouds rest on the hills. 
 
 -b' No star with green trembling beam, no moon, looks 
 from the sky. I hear the blast in the wood ; but I hear it 
 distant far. The stream of the valley murmurs ; but its 
 murmur is sullen and sad. From the tree at the grave of 
 the dead the long-liowling owl is heard. I see a dim form 
 on the plain ! It is a ghost ! it fades, it flies. Some funeral 
 shall pass this way ; the meteor marks the path. 
 
 The distant dog is howling from the hut of the hill 
 The stag lies on the mountain moss : the hind is at his side 
 She hears the wind in its branching horns. She starts, but 
 lies again. 
 
 The roe is in the cleft of the rock : the heath-cock’s 
 head is beneath his wing. No beast, no bird is abroad, but 
 the owl and the howling fox. She on a leafless tree ; he in 
 a cloud on the hill. 
 
 Dark, panting, trembling, sad, the traveller has lost his 
 way. Through shrubs, through thorns, he goes along the 
 gurgling rill. He fears the rock and the fen. He fears the 
 ghost of night. The old tree groans to the blast ; the fall 
 ing branch resounds. The wind drives the withered burs, 
 clung together, along the grass. It is the light tread of a 
 ghost ! He trembles amidst the night. 
 
 Dark, dusky, howling is night, cloudy, windy, and full of 
 ghosts ! The dead are abroad ! My friends, receive me from 
 the night. 
 
210 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT. 
 
 SECOND BARD. 
 
 The wind is up. The shower descends. The spirit of 
 the mountain shrieks. Woods fall from limb. Windows 
 
 O 
 
 flap. The growing river roars. The traveller attempts the 
 ford. Hark ! that shriek ! he dies ! The storm drives the 
 horse from the hill, the goat, the lowing cow. They tremble 
 as drives the shower, beside the mouldering bank. 
 
 The hunter starts from sleep, in his lonely hut ; he wakes 
 the fire decayed. His wet dogs smoke around him. He fills 
 the chinks with heath. Loud roar two mountain-streams 
 which meet beside his booth. 
 
 Sad on the side of a hill the wandering shepherd sits. 
 The tree resounds above him. The stream roars down the 
 rock. He waits for the rising moon to guide him to his 
 home. 
 
 Ghosts ride on the storm to-night. Sweet is their 
 voice between the squalls of wind. Their songs are of 
 other worlds. 
 
 The rain is past. The dry wind blows. Streams roar, 
 and windows flap. Cold drops fall from the roof. I see the 
 starry sky. But the shower gathers again. The west is 
 gloomy and dark. Night is stormy and dismal ; receive me, 
 my friends, from night. 
 
 THIRD BARD. 
 
 The wind still sounds between the hills, and whistles 
 through the grass of the rock. The firs fall from their place. 
 The turfy hut is torn. The clouds, divided, fly over the sky, 
 and show the burning stars. The meteor, token of death ! 
 flies sparkling through the gloom. It rests on the hill. I 
 
DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT. 
 
 211 
 
 see the withered fern, the dark-browed rock, the fallen 
 oak. Who is that in his shroud beneath the tree, by the 
 stream ? 
 
 The waves dark tumble on the lake, and lash its rocky 
 sides. The boat is brimful in the cove ; the oars on the 
 rocking tide. A maid sits sad before the rock, and eyes the 
 rolling stream. Her lover promised to come. She saw 
 his boat, when yet it was light, on the lake. Is this his 
 broken boat on the shore ? Are these his groans on the 
 wind ? 
 
 Hark ! the hail rattles around. The flaky snow de 
 scends. The tops of the hills are white. The stormy wunds 
 abate. Various is the night and cold ; receive me, my friends, 
 from night. 
 
 FOURTH BARD. 
 
 Night is calm and fair : blue, starry, settled is night ! 
 The winds, with the clouds, are gone. They sink behind 
 the hill. The moon is upon the mountains. Trees glister : 
 streams shine on the rock. Bright rolls the settled lake : 
 bright the stream of the vale. 
 
 I see the trees overturned ; the shocks of corn on the 
 plain. The wakeful hind rebuilds the shocks, and whistles on 
 the distant field. 
 
 Calm, settled, fair is night ! Who comes from the place 
 of the dead ? That form with the robe of snow-white arms, 
 and dark-brown hair ! It is the daughter of the chief of 
 the people : she that lately fell ! Come, let us view thee, 
 0 maid ! thou that hast been the delight of heroes ! The 
 blast drives the phantom away : white without form, it as- 
 cends the hill. 
 
 The breezes drive the blue mist slowlj’ over the narrow 
 
212 
 
 DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT. 
 
 vale. It rises on the hill, and joins its head to heaven. 
 Night is settled, calm, blue, starry, bright with the moon, Be- 
 eeive me not, my friends, for lovely is the night. 
 
 FIFTH BAUD. 
 
 Night is calm, but dreary. The moon is in a cloud in 
 the west. Slow moves that pale beam along the shaded hill. 
 The distant wave is heard. The torrent murmurs on the 
 rock. The cock is heard from the booth. More than half 
 the night is past. The housewife, groping in the gloom, re- 
 kindles the settled fire. The hunter thinks that day ap- 
 proaches, and calls his bounding dogs. He ascends the hill, 
 and whistles on his way. A blast removes the cloud : he 
 sees the starry plough of the north. Much of the night is to 
 pass. He nods by the mossy rock. 
 
 Hark ! the whirlwind is in the wood. A low murmur in 
 the vale ! It is the mighty army of the dead, returning from 
 the air. 
 
 The moon rests behind the hill. The beam is still on 
 that lofty rock. Long are the shadows of the trees. Now 
 it is dark over all. Night is dreary, silent, and dark ; re- 
 ceive me, my friends, from night. 
 
 THE CHIEF. 
 
 Let clouds rest on the hills, spirits fly, and travellers 
 fear. Let the winds of the woods arise, the sounding storms 
 descend. Boar streams, and windows flap, and green-winged 
 meteors fly ! Bise the pale moon from behind her hills, or 
 enclose her head in clouds ! Night is alike to me, stormy or 
 gloomy the sky. Night flies before the beam, when it is 
 
DESCRIPTIONS OF NIGHT. 
 
 213 
 
 poured on the hill The young day returns from his clouds, 
 but we return no more. 
 
 Where are our chiefs of old? Where our kings of 
 mighty name ? The fields of their battles are silent. Scarce 
 their mossy tombs remain. We shall also be forgot. This 
 lofty house shall fall. Our sons shall not behold the ruins 
 in grass. They shall ask of the aged, u Where stood the 
 walls of our fathers ?” 
 
 Raise the song, and strike the harp ; send round the 
 shells of joy. Suspend a hundred tapers on high. Youths 
 and maids begin the dance. Let some graybeard be near 
 me, to tell the deeds of other times ; of kings renowned in 
 our land, of chiefs we behold no more. Thus let the night 
 pass, until morning shall appear in our hall. Then let the 
 bow be at hand, the dogs, the youths of the chase. We shall 
 ascend the hill with day, an$ awake the deer 
 
tlitimimit mill ©mill nf n Itntisninu. 
 
 PASSAGES SELECTED FR.OM TROTTER’S MEMOIRS OF FOX. 
 
 Politics have nothing to do with this volume. The reader will 
 have seen, that the questions between Whig and Tory are of no more 
 concern to us, in these delightful lands of compilation, than any other 
 interference which should limit their extent and freedom. There 
 have been amiable and large-hearted men on both sides. Mr. Fox 
 was one of them ; and we repeat these accounts of him, as we should 
 of any other human being under the like circumstances, because they 
 suit this portion of our work, and the whole genial intention of it. 
 
 Mr. Trotter’s book has some faults of style, but not in the passages 
 extracted. He has given a valuable report of the way in which the 
 great statesman passed his time at Saint Anne’s Hill ; and the account 
 of his owm feelings, while occupied in waiting his patron’s last hour, 
 especially during the visit to the dressing-room once occupied by the 
 Duchess of Devonshire, is very striking. Saint Anne’s Hill is in the 
 neighborhood of Chertsey. 
 
 S T. Anne’s Hill is delightfully situated ; it commands a 
 rich and extensive prospect. The house is embowered in 
 trees, resting on the side of a hill, its grounds declining grace- 
 fully to a road, which bounds them at bottom. Some fine 
 trees are grouped round the house, and three remarkably 
 beautiful ones stand on the lawm ; while a profusion of shrubs 
 are distributed throughout with taste and judgment. Here 
 
RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN 215 
 
 Mr. Fox was the tranquil and happy possessor of about thirty 
 acres, and the inmate of a small but pleasant mansion. The 
 simplicity and benignity of his manners, speaking the integri- 
 ty of his character, soon dispelled those feelings of awe, 
 which one naturally experiences on approaching what is very 
 exalted. 
 
 The domestic life of Mr. Fox was equally regular and 
 agreeable. In summer he rose between six and seven ; in 
 winter before eight. The assiduous care and excellent man- 
 agement of Mrs. Fox rendered his rural mansion the abode 
 of peace, elegance, and order, and had long procured her the 
 gratitude and esteem of those private friends whose visits to 
 Mr. Fox, in his retirement at St. Anne’s Hill, made them 
 witnesses of this amiable woman’s conduct. I confess I car- 
 ried with me some of the vulgar prejudices respecting this 
 great man 1 IIow completely was I undeceived ! After 
 breakfast, which took place between eight and nine in sum- 
 mer, and at a little after nine in winter, he usually read some 
 Italian author with Mrs. Fox, and then spent the time pre- 
 ceding dinner at his literary studies, in which the Greek poets 
 bore a principal part. 
 
 A frugal but plentiful dinner took place at three, or half- 
 past two, in summer, and at four in winter ; and a few glasses 
 of wine were followed by coffee. The evening was dedicated 
 to walking and conversation till tea-time, when reading aloud 
 in history commenced, and continued till near ten. A light 
 supper of fruit, pastry, or something very trifling, finished the 
 day ; and at half-past ten the family were gone to rest. 
 
 At breakfast the newspaper was read, commonly by Mr. 
 Fox, as well as the letters which had arrived ; for such was 
 the noble confidence of his mind, that he concealed nothing 
 from his domestic circle, unless it were the faults or the se- 
 crets of his friends. At such times, when the political topics 
 
216 RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN. 
 
 of the day were naturally introduced by the paper, I never 
 could observe the least acrimony or anger against that party 
 which so sedulously, and indeed successfully, had labored to 
 exclude him from the management of affairs, by misrepresen- 
 tations of his motives, rather than by refutations of his ar- 
 guments. 
 
 In private conversation, I think, he was rather averse to 
 •political discussion, generally preferring subjects connected 
 with natural history, in any of its branches : above all, dwel- 
 ling with delight on classical and poetical subjects. It is not 
 to be supposed, however, that, where the interests and happi- 
 ness of millions were concerned, he preserved a cold silence. 
 
 About the end of May, Mrs. Fox mentioned slightly to 
 me that Mr. Fox was unwell ; but at this time there was no 
 alarm or apprehension. In the beginning of June I received 
 a message from her, requesting me to come to him, as he had 
 expressed a wish for me to read to him, if I was disengaged. 
 It was in the evening, and I found him reclining upon a 
 couch, uneasy and languid. It seemed to me so sudden an 
 attack, that I was surprised and shocked. He requested me 
 to read some of the ASneid to him, and desired me to turn to 
 the fourth book : this was his favorite part. The tone of 
 melancholy with which that book commences, was pleasing to 
 his mind : he appeared relieved, and to forget his uneasiness 
 and pains; but I felt this recurrence to Virgil as a mournful 
 omen of a great attack upon his system, and that he was al- 
 ready looking to abstract himself from noise, and tumult, and 
 politics. Henceforth his illness rapidly increased, and was 
 pronounced a dropsy \ I have reason to think that he turned 
 his thoughts very soon to retirement at St. Anne’s Hill, as 
 he found the pressure of business insupportably harassing ; 
 and I have ever had in mind those lines, as very applicable 
 to him at this time : — 
 
RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN. 217 
 
 “ And as an hare, whom hounds and horns pursue, 
 
 Pants to the goal, from whence at first she flew, 
 
 I still had hopes — my long vexations past — 
 
 Here to return, and die (at home) at last.” 
 
 Another of these symptoms of melancholy foreboding, 1 
 thought, was shown in his manner at Holland House. Mrs. 
 Fox, he, and I, drove there several times before his illness 
 confined him, and when exercise was strongly urged. He 
 looked around him the last day he was there with a farewell 
 tenderness that struck me very much. It was the place 
 where he had spent his youthful days. Every lawn, garden, 
 tree, and walk, were viewed by him with peculiar affection. 
 He pointed out its beauties to me, and. in particular, showed 
 me a green lane or avenue, which his mother, the late Lady 
 Holland, had made by shutting up a road. He was a very 
 exquisite judge of the picturesque, and had mentioned to me 
 how beautiful this road had become, since converted into an 
 alley. He raised his eyes in the house, looking around, and 
 was earnest in pointing out everything he liked and remem- 
 bered. 
 
 Soon, however, his illness very alarmingly increased ; 
 he suffered dreadful pains, and often rose from dinner with 
 intolerable suffering. His temper never changed, and was 
 always serene and sweet : it was amazing to behold so much 
 distressing anguish, and so great equanimity. His friends, 
 alarmed, crowded round him, as well as those relatives who, 
 in a peculiar degree, knew his value and affectionate nature. 
 
 Mrs. Fox, whose unwearied attentions were the chief 
 comfort of the sufferer, and myself, read aloud a great deal 
 to him. Crabbe’s poems, in manuscript, pleased him a great, 
 deal ; in particular, the little episode of Phoebe Dawson. He 
 did not, however, hear them all read, and there are parts in 
 which he would have suggested alterations. We thus read, 
 
 10 
 
218 RETIREMENT AND DEATH OR A STATESMAN. 
 
 relieving each other, a great number of novels to him. He 
 now saw very few persons. In truth, he had now every reason 
 to do so, — visitors fatigued and oppressed him. He lan- 
 guished for St. Anne’s Hill, and there all his hopes and 
 wishes centered ; he thought of a private life, and of resign- 
 ing his office, and we had hopes that he might be restored 
 sufficiently to enjoy health by abstaining from business. The 
 Duke of Devonshire offered him the use of Chiswick House 
 as a resting-place, from whence, if he gained strength enough, 
 he might proceed to St. Anne’s. Preparations for his de- 
 parture began, therefore, to be made, which he saw with visi- 
 ble and unfeigned pleasure. 
 
 Two or three days before he was removed to Chiswick 
 House, Mr. Fox sent for me, and with marked hesitation and 
 anxiety, as if he much wished it, and yet was unwilling to ask 
 it, informed me of his plan of going to Chiswick House, re- 
 questing me to form one of the family there. There was no 
 occasion to request me ; duty, affection, and gratitude, would 
 have carried me wherever he went. About the end of July, 
 Mrs. Fox and he went there, and on the following day I 
 joined them. No mercenary hand approached him. Mrs. 
 Fox hung over him every day with vigilant and tender affec- 
 tion : when exhausted I took her place ; and at night, as his 
 disorder grew grievously oppressive, a confidential servant 
 and myself shared the watching and labors between us. I 
 took the first part, because I read to him, as well as gave him 
 medicine or nourishment. 
 
 We continued our reading of Johnson' 1 s Lives of the Poets. 
 How often at midnight, as he listened with avidity, and made 
 the remarks that occurred, he apologized to me for keeping 
 me from my rest, but, still delighted with our N reading, would 
 say, “ Well, you may go on a little more,” as I assured him 
 that I liked the reading aloud. At these times he would de* 
 
RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN 219 
 
 fend Johnson, when I blamed his severity and unwillingness 
 to allow, and incapacity to appreciate, poetical merit, — would 
 refer me to his life of Savage, and plainly showed much par- 
 tiality for Johnson. Of Dryden, he was a warm and almost 
 enthusiastic admirer. He conversed a great deal about that 
 great English poet ; and indeed I never perceived, at any 
 time, a stronger relish for, or admiration of, the poets, than 
 at this afflicting period. I generally read to him till three 
 or four in the morning, and then retired for a few hours : he 
 showed always great uneasiness at my sitting up, but evident- 
 ly was soothed and gratified by my being with him. At first 
 he apologized for my preparing the nourishment, which re- 
 quired to be warmed in the night ; but seeing how sincerely 
 I was devoted to him, he ceased to make any remark. Once 
 he asked me, at midnight, when preparing chicken panade for 
 him, “ Does this amuse you? I hope it does.” He was so 
 far from exacting attendance,' that he received every little 
 good office, every proper and necessary attention, as a favor 
 and kindness done him. So unvitiated by commerce with 
 mankind, so tender, so alive to all the charms of friendship, 
 was this excellent man’s heart ! His anxiety also, lest Mrs. 
 Fox’s health should suffer, was uniformly great till the day 
 he expired. 
 
 Lord Holland and General Fitzpatrick, as he grew worse, 
 came and resided at Chiswick House entirely. Miss Fox 
 also remained there. Thus he had around him, every day, 
 all he loved most ; and the overwhelming pressure of his 
 disorder was as much as possible relieved by the converse 
 and sight of cherished relatives and friends. Lord Holland 
 showed how much he valued such an uncle. He never left 
 him ; — the hopes of power or common allurements of ambi 
 tion, had no effect upon him. His affectionate attention to 
 Mr. Fox, and his kindness to all who assisted that great man, 
 
220 RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN. 
 
 were endearing in a high degree. Miss Fox — calm and re- 
 signed, grieving, without uttering a word — would sit at the 
 foot of his bed, and often reminded me of the fine heads of 
 females, done by masterly hands, to express sorrow, dignity, 
 and faith in God. 
 
 There was now a plaintiveness in his manner very inter- 
 esting, but no way derogating from his fortitude and calm- 
 ness. lie did not affect the stoic. He bore his pains as a 
 Christian and a man. Till the last day, however, I do not 
 think he conceived himself in danger. A few days before 
 the termination of his mortal career, he said to me at night, 
 u Holland thinks me worse than I am and, in fact, the ap- 
 pearances were singularly delusive not a week before he ex- 
 pired. In the day, he arose and walked a little, and his looks 
 were not ghastly or alarming by any means. Often did he 
 latterly walk to his window to gaze on the berries of the 
 mountain ash, which hung clustering on a young tree at Chis- 
 wick House ; every morning he returned to look at it he 
 would praise it, as the morning breeze, rustling, shook the 
 berries and leaves ; but then the golden sun, which played 
 upon them, and the fresh air that comes with the dawn, were 
 to me almost heart-sickening, though once so delightful : he 
 whom I so much cherished and esteemed, — whose kindness 
 had been ever unremitting and unostentatious, — he whose so- 
 ciety was to me happiness and peace, — was not long to enjoy 
 this sun and this morning air. His last look on that moun- 
 tain-ash was his farewell to nature. 
 
 I continued to read aloud to him every night, and as he 
 occasionally dropt asleep, I was then left to the awful medita- 
 tions incident to such a situation. No person was awake be- 
 side myself ; the lofty rooms and hall of Chiswick House 
 were silent, and the world reposed. In one of those melan- 
 choly pauses, I walked about for a few moments, and found 
 
RETIREMENT AND DEATH OF A STATESMAN 221 
 
 myself involuntarily and accidentally in the late Duchess of 
 Devonshire’s dressing-room. Everything was as that amiable 
 and accomplished lady had left it : the music-book still open, 
 the books not restored to their places, a chair as if she had but 
 just left it, and every mark of a recent inhabitant in this ele- 
 gant apartment. The Duchess had died in May, and Mr. 
 Fox had very severely felt her loss. Half-opened notes lay 
 scattered about. The night was solemn and still ; and at 
 that moment, had some floating sound of music vibrated 
 through the air, I cannot tell to what my feelings would have 
 been wrought. Never had I experienced so strong a sensa- 
 tion of the transitory nature of life, of the vanity of a fleeting 
 world ! I stood scarce breathing, — heard nothing, — listened. 
 Scarcely knowing how I left the dressing-room, I returned. 
 All was still. Mr. Fox slept quietly. I was deluded into 
 a tranquil joy to find him still alive, and breathing without 
 difficulty. IT is countenance was always serene in sleep : no 
 troubled dreams ever agitated or distorted it, — it was the 
 transcript of his guileless mind. * 
 
 Mr. Fox expired between five and six in the afternoon 
 of the 13th of September, 1806. The Tower guns were 
 firing for the capture of Buenos Ayres, as he was breathing 
 his last. 
 
(lornifs (Elrgq in a (fomttnj (fjjurrljtjarl 
 
 We desire to say as little as possible about this affecting and noble 
 poem. It is so sweet, so true, and so universally appreciated, that vve 
 feel inclined to be as silent before it, as if listening to the wind over 
 the graves. It is the fit conclusion for our book, both in the subject 
 and spirit — serious, calm, and hopeful. 
 
 The epitaph is on the author ; and never did a man speak of himself 
 with a truth more beautifully combining dignity with humility, a sense 
 of all that he felt worthy and all that he felt w'eak. We suspect, that 
 the “ cross’d in love” of the previous lines might very well apply to 
 Gray. He had secret griefs of some kind, perhaps of disease, perhaps 
 of sympathy with a good mother, and distress at having a bad father 
 (for such, alas ! w j as the case) ; but whatever they were, we may be 
 sure that they w r ere those of a good and kind man. 
 
 The poem before us is as sweet as if written by Coleridge, and as 
 pious and universal as if religion had uttered it, undisturbed by po- 
 lemics. It is a quintessence of humanity. 
 
 T HE curfew tolls the knell of parting day, 
 The lowing herd winds slowly o’er the lea, 
 The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, 
 And leaves the world to darkness and to me. 
 
 Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. 
 And all the air a solemn stillness holds, 
 
ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 223 
 
 Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, 
 
 And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds ; 
 
 Save that from yonder ivy-mantled tower, 
 
 The moping owl does to the moon complain 
 Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, 
 
 Molest her ancient solitary reign. 
 
 Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree’s shade, 
 Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap, 
 Each in his narrow cell forever laid, 
 
 The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep. 
 
 The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, 
 
 The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, 
 The cock’s shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, 
 
 No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed. 
 
 For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, 
 
 Or busy housewife ply her evening care ; 
 
 No children run to lisp their sire’s return. 
 
 Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share. 
 
 Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield ; 
 
 Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke ; 
 How jocund did they drive their team afield ! 
 
 How bow’d the woods beneath their sturdy stroke 1 
 
 Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
 
 Their homely joys, and destiny obscure ; 
 
 Nor grandeur hear, with a disdainful smile, 
 
 The short and simple annals of the poor. 
 
 The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, 
 
 And all that beauty, all that wealth e’er gave, 
 
*224 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 Await alike the inevitable hour — 
 
 The paths of glory lead but to the grave. 
 
 Nor you, yc proud, impute to these the fault, 
 
 If memory o’er their tomb no trophies raise, 
 
 Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, 
 The pealing anthem swells the note of praise. 
 
 Can storied urn or animated bust 
 
 Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath ? 
 
 Can honor’s voice provoke the silent dust, 
 
 Or flattery soothe the dull cold ear of death? 
 
 Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid 
 
 Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire, 
 
 Hands that the rod of empire might have sway’d 
 Or wak’d to ecstasy the living lyre. 
 
 But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, 
 
 Bich w ith the spoils of time, did ne’er unroll ; 
 
 Chill penury repressed their noble rage, 
 
 And froze the genial current of the soul. 
 
 Full many a gem of purest ray serene 
 
 The dark unfathom’d caves of ocean bear ; 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, 
 
 And waste its sweetness in the desert air. 
 
 Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, 
 
 The little tyrant of his fields withstood, 
 
 Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest, 
 
 Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country’s blood. 
 
 Th’ applause of listening senates to command, 
 
 The threats of pain and ruin to despise, 
 
ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 225 
 
 To scatter plenty o’er a smiling land, 
 
 And read their history in a nation’s eyes, 
 
 Their lot forbade ; nor circumscrib’d alone 
 
 Their growing virtues,. but their crimes confin’d ; 
 
 Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, 
 
 And shut the gates of mercy on mankind ; 
 
 The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide. 
 
 To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, 
 
 Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride 
 With incense kindled at the muse’s flame. 
 
 Far from the madding crowd’s ignoble strife 
 Their sober wishes never learnt to stray ; 
 
 Along the cool sequester’d vale of life 
 
 They kept the noiseless tenor of their way. 
 
 Yet e’en these bones from insult to protect, 
 
 Some frail memorial still erected nigh, 
 
 With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck’d. 
 Implores the passing tribute of a sigh. 
 
 Their name, their years, spelt by tli’ unletteFd muse, 
 The place of fame and elegy supply * 
 
 And many a holy text around she strews, 
 
 That teach the rustic moralist to die. 
 
 For who to dumb forgetfulness a prey, 
 
 This pleasing anxious being e’er resign’d, 
 
 Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, 
 
 Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind? 
 
 On some fond breast the parting soul relies, 
 
 Some pious hand the closing eye requires ; 
 
 Ev’n from the tomb the voice of nature cries, 
 
 Ev’n in our ashes live their wonted fires. 
 
 10 * 
 
226 
 
 ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 For thee, who, mindful of th’ unhonof’d dead, 
 
 Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, 
 
 If chance, by lonely contemplation led, 
 
 Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate, 
 
 Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, 
 
 u Oft have we seen him, at the peep of dawn. 
 
 Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, 
 
 To meet the sun upon the upland lawn. 
 
 ci There, at the foot of yonder nodding beech, 
 
 That wreathes its old fantastic roots so hign, 
 
 His listless length at noontide would he stretch, 
 
 And pore upon the brook that bubbles by. 
 
 “ Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, 
 
 Muttering his wayward fancies, he would rove, 
 
 Now drooping woful wan, like one forlorn, 
 
 Or craz’d with care, or cross’d in hopeless love. 
 
 u One morn I miss’d him on the custom’d hill, 
 
 Along the heath, and near his favorite tree : 
 
 Another came; nor yet beside the rill, 
 
 Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he ; 
 
 “ The next with dirges due, in sad array, 
 
 Slow through the churchyard path we saw him borne— 
 
 Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay 
 ’Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.” 
 
 &1jc SEpitapf). 
 
 Here rests his head upon the lap of earth, 
 
 A youth to fortune and to fame unknown ; 
 
 Fair science frown’d not on his humble birth, 
 
 And melancholy mark’d him for her own. 
 
ELEGY IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD. 
 
 227 
 
 Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, 
 
 Heaven did a recompense as largely send ; 
 
 He gave to misery all he had — a tear ; 
 
 He gain’d from Heaven (’twas all he wish’d) a friend. 
 
 Ho farther seek his merits to disclose, 
 
 Or draw his frailties from their dread abode 
 (There they alike in trembling hope repose), 
 
 The bosom of his Father and Lis God. 
 
 THE END 
 

 
 
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