Llfti. 
 
 ORKS 
 
 Barbauld. 
 
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FROM THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 REV. LOUIS FITZGERALD BENSON, D. D. 
 
 BEQUEATHED BY HIM TO 
 
 THE LIBRARY OF 
 
 PRINCETON THEOLOGICAL SEMINARY 
 
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MEMOIR, LETTERS, 
 
 A SELECTION FROM THE POEMS AND PROSE WRITINGS 
 
 ANNA LtETITIA BARBAULD. 
 
 VOLUME II. 
 
8EP 26 1936 
 
 SELECTION 
 
 FROM THE 
 
 POEMS AND PROSE WRITINGS 
 
 OF 
 
 MRS. ANNA LETiTIA BARBAULD, 
 
 BY 
 
 
 GEACE A. ELLIS. 
 
 - 
 
 " Wisdom, discipline, and liberal arts ; 
 Th' embellishments of life ; virtues like these 
 Make human nature shine, reform the soul." 
 
 Addison. 
 
 BOSTON": 
 JAMES R. OSGOOD AND COMPANY, 
 
 Late Ticknor & Fields, and Fields, Osgood, & Co. 
 
 1874. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1874, 
 
 BY GRACE A. ELLIS, 
 
 in the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 University Press : Welch, Bigelow, & Co., 
 Cambridge. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 POEMS. 
 
 Page 
 The Invitation to Miss B- 1 
 
 The Groans of the Tankard . . ... . 9 
 
 On the Backwardness of the Spring, 1771 . . .13 
 
 Verses written in an Alcove . , 14 
 
 The Mouse's Petition . . . 17 
 
 To Mrs. P , with some Drawings of Birds and Insects 20 
 
 To Sleep . , . . . .25 
 
 A Dirge . . . 26 
 
 Characters . . . .27 
 
 An Inventory of the Furniture in Dr. Priestley's Study 32 
 
 Hymn to Content 35 
 
 To Wisdom 37 
 
 The Origin of Song-Writing 39 
 
 Songs 43 
 
 To the Baron De Stonne 52 
 
 Edwin and Ethelinde . , 53 
 
 To a Lady, with some Painted Flowers . . . .58 
 
 Ode to Spring 59 
 
 Epithalamium 61 
 
 To a Dog . . . . , . , 63 
 
 An -Address to the Deity • 64 
 
 A Summer Evening's Meditation 67 
 
 The Epiphany 72 
 
VI CONTENTS. 
 
 To Mr. Barbauld, with a Map of the Land of Matrimony 75 
 
 Love and Time 77 
 
 To Miss F. B 80 
 
 To-morrow 81 
 
 "Written on a Marble 82 
 
 Lines placed over a Chimney-Piece 82 
 
 What do the Futures speak of ? 83 
 
 Autumn : A Fragment 85 
 
 On a Lady's Writing 86 
 
 An Autumnal Thought 87 
 
 On the Deserted Village 88 
 
 Hymn 89 
 
 Washing-Day 92 
 
 To Mr. S. T. Coleridge 95 
 
 Peace and Shepherd 97 
 
 West-End Fair 99 
 
 Dirge 102 
 
 The Unknown God 104 
 
 Ode to Remorse 105 
 
 Eternity 112 
 
 Eighteen Hundred and Eleven 113 
 
 Life . . . . . 126 
 
 On the King's Illness 128 
 
 A Thought on Death 130 
 
 Stanzas 131 
 
 The First Fire . . 133 
 
 The Caterpillar 136 
 
 On the Death of the Princess Charlotte . . . 138 
 
 The Wake of the King of Spain 139 
 
 The Baby-House 141 
 
 Riddle 143 
 
 Lines 145 
 
 To a Friend 146 
 
CONTENTS. Vll 
 
 Dejection . 147 
 
 To Mr. Bowring . . 148 
 
 Fragment 149 
 
 octogenary reflections 150 
 
 The Death of the Virtuous 151 
 
 Hymns 152 
 
 PROSE WORKS. 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS. 
 
 The Hill of Science 173 
 
 On Romances 181 
 
 An Inquiry into those Kinds of Distress which excite 
 
 Agreeable. Sensations : With a Tale . . . .186 
 
 The Cure of the Banks of the Rhone .... 203 
 
 On Evil 211 
 
 On Monastic Institutions 216 
 
 Against Inconsistency in our Expectations . . . 234 
 
 On Education 245 
 
 On Prejudice 261 
 
 On Female Studies 277 
 
 On the Classics 288 
 
 Selama 304 
 
 Letter on Watering-places 311 
 
 Dialogue 321 
 
 Dialogue in the Shades 332 
 
 Knowledge and her Daughter 344 
 
 LEGACY FOR YOUNG LADLES. 
 
 True Magicians 346 
 
 The Pine and the Olive : A Fable .... 357 
 
Vlll 
 
 CONTENTS. 
 
 On Riddles . 
 
 Enigma : To the Ladies 
 
 The King in his Castle .... 
 
 The Misses : Addressed tq a Careless Girl 
 
 The Four Sisters . 
 
 Letter of a Young King 
 
 On the Uses of History .... 
 
 Fashion : A Vision 
 
 Description of Two Sisters 
 
 On Friendship 
 
 Confidence and Modesty : A Fable . ■ 
 Picnic 
 
 Letter from Grimalkin to Selima 
 
 Allegory on Sleep . 
 
 On Expense : A Dialogue . 
 
 859 
 368 
 369 
 374 
 381 
 387 
 393 
 427 
 437 
 440 
 446 
 449 
 453 
 458 
 463 
 
Works of Mrs. Barbauld. 
 
 THE INYITATIOX. 
 
 TO MISS B 
 
 HEALTH to my friend, and long unbroken years, 
 By storms unruffled and unstained by tears : 
 "Winged by new joys may each white minute fly ; 
 Spring on her cheek, and sunshine in her eye : 
 O'er that dear breast, where love and pity springs, 
 May peace eternal spread her downy wings : 
 Sweet beaming hope her path illumine still, 
 And fair ideas all her fancy fill ! 
 From glittering scenes which strike the dazzled sight 
 With mimic grandeur and illusive height, 
 From idle hurry and tumultuous noise, 
 From hollow friendships, and from sickly joys, 
 Will Delia, at the Muse's call, retire 
 To the pure pleasures rural scenes inspire ? 
 Will she from crowds and busy cities fly, 
 "Where wreaths of curling smoke involve the sky, 
 
 VOL. II. 1 A 
 
WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 To taste the grateful shades of spreading trees, 
 And drink the spirit of the mountain breeze ? 
 
 When Winter's hand the roughening year deforms, 
 And hollow winds foretell approaching storms, 
 Then Pleasure, like a bird of passage, flies 
 To brighter chmes, and more indulgent skies ; 
 Cities and courts allure her sprightly train, 
 From the bleak mountain and the naked plain, 
 And gold and gems with artificial blaze 
 Supply the sickly sun's declining rays. 
 But soon, returning on the western gale, 
 She seeks the bosom of the grassy vale : 
 There, wrapt in careless ease, attunes her lyre 
 .To the wild warblings of the woodland quire : 
 The daisied turf her humble throne supplies, 
 And early primroses around her rise. 
 We '11 follow where the smiling goddess leads, 
 Through tangled forest or enamelled meads ; 
 O'er pathless hills her airy form we chase, 
 In silent glades her fairy footsteps trace : 
 Small pains there needs her footsteps to pursue, 
 She cannot fly from friendship, and from you. 
 Now the glad earth her frozen zone unbinds, 
 And o'er her bosom breathe the western winds. 
 Already now the snow-drop dares appear, 
 The first pale blossom of the unripened year ; 
 
THE INVITATION. 3 
 
 As Flora's breath, by some transforming power, 
 
 Had changed the icicle into a flower : 
 
 Its name and hne the scentless plant retains, 
 
 And winter lingers in its icy veins. 
 
 To these succeed the violet's dusky blue, 
 
 And each inferior flower of fainter hue ; 
 
 Till riper months the perfect year disclose, 
 
 And Flora cries exulting, See my Eose ! 
 
 The Muse invites ; my Delia, haste away, 
 
 And let us sweetly waste the careless day ; 
 
 Here gentle summits lift their airy brow, 
 
 Down the green slope here winds the laboring plough ; 
 
 Here, bathed by frequent showers, cool vales are seen, 
 
 Clothed with fresh verdure and eternal green ; 
 
 Here smooth canals across the extended plain 
 
 Stretch their long arms to join the distant main :* 
 
 The sons of toil with many a weary stroke 
 
 Scoop the hard bosom of the solid rock ; 
 
 Eesistless, through the stiff opposing clay 
 
 With steady patience work their gradual way ; 
 
 Compel the genius of the unwilling flood 
 
 Through the brown horrors of the aged wood ; 
 
 * The Duke of Bridgewater's canal, which in many places crosses 
 the road, and in one is carried by an aqueduct over the river Trewell. 
 Its head is at Worsley, where it is conveyed by deep tunnels under 
 the coal-pits, for the purpose of loading the boats. 
 
WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 'Cross the lone waste the silver urn they pour, 
 And cheer the barren heath or sullen moor. 
 The traveller with pleasing wonder sees 
 The white sail gleaming through the dusky trees, 
 And views the altered landscape with surprise, 
 And doubts the magic scenes which round him rise. 
 Now, like a flock of swans above his head, 
 Their woven wings the flying vessels spread ; 
 Now meeting streams in artful mazes glide, 
 While each unmingled pours a separate tide ; 
 ISTow through the hidden veins of earth they flow, 
 And visit sulphurous mines and caves below ; 
 The ductile streams obey the guiding hand, 
 And social plenty circles round the land. 
 
 But nobler praise awaits our green retreats ; 
 The Muses here have fixed their sacred seats. 
 Mark where its simple front yon mansion rears, — 
 The nursery of men for future years ! 
 Here callow chiefs and embryo statesmen lie, 
 And unfledged poets short excursions try ; 
 While Mersey's gentle current, which too long 
 By fame neglected, and unknown to song, 
 Between his rushy banks — no poet's theme — 
 Had crept inglorious, like a vulgar stream, 
 Eeflects the ascending seats with conscious pride, 
 And dares to emulate a classic tide. 
 
THE INVITATION. 5 
 
 Soft music breathes along each opening shade, 
 
 And soothes the dashing of his rough cascade. 
 
 With mystic lines his sands are figured o'er, 
 
 And circles traced upon the lettered shore. 
 
 Beneath his willows rove the inquiring youth, 
 
 And court the fair majestic form of Truth. 
 
 Here Nature opens all her secret springs, 
 
 And heaven-born Science plumes her eagle-wings. 
 
 Too long had bigot rage, with malice swelled, 
 
 Crushed her strong pinions, and her flight withheld ; 
 
 Too long to check her ardent progress strove, — 
 
 So writhes the serpent round the bird of Jove ; 
 
 Hangs on her flight, restrains her towering wing, 
 
 Twists its dark folds, and points its venomed sting. 
 
 Yet still — if aught aright the Muse divine — 
 
 Her rising pride shall mock the vain design ; 
 
 On sounding pinions yet aloft shall soar, 
 
 And through the azure deep untravelled paths explore. 
 
 When science smiles, the Muses join the train, 
 
 And gentlest arts and purest manners reign. 
 
 Ye generous youth who love this studious shade, 
 
 How rich a field is to your hopes displayed ! 
 
 Knowledge to you unlocks the classic page, 
 
 And virtue blossoms for a better age. 
 
 golden days ! bright unvalued hours ! 
 
 What bliss — did ye but know that bliss — were yours ! 
 
 With richest stores your glowing bosoms fraught : 
 
6 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Perception quick, and luxury of thought ; 
 The high designs that heave the laboring soul, 
 Panting for fame, impatient of control ; 
 And fond enthusiastic thought, that feeds 
 On pictured tales of vast heroic deeds ; 
 And quick affections, kindling into flame 
 At virtue's or their country's honored name ; 
 And spirits light, to every joy in tune ; 
 And friendship ardent as a summer's noon ; 
 And generous scorn of vice's vernal tribe, 
 And proud disdain of interest's sordid bribe ; 
 And conscious honor's quick instinctive sense, 
 And smiles unforced, and easy confidence ; 
 And vivid fancy, and clear simple truth, 
 And all the mental bloom of vernal youth. 
 
 How bright the scene to Fancy's eye appears, 
 Through the long perspective of distant years, 
 When this, this little group their country calls 
 Prom academic shades and learned halls, 
 To fix her laws, her spirit to sustain, 
 And light up glory through her wide domain ! 
 Their various tastes in different arts displayed, 
 Like tempered harmony of light and shade, 
 "With friendly union in one mass shall blend, 
 And this adorn the State, and that defend. 
 These the sequestered shade shall cheaply please, 
 
THE INVITATION. 
 
 With learned labor and inglorious ease ; 
 
 While those, impelled by some resistless force, 
 
 O'er seas and rocks shall urge their venturous course ; 
 
 Rich fruits matured by glowing suns behold, 
 
 And China's groves of vegetable gold ; 
 
 From every land the various harvest spoil, 
 
 And bear the tribute to their native soil ; 
 
 But tell each land — while every toil they share, 
 
 Firm to sustain, and resolute to dare — 
 
 Man is the nobler growth our realms supply, 
 
 And SOULS are ripened in our northern sky. 
 
 Some, pensive, creep along the shelly shore ; 
 
 Unfold the silky texture of a flower ; 
 
 With sharpened eyes inspect an hornet's sting, 
 
 And all the wonders of an insect's wmg. 
 
 Some trace with curious search the hidden cause 
 
 Of Nature's changes, and her various laws ; 
 
 Untwist her beauteous web, disrobe her charms, 
 
 And hunt her to her elemental forms ; 
 
 Or prove what hidden powers in herbs are found, 
 
 To quench disease and cool the burning wound ; 
 
 With cordial drops the fainting head sustain, 
 
 Call back the flitting soul, and still the throbs of pain. 
 
 The patriot passion this shall strongly feel ; 
 Ardent, and glowing with undaunted zeal, 
 
8 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 With lips of fire shall plead his country's cause, 
 And vindicate the majesty of laws ; 
 This, clothed with Britain's thunder, spread alarms 
 Through the wide earth, and shake the pole with arms ; 
 That, to the sounding lyre Ins deeds rehearse, 
 Enshrine his name in some immortal verse, 
 To long posterity his praise consign, 
 And pay a life of hardships by a line. 
 While others, consecrate to higher aims, 
 Whose hallowed bosoms glow with purer flames, 
 Love in their hearts, persuasion in their tongue, 
 With words of peace shall charm the listening throng, 
 Draw the dread veil that wraps the eternal throne, 
 And launch our souls into the bright unknown. 
 
 Here cease my song. Such arduous themes require 
 A master's pencil and a poet's fire ; 
 Unequal far such bright designs to paint, 
 Too weak her colors, and her lines too faint, 
 My drooping Muse folds up her fluttering wing, 
 And hides her head in the green lap of Spring. 
 
 
THE GROANS OF THE TANKARD. 
 
 THE GKOANS OF THE TAKKAKD. 
 
 Dulci digne mero. — Horat. 
 
 OF strange events I sing, and portents dire ; 
 The wondrous themes a reverent ear require ; 
 Though strange the tale, the faithful Muse believe, 
 And what she says with pious awe receive. 
 
 'T was at the solemn, silent, noontide hour, 
 When hunger rages with despotic power, • 
 When the lean student quits his Hebrew roots 
 For the gross nourishment of English fruits, 
 And throws unfinished airy systems by 
 For solid pudding and substantial pie ; 
 When hungry poets the glad summons own, 
 And leave spare Fast to dine with Gods alone : 
 Our sober meal despatched with silent haste, 
 The decent grace concludes the short repast : 
 Then, urged by thirst, we cast impatient eyes 
 Where deep, capacious, vast, of ample size, 
 The Tankard stood, replenished to the brink 
 With the cold beverage blue-eyed Naiads drink. 
 But lo ! a sudden prodigy appears, 
 And our chilled hearts recoil with startling fears : 
 l* 
 
10 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Its yawning month disclosed the deep profound, 
 And in low murmurs breathed a sullen sound ; 
 Cold drops of dew did on the sides appear ; 
 No finger touched it, and no hand was near. 
 At length the indignant vase its silence broke, 
 First heaved deep hollow groans, and then distinctly 
 spoke. 
 
 "How changed the scene ! — for what unpardoned 
 
 crimes 
 Have I survived to these degenerate times ? 
 I, who was wont the festal board to grace, 
 And 'midst the circle lift my honest face, 
 White o'er with froth, like iEtna crowned with snow, 
 Which mantled o'er the brown abyss below, 
 Where Ceres mingled with her golden store 
 The richer spoils of either India's shore,. 
 The dulcet reed the Western islands boast, 
 And spicy fruits from Banda's fragrant coast. 
 At solemn feasts the nectared draught I poured, 
 And often journeyed round the ample board : 
 The portly Alderman, the stately Mayor, 
 And all the furry tribe my worth declare ; 
 And the keen sportsman oft, his labors done, 
 To me retreating with the setting sun, 
 Deep draughts imbibed, and conquered land and sea, 
 And overthrew the pride of France, — by me. 
 
THE GROANS OF THE TANKARD. 11 
 
 " Let meaner clay contain the limpid wave, 
 
 The clay for such an office nature gave ; 
 
 Let China's earth enriched with colored stains, 
 
 Pencilled with gold, and streaked with azure veins, 
 
 The grateful flavor of the Indian leaf, 
 
 Or Mocha's sunburnt berry glad receive ; 
 
 The nobler metal claims more generous use, 
 
 And mine should flow with more exalted juice. 
 
 Did I for this my native bed resign 
 
 In the dark bowels of Potosi's mine ? " 
 
 Was I for this with violence torn away 
 
 And dragged to regions of the upper day ? 
 
 For this the rage of torturing furnace bore, 
 
 From foreign dross to purge the brightening ore ? 
 
 For this have I endured the fiery test, 
 
 And was I stamped for this with Britain's lofty crest ? 
 
 " Unblest the day, and luckless was the hour, 
 
 Which doomed me to a Presbyterian's power ; 
 
 Fated to serve the Puritanic race, 
 
 Wliose slender meal is shorter than their grace ; 
 
 Whose moping sons no jovial orgies keep ; 
 
 Where evening brings no summons — but to sleep ; 
 
 ~No Carnival is even Christmas here, 
 
 And one long Lent involves the meagre year. 
 
 Bear me, ye powers ! to some more genial scene, 
 
 Where on soft cushions lolls the gouty Dean, 
 
12 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Or rosy Prebend with cherubic face, 
 
 With double chin, and paunch of portly grace, 
 
 Who, lulled in downy slumbers, shall agree 
 
 To own no inspiration but from me. 
 
 Or to some spacious mansion, Gothic, old, 
 
 Where Comus' sprightly train their vigils hold ; 
 
 There oft exhausted, and replenished oft, 
 
 let me still supply the eternal draught, 
 
 Till care within the deep abyss be drowned, 
 
 And thought grows giddy at the vast profound ! 
 
 More had the goblet spoke, but lo ! appears 
 An ancient Sibyl, furrowed o'er with years. 
 Her aspect sour and stern ungracious look 
 With sudden damp the conscious vessel struck : 
 Chilled at her touch its mouth it slowly closed, 
 And in long silence all its griefs reposed ; 
 Yet still low murmurs creep along the ground, 
 And the air vibrates with the silver sound. 
 
ON THE BACKWARDNESS OF THE SPRING 1771. 13 
 
 ON THE BACKWARDNESS OF THE SPRING 1771. 
 
 ^Estatem increpitans seram, Zephyrosque morantes. — Virgil. 
 
 IN vain the sprightly sun renews Ins course, 
 Climbs up the ascending signs and leads the day, 
 While long embattled clouds repel his force, 
 And lazy vapors choke the golden ray. 
 
 In vain the Spring proclaims the new-born year ; 
 No flowers beneath her lingering footsteps spring, 
 No rosy garland binds her golden hair, 
 And in her train no feathered warblers sing ; 
 
 Her opening breast is stained with frequent showers, 
 Her streaming tresses bathed in chilling dews ; 
 And sad before her move the pensive hours, 
 Whose nagging wings no breathing sweets diffuse. 
 
 Like some lone pilgrim clad in mournful weed, 
 Whose wounded bosom drinks her falling tears, 
 On whose pale cheek relentless sorrows feed, 
 Whose dreary way no sprightly carol cheers. 
 
 Not thus she breathed on Arno's purple shore, 
 And called the Tuscan Muses to her bowers ; 
 
14 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Not this the robe in Enna's vale she wore, 
 When Ceres' daughter rilled her lap with flowers. 
 
 Clouds behind clouds in long succession rise, 
 And heavy snows oppress the springing green ; 
 The dazzling waste fatigues the aching eyes, 
 And fancy droops beneath the unvaried scene. 
 
 Indulgent Nature, loose this frozen zone ; 
 Through opening skies let genial sunbeams play ; 
 Dissolving snows shall their glad impulse own, 
 And melt upon the bosom of the May. 
 
 VEESES WKITTEN IN AN ALCOVE. 
 
 Jam Cytherea choros ducit Venus, imminente Luna. — Horat. 
 
 NOW the moonbeam's trembling lustre 
 Silvers o'er the dewy green, 
 And in soft and shadowy colors 
 
 Sweetly paints the checkered scene. 
 
 Here beneath the opening branches 
 Streams a flood of softened light ; 
 
 There the thick and twisted foliage 
 Spreads the browner gloom of night. 
 
VERSES WRITTEN IN AN ALCOVE. 15 
 
 This is sure the haunt of fairies ; 
 
 In yon cool alcove they play ; 
 Care can never cross the threshold, — 
 
 Care was only made for day. 
 
 Far from hence be noisy Clamor, 
 
 Sick Disgust and anxious Fear ; 
 Pining Grief and wasting Anguish 
 
 Never keep their vigils here. 
 
 Tell no tales of sheeted spectres 
 
 Eising from the quiet tomb ; 
 Fairer forms this cell shall visit, 
 
 Brighter visions gild the gloom. 
 
 Choral songs and sprightly voices 
 
 Echo from her cell shall call, 
 Sweeter, sweeter than the murmur 
 
 Of the distant waterfall. 
 
 Every ruder gust of passion 
 
 Lulled with music dies away, 
 Till within the charmed bosom 
 
 None but soft affections play. 
 
 Soft as when the evening breezes 
 Gently stir the poplar grove ; 
 
16 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Brighter than the smile of Summer, 
 Sweeter than the breath of Love. 
 
 Thee the enchanted Muse shall follow, 
 
 Lissy ! to the rustic cell ; 
 And, each careless note repeating, 
 
 Tune them to her charming shell. 
 
 Not the Muse who wreathed with laurel 
 Solemn stalks with tragic gait, 
 
 And in clear and lofty vision 
 Sees the future births of fate ; 
 
 Not the maid who crowned with cypress 
 Sweeps along in sceptred pall, 
 
 And in sad and solemn accents 
 Mourns the crested hero's fall ; 
 
 But that other smiling sister, 
 With the blue and laughing eye, 
 
 Singing, in a lighter measure, 
 Strains of woodland harmony : 
 
 All unknown to fame and glory, 
 
 Easy, blithe, and debonair, 
 Crowned with flowers, her careless tresses 
 
 Loosely floating on the air. 
 
THE MOUSE'S PETITION. 17 
 
 Then when next the star of evening 
 
 Softly sheds the silent dew, 
 Let me in this rustic temple, 
 
 Lissy ! meet the Muse and you" 
 
 THE MOUSE'S PETITION.* 
 
 OHEAE a pensive prisoner's prayer, 
 For liberty that sighs ; 
 And never let thine heart be shut 
 Against the wretch's cries ! 
 
 For here forlorn and sad I sit, 
 
 Within the wiry grate ; 
 And tremble at the approaching morn, 
 
 Which brings impending fate. 
 
 If e'er thy breast with freedom glowed, 
 
 And spurned a tyrant's chain, 
 Let not thy strong oppressive force 
 
 A free-born mouse detain ! 
 
 * Found in the trap, where he had been confined all night by Dr. 
 Priestley for the sake of making experiments with different kinds of 
 
18 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 do not stain with guiltless blood 
 
 Thy hospitable hearth ; 
 Nor triumph that thy wiles betrayed 
 
 A prize so little worth. 
 
 The scattered gleanings of a feast 
 
 My frugal meals supply ; 
 But if thine unrelenting heart 
 
 That slender boon deny, — 
 
 The cheerful light, the vital air, 
 Are blessings widely given ; 
 
 Let nature's commoners enjoy 
 The common gifts of heaven. 
 
 The well-taught philosophic mind 
 
 To all compassion gives : 
 Casts round the world an equal eye, 
 
 And feels for all that lives. 
 
 If mind, — as ancient sages taught, — 
 
 A never-dying flame, 
 Still shifts through matter's varying forms, 
 
 In every form the same ; 
 
 Beware, lest in the worm you crush 
 A brother's soul you find ; 
 
THE MOUSE'S PETITION. 19 
 
 And tremble lest thy luckless hand 
 Dislodge a kindred mind. 
 
 Or, if this transient gleam of day- 
 Be all of life we share, 
 
 Let pity plead within thy breast 
 That little all to spare. 
 
 So may thy hospitable board 
 
 With wealth and peace be crowned ; 
 
 And every charm of heartfelt ease 
 Beneath thy roof be found. 
 
 So when destruction lurks unseen, 
 Which men, like mice, may share, 
 
 May some kind angel clear thy path, 
 And break the hidden snare. 
 
20 WOEKS OF MBS. BARBAULD. 
 
 TO MRS. p********. 
 
 TVITH SOME DRAWINGS OF BIRDS AND INSECTS. 
 
 The kindred arts to please thee shall conspire ; 
 One dip the pencil, and one string the lyre. 
 
 Pope. 
 
 AMAXDA bids ; — at her command again 
 I seize the pencil, or resume the pen ; 
 No other call my willing hand requires, 
 And Friendship, better than a Muse, inspires. 
 
 Painting and Poetry are near allied ; 
 
 The kindred arts two sister Muses guide : 
 
 This charms the eye, that steals upon the ear ; 
 
 There sounds are tuned, and colors blended here : 
 
 This with a silent touch enchants our eyes, 
 
 And bids a gayer, brighter world arise ; 
 
 That, less allied to sense, with deeper art 
 
 Can pierce the close recesses of the heart ; 
 
 By well-set syllables, and potent sound, 
 
 Can rouse, can chill the breath, can soothe, can wound ; 
 
 To life adds motion, and to beauty soul, 
 
 And breathes a spirit through the finished whole ; 
 
 Each perfects each, in friendly union joined, — 
 
 This gives Amanda's form, and that her mind. 
 
TO MRS. P********. 21 
 
 But humbler themes my artless hand requires, 
 Nor higher than the feathered tribe aspires. 
 Yet who the various nations can declare 
 That plough with busy wings the peopled air ? 
 These cleave the crumbling bark for insect food, 
 Those dip their crooked beak in kindred blood ; 
 Some haunt the rushy moor, the lonely woods, 
 Some bathe their silver plumage in the floods ; 
 Some fly to man, his household gods implore, 
 And gather round his hospitable door j 
 Wait the known call, and find protection there 
 From all the lesser tyrants of the air. 
 
 The tawny Eagle seats his callow brood 
 
 High on the cliff, and feasts his young with blood. 
 
 On Snowdon's rocks, or Orkney's wide domain, 
 
 Whose beetling cliffs o'erhang the Western main, 
 
 The royal bird his lonely kingdom forms 
 
 Amidst the gathering clouds and sullen storms ; 
 
 Through the wide waste of air he darts his sight, 
 
 And holds his sounding pinions poised for flight ; 
 
 With cruel eye premeditates the war, 
 
 And marks his destined victim from afar ; 
 
 Descending in a whirlwind to the ground, 
 
 His pinions like the rush of water sound ; 
 
 The fairest of the fold he bears away, 
 
 And to his nest compels the struggling prey ; 
 
22 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 He scorns the game by meaner hunters tore, 
 And dips his talons in no vulgar gore. 
 
 With lovelier pomp along the grassy plain 
 
 The Silver Pheasant draws his shining train ; 
 
 On Asia's myrtle shores, by Phasis' stream, 
 
 He spreads his plumage to the sunny gleam ; 
 
 But when the wiry net his flight confines, 
 
 He lowers his purple crest, and inly pines ; 
 
 The beauteous captive hangs his ruffled wing, 
 
 Oppressed by bondage and our chilly spring. 
 
 To claim the verse unnumbered tribes appear, 
 
 That swell the music of the vernal year ; 
 
 Seized with the spirit of the kindly May, 
 
 They sleek the glossy wing, and tune the lay ; 
 
 With emulative strife the notes prolong, 
 
 And pour out all their little souls in song. 
 
 When Winter bites upon the naked plain, 
 
 Nor food nor shelter in the groves remain ; 
 
 By instinct led, a firm united band, 
 
 As marshalled by some skilful general's hand, 
 
 The congregated nations wing their way 
 
 In dusky columns o'er the trackless sea ; 
 
 In clouds unnumbered annual hover o'er 
 
 The craggy Bass, or Kilda's utmost shore ; 
 
 Thence spread their sails to meet the Southern wind, 
 
 And leave the gathering tempest far behind ; 
 
TO MES. p********. 23 
 
 Pursue the circling sun's indulgent ray, 
 Course the swift seasons, and o'ertake the day. 
 
 Not so the insect race, ordained to keep 
 
 The lazy sabbath of a half year's sleep : 
 
 Entombed beneath the filmy web they lie, 
 
 And wait the influence of a kinder sky. 
 
 When vernal sunbeams pierce their dark retreat, 
 
 The heaving tomb distends with vital heat ; 
 
 The full-formed brood, impatient of their cell, 
 
 Start from their trance, and burst their silken shell; — 
 
 Trembling awhile they stand, and scarcely dare 
 
 To launch at once upon the untried air : 
 
 At length assured, they catch the favoring gale, 
 
 And leave their sordid spoils, and high in ether sail. 
 
 So when brave Tancred struck the conscious rind, 
 
 He found a nymph in every trunk confined ; 
 
 The forest labors with convulsive throes, 
 
 The bursting trees the lovely births disclose, 
 
 And a gay troop of damsels round him stood, 
 
 Where late was rugged bark and lifeless wood. 
 
 Lo the bright train their radiant wings unfold ! 
 
 With silver fringed, and freckled o'er with gold : 
 
 On the gay bosom of some fragrant flower 
 
 They idly fluttering live their little hour ; 
 
 Their life all pleasure, and their talk all play, 
 
 All spring their age, and sunshine all their day. 
 
24 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Not so the child of sorrow, wretched Man ; 
 
 His course with toil concludes, with pain began ; 
 
 That his high destiny he might discern, 
 
 And in misfortune's school this lesson learn, — 
 
 Pleasure 's the portion of the inferior kind ; 
 
 But glory, virtue, Heaven for Man designed. 
 
 What atom-forms of insect life appear ! 
 
 And who can follow Nature's pencil here ? 
 
 Their wings with azure, green, and purple glossed, 
 
 Studded with colored eyes, with gems embossed, 
 
 Inlaid with pearl, and marked with various stains 
 
 Of lively crimson through their dusky veins ; 
 
 Some shoot like living stars athwart the night, 
 
 And scatter from their wings a vivid light, 
 
 To guide the Indian to his tawny loves, 
 
 As through the woods with cautious steps he moves. 
 
 See the proud giant of the beetle race ! 
 
 What shining arms his polished limbs enchase ! 
 
 Like some stern warrior formidably bright, 
 
 His steely sides reflect a gleaming light ; 
 
 On his large forehead spreading horns he wears, 
 
 And high in air the branching antlers bears ; 
 
 O'er many an inch extends his wide domain, 
 
 And his rich treasury swells with hoarded grain. 
 
 Thy friend thus strives to cheat the lonely hour 
 With song or paint, an insect or a flower ; 
 
TO SLEEP. 25 
 
 With song or paint, an insect or a flower ; 
 Yet if Amanda praise the flowing line, 
 And bend delighted o'er the gay design, 
 I envy not nor emulate the fame 
 Or of the painter's or the poet's name, — 
 Could I to both with equal claim pretend, — 
 Yet far, far dearer were the name of Friend. 
 
 TO SLEEP.* 
 
 COME, gentle god of soft repose, 
 Come soothe this tortured breast; 
 Shed kind oblivion o'er my woes, 
 And lull my cares to rest. 
 
 Come, gentle god, without thy aid 
 
 I sink in dark despair ; 
 O wrap me in thy silent shade, 
 
 For peace is only there. 
 
 Let hope in some propitious dream 
 Her bright illusions spread ; 
 
 Once more let rays of comfort beam 
 Around my drooping head. 
 
 * Dr. Aikin's Collection of Songs. — Ed. 
 
 VOL. II. 2 
 
26 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 quickly send thy kind relief; 
 
 These heartfelt pangs remove ; 
 Let me forget myself, my grief, 
 
 And every care, — but love. 
 
 A DIRGE.-* 
 
 BOW the head, thou lily fair, 
 Bow the head in mournful guise ; 
 Sickly turn thy shining white, 
 Bend thy stalk, and never rise. 
 
 Shed thy leaves, thou lovely rose, 
 Shed thy leaves so sweet and gay ; 
 
 Spread them wide on the cold earth, 
 Quickly let them fade away. 
 
 Fragrant woodbine all untwine, 
 All untwine from yonder bower ; 
 
 Drag thy branches on the ground, 
 Stain with dust each tender flower. 
 
 For, woe is me ! the gentle knot, 
 That did in willing durance bind 
 
 * Dr. Aikin's Collection of Songs. — Ed. 
 
CHARACTERS. 27 
 
 My Emma and her happy swain, 
 By cruel death is now untwined. 
 
 Her head with dim half-closed eyes, 
 Is bowed upon her breast of snow ; 
 
 And cold and' faded are those cheeks 
 That wont with cheerful red to glow. 
 
 And mute is that harmonious voice 
 
 That wont to breathe the sounds of love ; 
 
 And lifeless are those beauteous limbs, 
 That with such ease and grace did move. 
 
 And I, of all my bliss bereft, 
 
 Lonely and sad must ever moan ; 
 Dead to each joy the world can give, 
 
 Alive to memory alone. 
 
 CHARACTERS. 
 
 OBORN to soothe distress and lighten care, 
 Lively as soft, and innocent as fair ! 
 Blest with that sweet simplicity of thought 
 So rarely found, and never to be taught ; 
 
28 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Of winning speech, endearing, artless, kind, 
 The loveliest pattern of a female mind ; 
 Like some fair spirit from the realms of rest, 
 With all her native heaven within her breast ; 
 So pure, so good, she scarce can guess at sin, 
 But thinks the world without like that within ; 
 Such melting tenderness, so fond to bless, 
 Her charity almost becomes excess. 
 Wealth may be courted, Wisdom be revered, 
 And Beauty praised, and brutal Strength be feared ; 
 But Goodness only can Affection move, 
 And Love must owe its origin to Love. 
 
 Illam quicquid agit, quoquo vestigia flectit 
 Componit furtim, subsequiturque decor. 
 
 Tibul. 
 
 Of gentle manners, and of taste refined, 
 
 With all the graces of a polished mind ; 
 
 Clear sense and truth still shone in all she spoke, 
 
 And from her lips no idle sentence broke. 
 
 Each nicer elegance of art she knew ; 
 
 Correctly fair, and regularly true ; 
 
 Her ready fingers plied with equal skill 
 
 The pencil's task, the needle, or the quill ; 
 
 So poised her feelings,' so composed her soul, 
 
 So subject all to reason's calm control, — 
 
 
CHARACTERS. 29 
 
 One only passion, strong and unconfined, 
 
 Disturbed the balance of her even mind : 
 
 One passion ruled despotic in her breast, 
 
 In every word, and look, and thought confest ; — 
 
 But that was love ; and love delights to bless 
 
 The generous transports of a fond excess. 
 
 Happy old man ! who, stretched beneath the shade 
 
 Of large grown trees, or in the rustic porch 
 
 With woodbine canopied, where linger yet 
 
 The hospitable virtues, calm enjoy'st 
 
 Nature's best blessings all, — a healthy age 
 
 Euddy and vigorous, native cheerfulness, 
 
 Plain-hearted friendship, simple piety, 
 
 The rural manners and the rural joys, 
 
 Friendly to life. rude of speech, yet rich 
 
 In genuine worth, not unobserved shall pass 
 
 Thy bashful virtues ! for the Muse shall mark, 
 
 Detect thy charities, and call to light 
 
 Thy secret deeds of mercy ; while the poor, 
 
 The desolate and friendless, at thy gate, 
 
 A numerous family, with better praise 
 
 Shall hallow in their hearts thy spotless name. 
 
 Such were the dames of old heroic days, 
 Which faithful story yet delights to praise ; 
 
30 WOEKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Who, great in useful works, hung o'er the loom, — 
 The mighty mothers of immortal Rome : 
 Obscure, in sober dignity retired, 
 They more deserved than sought to be admired ; 
 The household virtues o'er their honored head 
 Their simple grace and modest lustre shed : — 
 Chaste their attire, their feet unused to roam, 
 They loved the sacred threshold of their home ; 
 Yet, true to glory, fanned the generous flame, 
 Bade lovers, brothers, sons, aspire to fame ; 
 In the young bosom cherished Virtue's seed, 
 The secret springs of many a godlike deed. 
 So the fair stream in some sequestered glade 
 With lowly state glides silent through the shade ; 
 Yet by the smiling meads her urn is blest, 
 With freshest flowers her rising banks are drest, 
 And groves of laurel, by her sweetness fed, 
 High o'er the forest lift their verdant head. 
 
 Is there whom genius and whom taste adorn 
 With rare but happy union ; in whose breast 
 Calm, philosophic, thoughtful, largely fraught 
 With stores of various knowledge, dwell the powers 
 That trace out secret causes, and unveil 
 Great Nature's awful face ? Is there whose hours 
 Of still domestic leisure breathe the soul 
 
CHARACTERS. 31 
 
 Of friendship, peace, and elegant delight 
 Beneath poetic shades, where leads the Muse 
 Through walks of fragrance, and the fairy groves 
 Where young ideas blossom ? — Is there one 
 Whose tender hand, lenient of human woes, 
 Wards off the dart of death, and smooths the couch 
 Of torturing anguish ? On so dear a name 
 May blessings dwell, honor, and cordial praise ; 
 .JSTor need he be a brother to be loved. 
 
 Champion of Truth, alike through Nature's field, 
 
 And where in sacred leaves she shines revealed, — 
 
 Alike in both, eccentric, piercing, bold, 
 
 Like his own lightnings, which no chains can hold, 
 
 Neglecting caution, and disdaining art, 
 
 He seeks no armor for a naked heart : — 
 
 Pursue the track thy ardent genius shows, 
 
 That like the sun illumines where it goes ; 
 
 Travel the various map of Science o'er, 
 
 Eecord past wonders, and discover more ; 
 
 Pour thy free spirit o'er the breathing page, 
 
 And wake the virtue of a careless age. 
 
 But forgive, if touched with fond regret 
 
 Fancy recalls the scenes she can't forget ; 
 
 Eecalls the vacant smile, the social hours 
 
 Which charmed us once, for once those scenes were ours! 
 
32 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 And while thy praises through wide realms extend, 
 "We sit in shades, and mourn the absent friend. 
 So when the impetuous river sweeps the plain, 
 Itself a sea, and rushes to the main ; 
 "While its firm banks repel conflicting tides, 
 And stately on its breast the vessel glides ; 
 Admiring much the shepherd stands to gaze, 
 Awe-struck, and mingling wonder with his praise ; 
 Yet more he loves its winding path to trace 
 Through beds of flowers, and Nature's rural face, 
 While yet a stream the silent vale it cheered, 
 By many a recollected scene endeared, 
 "Where trembling first beneath the poplar shade 
 He tuned his pipe, to suit the wild cascade. 
 
 AN INVENTORY OF THE FURNITURE IN 
 DR. PRIESTLEY'S STUDY. 
 
 A MAP of every country known, 
 With not a foot of land his own. 
 A list of folks that kicked the dust 
 On this poor globe, from Ptol. the First ; 
 He hopes — indeed, it is but fair — 
 Some day to get a corner there. 
 A group of all the British kings — 
 Fair emblem ! — on a pack-thread swings. 
 
AN INVENTORY. 33 
 
 The Fathers, ranged in goodly row, 
 A decent, venerable show, 
 Writ a great while ago, they tell us, 
 And many an inch o'ertop their fellows. 
 A Juvenal to hunt for mottoes, 
 And Ovid's tales of nymphs and grottos. 
 The meek -robed lawyers, all in white, 
 Pure as the lamb, — at least to sight. 
 A shelf of bottles, jar, and phial, 
 By which the rogues he can defy all, — 
 All filled with lightning keen and genuine, 
 And many a little imp he '11 pen you in ; 
 Which, like Le Sage's sprite, let out, 
 Among the neighbors makes a rout ; 
 Brings down the lightning on their houses, 
 And kills their geese, and frights their spouses. 
 A rare thermometer, by which 
 He settles to the nicest pitch 
 The just degrees of heat, to raise 
 Sermons, or politics, or plays. 
 Papers and books, a strange mixed olio, 
 From shilling touch to pompous folio ; 
 Answer, remark, reply, rejoinder, 
 Fresh from the mint, all stamped and coined here; 
 Like new-made glass, set by to cool, 
 Before it bears the workman's tooL 
 A blotted proof-sheet, wet from Bowling, — 
 2* c 
 
34 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 a How can a man his anger hold in ? " — 
 
 Forgotten rhymes and college themes, 
 
 Worm-eaten plans and embryo schemes : — 
 
 A mass of heterogeneous matter, 
 
 A chaos dark, nor land nor water ; 
 
 New books, like new-born infants, stand, 
 
 Waiting the printer's clothing hand : — 
 
 Others, a motley ragged brood, 
 
 Their limbs unfashioned all, and nude, 
 
 Like Cadmus' half-formed men, appear ; 
 
 One rears a helm, one lifts a spear ; 
 
 And feet were lopped and fingers torn 
 
 Before then fellow limbs were born ; 
 
 A leg began to kick and sprawl 
 
 Before the head was seen at all, 
 
 Which quiet as a mushroom lay 
 
 Till crumbling hillocks gave it way ; 
 
 And all, like controversial writing, 
 
 Were born with teeth, and sprang up fighting. 
 
 " But what is this," I hear you say, 
 " Which saucily provokes my eye ? " — 
 A thing unknown, without a name, 
 Born of the air and doomed to flame. 
 
HYMN TO CONTENT. 35 
 
 HYMN TO CONTEXT. 
 
 Natura beatis 
 Omnibus esse dedit, si quis coguoverit uti. 
 
 Claudian. 
 
 OTHOU, the Nymph with placid eye ! 
 O seldom found, yet ever nigh ! 
 Eeceive my temperate vow ; 
 Not all the storms that shake the pole 
 Can e'er disturb thy halcyon soul 
 And smooth unaltered brow. 
 
 come, in simple vest arrayed, 
 With all thy sober cheer displayed, 
 
 To bless my longing sight ; 
 Thy mien composed, thy even pace, 
 Thy meek regard, thy matron grace, 
 
 And chaste subdued delight. 
 
 No more by varying passions beat, 
 O gently guide my pilgrim feet 
 
 To find thy hermit cell ; 
 Where in some pure and equal sky, 
 Beneath thy soft indulgent eye, 
 
 The modest virtues dwell. 
 
36 WOBKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Simplicity in Attic vest, 
 
 And Innocence with candid breast, 
 
 And clear undaunted eye ; 
 And Hope, who points to distant years, 
 Fair opening through this vale of tears 
 
 A vista to the sky. 
 
 There Health, through whose calm bosom glide 
 The temperate joys in even tide, 
 
 That rarely ebb or flow ; 
 And Patience there, thy sister meek, 
 Presents her mild unvarying cheek 
 
 To meet the offered blow. 
 
 Her influence taught the Phrygian sage 
 A tyrant master's wanton rage 
 
 With settled smiles to meet ; 
 Inured to toil and bitter bread, 
 He bowed his meek submitted head 
 
 And kissed thy sainted feet. 
 
 But thou, Nymph, retired and coy ! 
 In what brown hamlet dost thou joy 
 
 To tell thy tender tale ? 
 The lowliest children of the ground, 
 Moss-rose and violet, blossom round, 
 
 And lily of the vale. 
 
TO WISDOM. 37 
 
 say what soft propitious hour 
 
 1 best may choose to hail thy power, 
 And court thy gentle sway ? 
 
 When Autumn, friendly to the Muse, 
 Shall thy own modest tints diffuse, 
 m And shed thy milder day. 
 
 When Eve, her dewy star beneath, 
 Thy balmy spirit loves to breathe, 
 
 And every storm is laid ; — 
 If such an hour was e'er thy choice, 
 Oft let me hear thy soothing voice 
 
 Low whispering through the shade. 
 
 TO WISDOM. 
 
 Dona prassentis rape feetus horse, ac 
 Linque severa. 
 
 Horat. 
 
 O WISDOM ! if thy soft control 
 Can soothe the sickness of the soul, 
 Can bid the warring passions cease, 
 And breathe the calm of tender peace ; 
 Wisdom ! I bless thy gentle sway, 
 And ever, ever will obey. 
 
38 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 But if thou com'st with frown austere 
 
 To nurse the brood of Care and Fear ; 
 
 To bid our sweetest passions die, 
 
 And leave us in their room a sigh ; 
 
 Or if thine aspect stern have power 
 
 To wither each poor transient flower 
 
 That cheers their pilgrimage of woe, 
 
 And dry the springs whence hope should flow, 
 
 Wisdom ! thine empire I disclaim, 
 
 Thou empty boast of pompous name ! 
 
 In gloomy shade of cloisters dwell, 
 
 But never haunt my cheerful cell 
 
 Hail to Pleasure's frolic train ! 
 
 Hail to Fancy's golden reign S 
 
 Festive Mirth, and Laughter wild, 
 
 Free and sportful as the child ! 
 
 Hope with eager sparkling eyes, 
 
 And easy faith and fond surprise ! 
 
 Let these, in fairy colors drest, 
 
 Forever share my careless breast ; 
 
 Then, though wise I may not be, 
 
 The wise themselves shall envy me. 
 
THE ORIGIN OF SONG-WRITING. 39 
 
 THE ORIGIN OF SONG-WRITING.* 
 
 Illic indocto primiim se exercuit arcu ; 
 
 Hei mihi quam doctas mine habet ille manns ! 
 
 Tibul. 
 
 WHEN Cupid, wanton boy ! was young. 
 His wings unfledged, and rude his tongue, 
 He loitered in Arcadian bowers, 
 And hid his bow in wreaths of flowers ; 
 Or pierced some fond, unguarded heart 
 With now and then a random dart ; 
 But heroes scorned the idle boy, 
 And love was but a shepherd's toy. 
 When Yenus, vexed to see her child 
 Amid the forests thus run wild, 
 Would point him out some nobler game, — 
 Gods and godlike men to tame. 
 She seized the boy's reluctant hand, 
 And led him to the virgin band, 
 Where the sister Muses round 
 Swell the deep, majestic sound ; 
 And in solemn strains unite, 
 Breathing chaste, severe delight ; — 
 
 * Addressed to the author of Essays on Song- Writing, Dr. Aikin. 
 Ed. 
 
40 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Songs of chiefs and heroes old, 
 
 In unsubmitting virtue bold ; 
 
 Of even valor's temperate heat, 
 
 And toils to stubborn patience sweet ; 
 
 Of nodding plumes and burnished arms, 
 
 And glory's bright, terrific charms. 
 
 The potent sounds like lightning dart 
 Eesistless through the glowing heart ; 
 Of power to lift the fixed soul 
 High over Fortune's proud control ; 
 Thrilling deep prophetic musing ; 
 Love of beauteous death infusing ; 
 Scorn and unconquerable hate 
 Of tyrant pride's unhallowed state. 
 The boy, abashed and half afraid, 
 Beheld each chaste immortal maid, — 
 Pallas spread her Egis there ; 
 Mars stood by with threatening air ; 
 And stern Diana's icy look 
 With sudden chill his bosom struck. 
 
 " Daughters of Jove, receive the child," 
 The queen of beauty said, and smiled ; 
 Her rosy breath perfumed the air, 
 " And scattered sweet contagion there ; 
 Eelenting Nature learned to languish, 
 
THE ORIGIN OF SONG-WRITING. 41 
 
 And sickened with delightful anguish : — 
 " Eeceive him, artless yet and young ; 
 Eefine his air and smooth his tongue ; 
 Conduct him through your favorite bowers, 
 Enriched with fair perennial flowers, 
 To solemn shades and springs that lie 
 Eemote from each unhallowed eye ; 
 Teach him to spell those mystic names 
 That kindle bright immortal flames ; 
 And guide his young, unpractised feet 
 To reach coy Learning's lofty seat." 
 
 Ah, luckless hour ! mistaken maids, 
 When Cupid sought the Muse's shades ! 
 Of their sweetest notes beguiled 
 By the sly, insidious child ; 
 Now of power his darts are found 
 Twice ten thousand times to wound. 
 Now no more the slackened strings 
 Breathe of high, immortal things, 
 But Cupid tunes the Muse's lyre 
 To languid notes of soft desire. 
 In every clime, in every tongue, 
 'T is love inspires the poet's song. 
 Hence Sappho's soft, infectious page ; 
 Monimia's woe ; Othello's rage ; 
 Abandoned Dido's fruitless prayer ; 
 
42 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 And Eloisa's long despair ; 
 
 The garland, blest with many a vow, 
 
 For haughty Sacharissa's brow ; 
 
 And, washed with tears, the mournful verse 
 
 That Petrarch laid on Laura's hearse. 
 
 But more than all the sister quire, 
 
 Music confessed the pleasing fire. 
 
 Here sovereign Cupid reigned alone ; 
 
 Music and song were all his own. 
 
 Sweet as in old Arcadian plains, 
 
 The British pipe has caught the strains : 
 
 And where the Tweed's pure current glides, 
 
 Or Liffey rolls her limpid tides, 
 
 Or Thames his oozy waters leads 
 
 Through rural bowers or yellow meads, — 
 
 With many an old romantic tale 
 
 Has cheered the lone, sequestered vale ; 
 
 With many a sweet and tender lay 
 
 Deceived the tiresome summer day. 
 
 T is yours to cull with happy art 
 
 Each meaning verse that speaks the heart ; 
 
 And, fair arrayed, in order meet, 
 
 To lay the wreath at Beauty's feet. 
 
SONGS. 43 
 
 SOXGS. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 COME here, fond youth, whoe'er thou be, 
 That boasts to love as well as me. 
 And if thy breast have felt so wide a wound, 
 Come hither, and thy flame approve ; 
 I '11 teach thee what it is to love, 
 And by what marks true passion may be found. 
 
 It is to be all bathed in tears ; 
 
 To live upon a smile for years ; 
 To lie whole ages at a beauty's feet : 
 
 To kneel, to languish, and implore ; 
 
 And still, though she disdain, adore : — 
 It is to do all this, and think thy sufferings sweet. 
 
 It is to gaze upon her eyes 
 
 With eager joy and fond surprise ; 
 Yet tempered with such chaste and awful fear 
 
 As wretches feel who wait their doom ; 
 
 Nor must one ruder thought presume, 
 Though but in whispers breathed, to meet her ear. 
 
44 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 It is to hope, though hope were lost ; 
 
 Though heaven and earth thy passion crossed ; 
 Though she were bright as sainted queens above, 
 
 And thou the least and meanest swain 
 
 That folds his flock upon the plain, — 
 Yet, if thou dar'st not hope, thou dost not love. 
 
 It is to quench thy joy in tears, 
 
 To nurse strange doubts and groundless fears ; 
 If pangs of jealousy thou hast not proved, — 
 
 Though she were fonder and more true 
 
 Than any nymph old poets drew, — 
 0, never dream again that thou hast loved ! 
 
 If, when the darling maid is gone, 
 
 Thou dost not seek to be alone, 
 Wrapt in a pleasing trance of tender woe, 
 
 And muse, and fold thy languid arms, 
 
 Feeding thy fancy on her charms, 
 Thou dost not love, — for love is nourished so. 
 
 If any hopes thy bosom share 
 
 But those which Love has planted there, 
 Or any cares but his thy breast inthrall, — 
 
 Thou never yet his power hast known ; 
 
 Love sits on a despotic throne, 
 And reigns a tyrant, if he reigns at all 
 
SONGS. 45 
 
 Now if thou art so lost a thing, 
 
 Here all thy tender sorrows bring, 
 And prove whose patience longest can endure : 
 
 We '11 strive whose fancy shall be lost 
 
 In dreams of fondest passion most ; 
 For if thou thus hast loved, never hope a cure ! 
 
 ADDRESS TO CUPID. 
 
 If ever thou didst joy to bind 
 Two hearts in equal passion joined, 
 Son of Venus ! hear me now, 
 And bid Florella bless my vow. 
 
 If any bliss reserved for me 
 Thou in the leaves of fate shouldst see ; 
 If any white, propitious hour 
 Pregnant with hoarded joys in store ; 
 
 Now, now the mighty treasure give, 
 In her for whom alone I live ; 
 In sterling love pay all the sum, 
 And I '11 absolve the fates to come. 
 
 In all the pride of full-blown charms 
 Yield her, relenting, to my arms : 
 
46 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Her bosom touch with soft desires, 
 And let her feel what she inspires. 
 
 But Cupid, if thine aid be vain, 
 
 The dear reluctant maid to gain ; 
 
 If still with cold, averted eyes 
 
 She dash my hopes and scorn my sighs ; 
 
 grant ! — 't is all I ask of thee, — 
 That I no more may change than she, 
 But still with duteous zeal love on, 
 When every gleam of hope is gone. 
 
 Leave me then alone to languish ; 
 Think not time can heal my anguish ; 
 Pity the woes which I endure, — 
 But never, never grant a cure. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When gentle Celia first J knew, 
 A breast so good, so kind, so true, 
 
 Reason and taste approved ; - 
 Pleased to indulge so pure a flame, 
 I called it by too soft a name, 
 
 And fondly thought I loved, 
 
SONGS. 47 
 
 Till Chloris came : — with sad surprise 
 I felt the lightning of her eyes 
 
 Through all my senses run ; 
 All glowing with resistless charms, 
 She filled my breast with new alarms, — 
 
 I saw, and was undone. 
 
 Celia ! dear, unhappy maid, 
 Forbear the weakness to upbraid 
 
 Which ought your scorn to move ; 
 
 1 know this beauty false and vain, 
 I know she triumphs in my pain, 
 
 Yet still I feel I love. 
 
 Thy gentle smiles no more can please, 
 Nor can thy softest friendship ease 
 
 The torments I endure : 
 Think what that wounded breast must feel 
 "Which truth and kindness cannot heal, 
 
 Nor e'en thy pity cure ! 
 
 Oft shall I curse my iron chain, 
 And wish again thy milder reign 
 
 With long and vain regret ; 
 All that I can, to thee I give ; 
 And could I still to reason live, 
 
 I were thy captive yet. 
 
48 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 But passion's wild, impetuous sea 
 Hurries rne far from peace and thee ; 
 
 'T were vain to struggle more. 
 Thus the poor sailor slumbering lies, 
 While swelling tides around him rise, 
 
 And push his bark from shore. 
 
 In vain he spreads his helpless arms, 
 His pitying friends with fond alarms 
 
 In vain deplore his state ; 
 Still far and farther from the coast, 
 On the high surge his bark is tost, 
 
 And foundering yields to fate. 
 
 SONGL 
 
 As near a weeping spring reclined, 
 The beauteous Araminta pined, 
 And mourned a false, ungrateful youth.; 
 While dying echoes caught the sound, 
 And spread the soft complaints around 
 Of broken vows and altered truth ; — 
 
 An aged shepherd heard her moan, 
 And thus in pity's kindest tone 
 Addressed the lost, despairing maid : 
 " Cease, cease, unhappy fair, to grieve, 
 
SONGS. 49 
 
 For sounds, though sweet, can ne'er relieve 
 A breaking heart by love betrayed. 
 
 " Why shouldst thou waste such precious showers, 
 
 That fall like dew on withered flowers, 
 
 But dying passion ne'er restored ? 
 
 In Beauty's empire is no mean, — 
 
 And woman, either slave or queen, 
 
 Is quickly scorned when not adored. 
 
 u Those liquid pearls from either eye, 
 
 Which might an Eastern empire buy, 
 
 Unvalued here and fruitless fall ; 
 
 No art the season can renew, 
 
 When love was young and Damon true ; 
 
 No tears a wandering heart recall. 
 
 " Cease, cease to grieve ; thy tears are vain, 
 Should those fair orbs in drops of rain 
 Vie with a weeping southern sky : 
 For hearts o'ercome with love and grief 
 All nature yields but one relief; — 
 Die, hapless Araminta, die ! " 
 
 VOL. II. 3 D 
 
50 WOBKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 SONG. 
 
 When first upon your tender cheek 
 I saw the morn of beauty break 
 
 With mild and cheering beam, 
 I bowed before your infant shrine ; 
 The earliest sighs you had were mine, 
 
 And you my darling theme. 
 
 I saw you in that opening morn 
 For Beauty's boundless empire born, 
 
 And first confessed your sway ; 
 And ere your thoughts, devoid of art, 
 Could learn the value of a heart, 
 
 I gave my heart away. 
 
 I watched the dawn of every grace, 
 And gazed upon that angel face, 
 
 \Yhile yet 't was safe to gaze ; 
 And fondly blessed each rising charm, 
 Nor thought such innocence could harm 
 
 The peace of future days. 
 
 But now despotic o'er the plains 
 
 The awful noon of beauty reigns, 
 
 And kneeling crowds adore ; 
 
SOXGS. 51 
 
 Its beams arise too fiercely bright, 
 Danger and death attend the sight, 
 And I must hope no more. 
 
 Thus to the rising God of day 
 Their early vows the Persians pay, 
 
 And bless the spreading fire ; 
 Whose glowing chariot, mounting soon, 
 Pours on their heads the burning noon ; 
 
 They sicken and expire. 
 
 SONG.* 
 
 Aspasia rolls her sparkling eyes, 
 And every bosom feels her power ; 
 
 The Indians thus view Phoebus rise, 
 And gaze in rapture, and adore, 
 
 Quick to the soul the piercing splendors dart, 
 
 Fire every vein, and melt the coldest heart. 
 
 Aspasia speaks ; the listening crowd 
 Drink in the sound with greedy ears, 
 
 Mute are the giddy and the loud, 
 And self-admiring Folly hears. 
 
 * Dr. Aikin's " Collection of Songs." — Ed. 
 
52 ' WORKS OF MBS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Her wit secures the conquests of her face, 
 Points every charm, and brightens every grace. 
 
 Aspasia moves ; her well-turned limbs 
 Slide stately with harmonious ease ; 
 Now through the mazy dance she swims, 
 
 Like a tall bark o'er summer seas ; 
 'T was thus /Eneas knew the queen of love, 
 Majestic moving through the golden grove. 
 
 But ah ! how cruel is my lot, 
 To doat on one so heavenly fair ! 
 
 For in my humble state forgot, 
 
 Each charm but adds to my despair. 
 
 The tuneful swan thus faintly warbling lies, 
 
 Looks on his mate, and while he sings he dies. 
 
 TO THE BARON DE STONNE. 
 
 "WITH AIKIX'S ESSAY ON SONG-WRITING. 
 
 TO Gallia's gay and gallant coast 
 Haste, little volume, speed thy flight ; 
 And proudly there go make thy boast 
 How Britons love — how Britons write. 
 
 . 
 
EDWIN AND ETHELINDE. 53 
 
 Say, Love can hold his torch as high 
 Beneath our heaven deformed with showers, 
 As in her pure and brilliant sky, 
 By vine-clad hills or myrtle bowers. 
 
 Ask if her damsels bloom more fair ; 
 Ask if her swains can love as true ; 
 And urge her poets' tuneful care 
 To sing their praise in numbers due. 
 
 ETWIX AXD ETHELIXDE.* 
 
 u f~\ XE parting kiss, my Ethel inde ! " 
 V>/ Young Edwin faltering cried, 
 
 " I hear thy father's hasty tread, 
 Nor longer must I bide. 
 
 " To-morrow eve, in yonder wood, 
 
 Beneath the well-known tree, 
 Say, wilt thou meet thy own true love, 
 
 Whose only joy 's in thee ? " 
 
 She clasped the dear, beloved youth, 
 And sighed, and dropt a tear ; 
 
 * This first appeared in the "Gentleman's Magazine," then in 
 Aikin's " Collection of Songs "(ed. 1810). — Ed. 
 
54 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 " Whate'er betide, my only love, 
 I '11 surely meet thee there." 
 
 They kiss, they part ; a listening page, 
 
 To malice ever bent, 
 O'erheard their talk, and to his lord 
 
 Kevealed their fond intent. 
 
 The baron's brow grew dark with frowns, 
 And rage clistained his cheek. 
 
 " Heavens ! shall a vassal shepherd dare 
 My daughter's love to seek ! 
 
 " But know rash boy, thy bold attempt 
 Full sorely shalt thou rue ; 
 
 Nor e'er again, ignoble maid, 
 Shalt thou thy lover view." 
 
 The dews of evening fast did fall, 
 And darkness spread apace, 
 
 When Ethelinde with beating breast 
 Flew to the appointed place. 
 
 With eager eye she looks around, 
 No Edwin there was seen ; 
 
 " He was not wont to break his faith, 
 What can his absence mean ! " 
 
EDWIN AND ETHELINDE. 55 
 
 Her heart beat thick at every noise, 
 
 Each rustling through the wood ; 
 And now she traversed quick the ground, 
 
 And now she listening stood. 
 
 Enlivening hope and chilling fear 
 
 By turns her bosom share, 
 And now she calls upon his name, 
 
 Now weeps in sad despair. 
 
 Meantime the day's last glimmerings fled, 
 
 And, blackening all the sky, 
 A hideous tempest dreadful rose, 
 
 And thunders rolled on high. 
 
 Poor Ethelinde aghast, dismayed, 
 
 Beholds with wild affright 
 The threatening sky, the lonely wood, 
 
 And horrors of the night. 
 
 " Where art thou now, my Edwi-n dear ! 
 
 Thy friendly aid I want ; 
 Ah me ! my boding heart foretells 
 
 That aid thou canst not grant." 
 
 Thus racked with pangs, and beat with storms, 
 Confused and lost she roves ; 
 
56 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Now looks to Heaven with earnest prayer, 
 Now calls on him she loves. 
 
 At length a distant taper's ray 
 Struck beaming on her sight ; 
 
 Through brakes she guides her fainting steps 
 Towards the welcome light. 
 
 An aged hermit peaceful dwelt 
 
 In this sequestered wild ; 
 Calm goodness sat upon Lis brow, 
 
 His words were soft and mild. 
 
 He oped his hospitable door, 
 
 And much admiring viewed 
 The tender virgin's graceful form, 
 
 Dashed by the tempest rude. 
 
 " "Welcome, fair maid, whoe'er thou art, 
 
 To this warm, sheltered cell ; 
 Here rest secure thy wearied feet, 
 
 Here peace and safety dwell." 
 
 He saw the heart-wrung starting tear, 
 
 And gently sought to know, 
 With kindest pity's soothing looks, 
 
 The story of her woe. 
 
EDWIN AND ETIIELINDE. 57 
 
 Scarce had she told her mournful tale, 
 When, struck with dread, they hear 
 
 Voices confused with dying groans 
 The cell approaching near. 
 
 " Help, father ! help ! " they loudly cry, 
 
 " A wretch here bleeds to death ; 
 Some cordial balsam quickly give 
 
 To stay his parting breath." 
 
 All deadly pale they lay him down, 
 And gashed with many a wound ; 
 
 When, woful sight ! 't was Edwin's self 
 Lay bleeding on the ground. 
 
 With frantic grief poor Ethelinde 
 
 Beside his body falls ; 
 " Lift up thine eyes, my Edwin dear, 
 
 'T is Ethelinde that calls ! " 
 
 That much-loved sound recalls his life, 
 
 He lifts his closing eyes, 
 Then, feebly murmuring out her name, 
 
 He gasps, he faints, he dies. 
 
 Stupid awhile, in dumb despair 
 
 She gazed on Edwin dead ; 
 Dim grew her eyes, her lips turned pale, 
 
 And life's warm spirit fled. 
 
 3* 
 
58 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 TO A LADY. 
 
 WITH SOME PAINTED FLOWERS. 
 
 .... tibi lilia plenis 
 Ecce ferunt nymphoe calathis. 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 FLOWERS to the fair : To you these flowers I bring, 
 And strive to greet you with an earlier spring. 
 Flowers sweet and gay and delicate like you, 
 Emblems of innocence and beauty too. 
 With flowers the Graces bind their yellow hair, 
 And flowery wreaths consenting lovers wear. 
 Flowers, the sole luxury which Nature knew, 
 In Eden's pure and guiltless garden grew. 
 To loftier forms are rougher tasks assigned ; 
 The sheltering oak resists the stormy wind, 
 The tougher yew repels invading foes, 
 And the tall pine for future navies grows ; 
 But this soft family, to cares unknown, 
 Were born for pleasure and delight alone : 
 Gay without toil, and lovely without art, 
 They spring to cheer the sense, and glad the heart. 
 Nor blush, my fair, to own you copy these ; 
 Your best, your sweetest empire is — to please. 
 
ODE TO SPRING. 59 
 
 ODE TO SPRING. 
 
 SWEET daughter of a rough and stormy sire, 
 Hoar Winter's blooming child ; delightful Spring ! 
 Whose unshorn locks with leaves 
 And swelling buds are crowned ; 
 
 From the green islands of eternal youth, — 
 
 Crowned with fresh blooms and ever-springing shade, — 
 
 Turn, hither turn thy step, 
 
 thou, whose powerful voice 
 
 More sweet than softest touch of Doric reed, 
 
 Or Lydian flute, can soothe the madding wind, — 
 
 And through the stormy deep 
 
 Breathe thine own tender calm. 
 
 Thee, best beloved ! the virgin train await 
 With songs and festal rites, and joy to rove 
 
 Thy blooming wilds among, 
 
 And vales and dewy lawns, 
 
 With untired feet ; and cull thy earliest sweets 
 To weave fresh garlands for the glowing brow 
 Of him, the favored youth 
 That prompts their whispered sigh. 
 
60 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Unlock thy copious stores, — those tender showers 
 That drop their sweetness on the infant buds ; 
 
 And silent dews that swell 
 
 The milky ear's green stem, 
 
 And feed the flowering osier's early shoots ; 
 
 And call those winds which through the whispering boughs 
 
 With warm and pleasant breath 
 
 Salute the blowing flowers. 
 
 Now let me sit beneath the whitening thorn, 
 And mark thy spreading tints steal o'er the dale ; 
 
 And watch with patient eye 
 
 Thy fail', unfolding charms. 
 
 nymph, approach ! while yet the temperate sun 
 With bashful forehead through the cool, moist air 
 
 Throws his young, maiden beams, 
 
 And with chaste kisses wooes 
 
 The earth's fair bosom ; while the streaming veil 
 Of lucid clouds with kind and frequent shade 
 
 Protects thy modest blooms 
 
 From his severer blaze. 
 
 Sweet is thy reign, but short : — The red dog-star 
 Shall scorch thy tresses, and the mower's scythe 
 
 Thy greens, thy flowerets all, 
 
 Eemorseless shall destroy. 
 
EPITHALAMIUM. 61 
 
 Keluctant shall I bid thee then farewell ; 
 For 0, not all that Autumn's lap contains, 
 
 Nor Summer's ruddiest fruits, 
 
 Can aught for thee atone, 
 
 Fair Spring ! whose simplest promise more delights 
 Than all their largest wealth, and through the heart 
 Each joy and new-born hope 
 With softest influence breathes. 
 
 EPITHALAMIUM.* 
 
 VIEGIN", brighter than the morning, 
 Haste and finish thy adorning ! 
 Hymen claims his promised day, — 
 Come from thy chamber, come away ! 
 
 Boses strew, and myrtles bring, 
 Till you drain the wasted Spring ; 
 The altars are already drest, 
 The bower is fitted for its guest, 
 The scattered rose begins to fade, — 
 Come away, reluctant maid ! 
 
 * Designed for the opening of a tragedy. 
 
G2 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 See what a war of blushes breaks 
 O'er the pure whiteness of her cheeks ; 
 The shifting colors prove by turns 
 The torch of Love unsteady burns. 
 Pleading now, now lingering, fainting, 
 Her soft heart with fear is panting ; — 
 Cling not to thy mother so, 
 Thy mother smiles, and bids thee go. 
 
 Mind not what thy maidens say ; 
 Though they chide the cruel day, 
 Though they weep, and strive to hold thee 
 From his arms that would infold thee ; 
 Kiss, and take a short farewell, — 
 They wish the chance to them befell. 
 
 Mighty Love demands his crown 
 Now for all his sufferings done ; 
 For all Love's tears, for all his sighs, 
 Thyself must be the sacrifice. 
 Virgin, brighter than the day, 
 Haste from thy chamber, come away ! 
 
TO A DOG. 63 
 
 TO A DOG. 
 
 DEAB, faithful object of my tender care, 
 Whom but my partial eyes none fancy fair ; 
 May I unblamed display thy social mirth, 
 Thy modest virtues and domestic worth : 
 Thou silent, humble flatterer, yet sincere, 
 More swayed by love than interest or fear ; 
 Solely to please, thy most ambitious view, 
 As lovers fond, and iqpre than lovers true. 
 Who can resist those dumb, beseeching eyes, 
 Where genuine eloquence persuasive lies ? 
 Those eyes, where language fails, display the heart 
 Beyond the pomp of phrase and pride of art. 
 Thou safe companion, and almost a friend, 
 Whose kind attachment but with life shall end, — 
 Blest were mankind if many a prouder name 
 Could boast thy grateful truth and spotless fame ! 
 
64 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. 
 
 aOD of my life ! and author of my days ! 
 Permit my feeble voice to lisp thy praise ; 
 And trembling take upon a mortal tongue 
 That hallowed name to harps of seraphs sung. 
 Yet here the brightest seraphs could no more 
 Than veil their faces, tremble, and adore. 
 "Worms, angels, men in every different sphere 
 Are equal all, — for all are nothing here. 
 All nature faints beneath the mighty name, 
 Which nature's works through all their parts proclaim. 
 I feel that name my inmost thoughts control, 
 And breathe an awful stillness through my soul ; 
 As by a charm the waves of grief subside ; 
 Impetuous Passion stops her headlong tide : 
 At thy felt presence all emotions cease, 
 And my hushed spirit finds a sudden peace, 
 Till every worldly thought within me dies, 
 And earth's gay pageants vanish from my eyes ; 
 Till all my sense is lost in infinite, 
 And one vast object fills my aching sight. 
 
 But soon alas ! this holy calm is broke ; 
 My soul submits to wear her wonted yoke ; 
 
AN ADDRESS TO THE DEITY. G5 
 
 With shackled pinions strives to soar in vain, 
 And mingles with the dross of earth again. 
 But he, our gracious Master, kind as just, 
 Knowing our frame, remembers man is dust. 
 His spirit, ever brooding o'er our mind, 
 Sees the first wish to better hopes inclined ; 
 Marks the young dawn of every virtuous aim, 
 And fans the smoking flax into a flame. 
 His ears are open to the softest cry, 
 His grace descends to meet the lifted eye ; 
 He reads the language of a silent tear, 
 And sighs are incense from a heart sincere. 
 Such are the vows, the sacrifice I give ; 
 Accept the vow, and bid the suppliant live : 
 From each terrestial bondage set me free ; 
 Still every wish that centres not in thee ; 
 Bid my fond hopes, my vain disquiets cease, 
 And point my path to everlasting peace. 
 
 If the soft hand of winning Pleasure leads 
 By living waters and through flowery meads, 
 When all is smiling, tranquil, and serene, 
 And vernal beauty paints the flattering scene, 
 0, teach me to elude each latent snare, 
 And whisper to my sliding heart — Beware ! 
 With caution let me hear the siren's voice, 
 And doubtful, with a trembling heart, rejoice. 
 
G6 WOEKS OF MBS. BARBAULD. 
 
 If friendless in a vale of tears I stray, 
 Where briers wound, and thorns perplex my way, 
 Still let my steady soul thy goodness see, 
 And with strong confidence lay hold on thee ; 
 "With equal eye my various lot receive, 
 Eesigned to die, or resolute to live ; 
 Prepared to kiss the sceptre or the rod, 
 "While God is seen in all, and all in God. 
 
 I read his awful name, emblazoned high 
 With golden letters on the illumined sky ; 
 Nor less the mystic characters I see 
 "Wrought in each flower, inscribed on every tree ; 
 In every leaf that trembles to the breeze 
 I hear the voice of God among the trees ; 
 "With thee in shady solitudes I walk, 
 "With thee in busy, crowded cities talk, 
 In every creature own thy forming power, 
 In each event thy providence adore. 
 Thy hopes shall animate my drooping soul, 
 Thy precepts guide me, and thy fear control : 
 Thus shall I rest, unmoved by all alarms, 
 Secure within the temple of thine arms ; 
 From anxious cares, from gloomy terrors free, 
 And feel myself omnipotent in thee. 
 
 Then when the last, the closing hour draws nigh, 
 And earth recedes before my swimming eye ; 
 
A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. C7 
 
 When trembling on the doubtful edge of fate 
 I stand and stretch my view to either state : 
 Teach me to quit this transitory scene 
 With decent triumph and a look serene ; 
 Teach me to fix my ardent hopes on high, 
 And, having lived to thee, in thee to die. 
 
 A SUMMEE EVENING'S MEDITATION. 
 
 TV\ IS past ! The sultry tyrant of the south 
 
 JL Has spent his short-lived rage ; more grateful hours 
 Move silent on ; the skies no more repel 
 The dazzled sight, but with mild, maiden beams 
 Of tempered lustre court the cherished eye 
 To wander o'er their sphere ; where hung aloft 
 Dian's bright crescent, like a silver bow 
 New strung in heaven, lifts high its beamy horns 
 Impatient for the night, and seems to push 
 Her brother down the sky. Fair Venus shines 
 Even in the eye of day ; with sweetest beam 
 Propitious shines, and shakes a trembling flood 
 Of softened radiance from her dewy locks. 
 The shadows spread apace ; while meekened Eve, 
 Her cheek yet warm with blushes, slow retires 
 Through the Hesperian gardens of the west, 
 
G8 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 And shuts the gates of day. 'T is now the hour 
 
 When Contemplation, from her sunless haunts, 
 
 The cool damp grotto, or the lonely depth 
 
 Of unpierced woods, where wrapt in solid shade 
 
 She mused away the gaudy hours of noon, 
 
 And fed on thoughts unripened by the sun, 
 
 Moves forward ; and with radiant finger points 
 
 To yon blue concave swelled by breath divine, 
 
 "When, one by one, the living eyes of heaven 
 
 Awake, quick kindling o'er the face of ether 
 
 One boundless blaze ; ten thousand trembling fires, 
 
 And dancing lustres, where the unsteady eye, 
 
 Eestless and dazzled, wanders unconfined 
 
 O'er all this field of glories ; spacious field, 
 
 And worthy of the Master : he whose hand 
 
 With hieroglyphics elder than the Kile 
 
 Inscribed the mystic tablet, hung on high 
 
 To public gaze, and said, " Adore, man ! 
 
 The finger of thy God." From what pure wells 
 
 Of milky light, what soft o'erflowing urn, 
 
 Are all these lamps so fill'd ? these friendly lamps, 
 
 Forever streaming o'er the azure deep 
 
 To point our path, and light us to our home. 
 
 How soft they slide along their lucid spheres ! 
 
 And silent as the foot of Time, fulfil 
 
 Their destined courses : Xature's self is hushed, 
 
 And, but a scattered leaf, which rustles through 
 
A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. 69 
 
 The thick-wove foliage, not a sound is heard 
 
 To break the midnight air ; though the raised ear, 
 
 Intensely listening, drinks in every breath. 
 
 How deep the silence, yet how loud the praise ! 
 
 But are they silent all ? or is there not 
 
 A tongue in every star that talks with man, 
 
 And wooes him to be wise ? nor wooes in vain : 
 
 This dead of midnight is the noon of thought, 
 
 And Wisdom mounts her zenith with the stars. 
 
 At this still hour the self-collected soul 
 
 Turns inward, and behold a stranger there 
 
 Of high descent, and more than mortal rank ; 
 
 An embryo God ; a spark of fire divine 
 
 "Which must burn on for ages, when the sun. — 
 
 Fair transitory creature of a day ! — 
 
 Has closed his golden eye, and wrapt in shades 
 
 Forgets his wonted journey through the east. 
 
 Ye citadels of light, and seats of gods ! 
 Perhaps my future home, from whence the soul, 
 Eevolving periods past, may oft look back, 
 With recollected tenderness, on all 
 The various busy scenes she left below, 
 Its deep-laid projects and its strange events, 
 As on some fond and doting tale that soothed 
 Her infant hours, — be it lawful now 
 To tread the hallowed circle of your courts, 
 
70 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 And with mute wonder and delighted awe 
 
 Approach your burning confines. Seized in thought, 
 
 On Fancy's wild and roving wing I sail 
 
 From the green borders of the peopled Earth, 
 
 And the pale Moon, her duteous fair attendant ; 
 
 From solitary Mars • from the vast orb 
 
 Of Jupiter, whose huge gigantic bulk 
 
 Dances in ether like the lightest leaf ; 
 
 To the dim verge, the suburbs of the system, 
 
 Where cheerless Saturn 'midst his watery moons, 
 
 Girt with a lucid zone, in gloomy pomp, 
 
 Sits like an exiled monarch : fearless thence 
 
 I launch into the trackless deeps of space, 
 
 When, burning round, ten thousand suns appear, 
 
 Of elder beam, which ask no leave to shine 
 
 Of our terrestial star, nor borrow light 
 
 From the proud regent of our scanty day ; 
 
 Sons of the morning, first-born" of creation, 
 
 And only less than him who marks their track, 
 
 And guides their fiery wheels. Here must I stop, 
 
 Or is there aught beyond ? What hand unseen 
 
 Impels me onward through the glowing orbs 
 
 Of habitable nature, far remote, 
 
 To the dread confines of eternal night, 
 
 To solitudes of vast unpeopled space, 
 
 The deserts of creation, wide and wild ; 
 
 Where embryo systems and unkindled suns 
 
A SUMMER EVENING'S MEDITATION. 71 
 
 Sleep in the womb of chaos ? fancy droops, 
 And thought astonished stops her bold career. 
 But thou mighty mind ! whose powerful word 
 Said, thus let all things be, and thus they were, 
 Where shall I seek thy presence ? how unblamed 
 Invoke thy dread perfection ? 
 Have the broad eyelids of the morn beheld thee ? 
 Or does the beamy shoulder of Orion 
 Support thy throne ? 0, look with pity down 
 On erring, guilty man ! not in thy names 
 Of terror clad ; not with those thunders armed 
 That conscious Sinai felt, when fear appalled 
 The scattered tribes ; — thou hast a gentler voice, 
 That whispers comfort to the swelling heart, 
 Abashed, yet longing to behold her Maker. 
 
 But now my soul, unused to stretch her powers 
 In flight so daring, drojDS her weary wing, 
 And seeks again the known, accustomed spot, 
 Drest up with sun, and shade, and lawns, and streams, 
 A mansion fair, and spacious for its guest, 
 And full replete with wonders. Let me here, 
 Content and grateful, wait the appointed time, 
 And ripen for the skies : the hour will come 
 When all these splendors bursting on my sight 
 Shall stand unveiled, and to my ravished sense 
 Unlock the glories of the world unknown. 
 
72 WOKKS OF MUS. BARBAULD. 
 
 THE EPIPIIAXY. 
 
 DEEP in Sabea's fragrant groves retired, 
 Long had the Eastern Sages studious dwelt, 
 By love sublime of sacred science fired : 
 
 Long had they trained the inquiring youth, 
 With liberal hand the bread of wisdom dealt, 
 And sung in solemn verse mysterious truth. 
 The sacred characters they knew to trace 
 
 Derived from Egypt's elder race ; 
 And all that Greece, with copious learning fraught, 
 Through different schools by various masters taught ; 
 
 And all Arabia's glowing store 
 Of fabled truths and rich poetic lore : 
 Stars, plants, and gems, and talismans they knew, 
 And far was spread their fame and wide their praises 
 
 grew. 
 The admiring East their praises spread ; 
 But with uncheated eyes themselves they viewed ; 
 Mourning they sat with dust upon their head, 
 
 And oft in melancholy strain 
 The fond complaint renewed, 
 How little yet they knew, how much was learned in vain. 
 
 For human guilt and mortal woe 
 
 Their sympathizing sorrows flow ; 
 
THE EPIPHANY. 73 
 
 Their hallowed prayers ascend in incense pure ; 
 They mourned the narrow bounds assigned 
 
 To the keen glances of the searching mind, 
 They mourned the ills they could not cure, 
 They mourned the doubts they could not clear, 
 They mourned that prophet yet, nor seer, 
 The great Eternal had made known, 
 
 Or reached the lowest step of that immortal throne. 
 
 And oft the starry cope of heaven beneath, 
 
 When day's tumultuous sounds had ceased to breathe, 
 
 "With fixed feet, as rooted there, 
 Through the long night they drew the chilly air ; 
 
 "While sliding o'er their head, 
 
 In solemn silence dread, 
 The ethereal orbs their shining course pursued, 
 In holy trance enwrapt the sages stood, 
 With folded arms laid on their reverend breast, 
 And to that Heaven they knew, their orisons addrest. 
 
 A Star appears ; they marked its kindling beam 
 O'er night's dark breast unusual splendors stream ; 
 
 The lesser lights that deck the sky, 
 In wondering silence softly gliding by, 
 • At the fair stranger seemed to gaze, 
 Or veiled their trembling fires and half withdrew their 
 rays. 
 
 4 
 
74 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 The blameless men the wonder saw, 
 And hailed the joyful sign with pions awe ; 
 
 They knew 't was none of all the train 
 With which in shadowy forms and shapes uncouth, 
 Monsters of earth and of the main, 
 Eemote from nature as from truth, 
 
 Their learned pens the sky had figured o'er ; 
 
 No star with such kind aspect shone before ; 
 
 Nor e'er did wandering planet stoop so low 
 To guide benighted pilgrims through this vale of woe. 
 
 The heavenly impulse they obey, 
 The new-born light directs their way ; 
 Through deserts never marked by human tread, 
 And billowy waves of loose, unfaithful sand, 
 O'er many an unknown hill and foreign strand, 
 
 The silver clew unerring led, 
 And peopled towns they pass, and glittering spires ; 
 No cloud could veil its light, no sun could quench its fires. 
 
 Thus passed the venerable pilgrims on, 
 
 Till Salem's stately towers before them shone, 
 
 And soon their feet her hallowed pavements prest ; 
 
 Not in her marble courts to rest, — 
 From pomp and royal state aloof, 
 Their shining guide its beams withdrew ; 
 And points their path, and points their view, 
 
TO MR. BARBAULD. 75 
 
 To Bethlehem's rustic cots, to Mary's lowly roof. 
 
 There the bright sentinel kept watch, 
 
 While other stars arose and set ; 
 
 For there, within its humble thatch, 
 Weakness and power, and heaven and earth were met. 
 
 Now, sages, now your search give o'er, 
 
 Believe, fall prostrate, and adore ! 
 Here spread your spicy gifts, your golden offerings here ; 
 
 No more the fond complaint renew, 
 
 Of human guilt and mortal woe, 
 Of knowledge checked by doubt, and hope with fear ; 
 
 What angels wished to see, ye view ; 
 
 What angels wished to learn, ye know ; — 
 Peace is proclaimed to man, and heaven begun below. 
 
 TO ME. BABBAULD, 
 
 WITH A MAP OF THE LAND OF MATRIMONY* 
 
 THE sailor, worn by toil and wet with storms, 
 As in the wished-for port secure he rides, 
 With transport numbers o'er the dangers past 
 From threatening quicksands and from adverse tides. 
 
 * The map, published under this title, was a jeu-tfesprit of Mrs. 
 Barbauld's. — Ed. 
 
76 WOBKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Joyous lie tells among his jocund mates 
 Of loud alarms that chased his broken sleep, 
 And blesses every kinder star that led 
 His favored vessel through the raging deep. 
 
 Thus canst thou, Eochemont, view this pictured chart, 
 And trace thy voyage to the promised shore ; 
 Thus does thy faithful bosom beat with joy, 
 To think the tempest past, the wanderings o'er ? 
 
 Canst thou recall the days when jealous Doubt, 
 When boding Fears thy anxious heart opprest, 
 When Hope, our star, shone faintly through the gloom, 
 And the pale cheek betrayed the tortured breast ? 
 
 And say ; — the land through Fancy's glass descried, 
 The bright Elysian fields her pencil drew, — 
 Has time the dear ideas realized ? 
 Or are her optics false, her tints untrue ? 
 
 0, say they are not ! — Though life's ceaseless cares, 
 Life's ceaseless toils, demand thy golden hours, 
 Tell her glad heart whose hand these lines confess, 
 That Peace resides in Hymen's happy bowers. 
 
 But soon the restless seaman longs to change 
 His bounded view and tempt the deeps again ; 
 
LOVE AND TIME. 77 
 
 Careless he breaks from weeping Susan's arms, 
 To fight with billows and to plough the main. 
 
 So shalt not thou, for no returning prow 
 E'er cut the ocean which thy bark has past ; 
 For strong, relentless Fate has fixed her bars, 
 And I my destined captive hold too fast. 
 
 LOYE AXD TDLE. 
 
 TO MRS. MULSO. 
 
 OX Stella's brow as lately envious Time 
 His crooked lines with iron pencil traced, 
 That brow, erewhile like ivory tablets smooth, 
 With Love's high trophies hung, and victories graced, 
 Digging him little caves in every cell, 
 And every dimple, once where Love was wont to dwell ; 
 
 He spied the God : and wondered still to spy, 
 Who higher held his torch in Time's despite ; 
 Nor seemed to care for aught that he could do. 
 Then sternly thus he sought him thence to affright : 
 . The sovereign boy, entrenched in a smile, 
 At his sour, crabbed speech sat mocking all the while. 
 
78 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 " What dost thou here, fond boy ? Away, for shame ! 
 Mine is this held, by conquest fairly won ; 
 Love cannot reap his joys where Time has ploughed, 
 Thou and thy light-winged troop should now be gone. 
 Go revel with fresh youth in scenes of folly, 
 Sage Thought I bring, and Care, and pale-eyed Melancholy. 
 
 " Thy streams are froze, that once so briskly ran, 
 Thy bough is shaken by the mellow year ; 
 Boreas and Zephyr dwell not in one cave, 
 And swallows spread their wings when winter 'a near ; 
 See where Florella's cheeks soft bloom disclose, 
 Go seek the springing bud, and leave the faded rose." 
 
 Thus spake old Time, of Love the deadliest foe, — 
 Ah me, that gentle Love such foes should meet ! 
 But nothing daimted he returned again, 
 Tempering with looks austere his native sweet ; 
 And, " Fool : " said he, " to think I e'er shall fly 
 From that rich palace where my choicest treasures lie ! 
 
 " Dost thou not see — or art thou blind with age — 
 How many Graces on her eyelids sit, 
 Linking those viewless chains that bind the soul, 
 And sharpening smooth discourse with pointed wit ; 
 How many, where she moves, attendant wait, 
 The slow smooth step inspire, or high commanding gait ? 
 
LOVE AXD TIME. 79 
 
 " Each one a several charm around her throws, 
 Some to attract, some powerful to repel, 
 Some mix the honeyed speech with winning smiles, 
 Or call wild Laughter from his antic cell, 
 Severer some, to strike with awful fear 
 Each rude licentious tongue that wounds the virtuous ear. 
 
 " Not one of them is of thy scythe in dread, 
 Or for thy cankered malice careth aught ; 
 Thy shaking fingers never can untwist 
 The magic cestus by their cunning wrought ; 
 And I, their knight, their bidding must obey, 
 For where the Graces are will Love forever stay. 
 
 " In my rich fields now boast the ravage done 
 Those lesser spoils, — her brow, her cheek, her hair, 
 All that the touches of decay can feel, — 
 Take these, she has enough to spare ; 
 I cannot thee dislodge, nor shalt thou me, 
 So thou and I, old Time, perforce must once agree. 
 
 "Nor is the boasted ravage all thine own, 
 Nor was the field by conquest fairly gained ; 
 For, leagued with Sickness, Life, and Nature's foe, 
 That fiend accurst thy savage wars maintained ; 
 His hand the furrows sunk where thou didst plough, 
 He undermined the tree, where thou didst shake the 
 bomrh. 
 
80 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 " But both unite, for both I here defy ; 
 Spoils ye have made, but have no triumphs won ; 
 And though the daffodil more freshly blooms, 
 Spreading her gay leaves to the morning sun ; 
 Yet never will I leave the faded rose, 
 "Whilst the pale lovely flower such sweetness still be- 
 stows." 
 
 Tliis said, exulting Cupid clapped his wings. 
 The sullen power, who found his rage restrained, 
 And felt the strong control of higher charms, 
 Shaking his glass, vowed while the sands would run 
 For many a year the strife should.be maintained ; 
 But Jove decreed no force should Love destroy, 
 Xor Time should quell the might of that immortal boy. 
 
 TO MISS F. B., 
 
 ON HER ASKING FOR MRS. B.'S •'LOVE AND TIME." 
 
 OF Love and Time say what would Fanny know ? 
 That time is precious, and that love is sweet ? 
 That both, the choicest blessings lent below, 
 With gay sixteen in envied union meet ? 
 
TO-MORROW. 81 
 
 Time without Love is tasteless, dull, and cold, 
 Love out of Time will fond and doting prove ; 
 To bright sixteen are all their treasures told, 
 Love suits the Time, and Time then favors Love. 
 
 No longer then of matron brows inquire 
 For sprightly Love, or swiftly wasting Time ; 
 Look but at home, you have what you require, — 
 With gay sixteen they both are in their prime. 
 
 s : 
 
 TO-MORROW. 
 
 EE where the falling day 
 In silence steals away 
 Behind the western hills withdrawn : 
 Her fires are quenched, her beauty fled, 
 While blushes all her face o'erspread, 
 As conscious she had ill fulfilled 
 The promise of the dawn. 
 
 Another morning soon shall rise, 
 Another day salute our eyes, 
 As smiling and as fair as she, 
 And make as many promises : 
 
 4* i 
 
82 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 But do not thou 
 The tale believe, 
 They 're sisters all, 
 And all deceive. 
 
 WRITTEN OX A MARBLE. 
 
 THE world 's something bigger, 
 But just of this figure, 
 And speckled with mountains and seas ; 
 Your heroes are overgrown school-boys 
 "Who scuffle for empires and toys, 
 And kick the poor ball as they please. 
 Now Csesar, now Pompey, gives law ; 
 And Pharsalia's plain, 
 Though heaped with the slain, 
 Was only a game at taw. 
 
 LIXES 
 
 PLACED OVER A CHIMNEY-PIECE. 
 
 SURLY Winter, come not here ; 
 Bluster in thy proper sphere ; 
 Howl along the naked plain, 
 There exert thy joyless reign ; 
 
WHAT DO THE FUTURES SPEAK OF? 83 
 
 Triumph o'er the withered flower, 
 
 The leafless shrub, the ruined bower, 
 
 But our cottage come not near ; — 
 
 Other springs inhabit here, 
 
 Other sunshine decks our board, 
 
 Than the niggard skies afford. 
 
 Gloom)' Winter, hence ! away ! 
 
 Love and Fancy scorn thy sway ; 
 
 Love and Joy, and friendly Mirth, 
 
 Shall bless this roof, these walls, this hearth ; 
 
 The rigor of the year control, 
 
 And thaw the winter in the souL 
 
 WHAT DO THE FUTUEES SPEAK OF? 
 
 IN ANSWER TO A QUESTION IN THE GREEK GRAMMAR. 
 
 THEY speak of never- withering shades, 
 And bowers of opening joy ; 
 They promise mines of fairy gold, 
 And bliss without alloy. 
 
 They whisper strange, enchanting things 
 
 Within Hope's greedy ears ; 
 And sure this tuneful voice exceeds 
 
 The music of the spheres. 
 
84 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 They speak of pleasure to the gay, 
 And wisdom to the wise ; 
 
 And soothe the poet's beating heart 
 With fame that never dies. 
 
 To virgins languishing in love 
 They speak the minute nigh ; 
 
 And warm, consenting hearts they join, 
 And paint the rapture high. 
 
 In every language, every tongue, 
 The same kind things they say ; 
 
 In gentle slumbers speak by night, 
 In waking dreams by day. 
 
 Cassandra's fate reversed is theirs ; 
 
 She true, no faith could gain, 
 They every passing hour deceive, 
 
 Yet are believed again. 
 
AUTUMN. 85 
 
 AUTUMN. 
 
 A FRAGMENT. 
 
 FAREWELL the softer hours, spring's opening blush 
 And summer's deeper glow, the shepherd's pipe 
 Tuned to the murmurs of a weeping spring, 
 And song of birds, and gay, enamelled fields, — 
 Farewell ! 'T is now the sickness of the year, 
 Not to be medicined by the skilful hand. 
 Pale suns arise that like weak kings behold 
 Their predecessor's empire moulder from them ; 
 While swift-increasing spreads the black domain 
 Of melancholy Night ; — no more content 
 With equal sway, her stretching shadows gain 
 On the bright morn, and cloud the evening sky. 
 Farewell the careless, lingering walk at eve, 
 Sweet with the breath of kine and new-spread hay ; 
 And slumber on a bank, where the lulled youth, 
 His head on flowers, delicious languor feels 
 Creep in the blood. A different season now 
 Invites a different song. The naked trees 
 Admit the tempest ; rent is Nature's robe ; 
 Fast, fast the blush of summer fades away 
 From her wan cheek, and scarce a flower remains 
 To deck her bosom ; winter follows close, 
 
86 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Pressing impatient on, and with rude breath 
 
 Fans her discolored tresses. Yet not all 
 
 Of grace and beauty from the falling year 
 
 Is torn ungenial. Still the taper fir 
 
 Lifts its green spire, and the dark holly edged 
 
 With gold, and many a strong perennial plant, 
 
 Yet cheer the waste : nor does yon knot of oaks 
 
 Eesign its honors to the infant blast. 
 
 This is the time, and these the solemn walks, 
 
 When inspiration rushes o'er the soul 
 
 Sudden, as through the grove the rustling breeze. 
 
 OX A LADY'S WRITING. 
 
 HER even lines her steady temper show, 
 Neat as her dress, and polished as her brow ; 
 Strong as her judgment, easy as her air ; 
 Correct though free, and regular though fair : 
 And the same graces o'er her pen preside, 
 That form her manners and her footsteps guide. 
 
AN AUTUMNAL THOUGHT. 87 
 
 AN AUTUMNAL THOUGHT. 
 
 1795. 
 
 TTl IS past ! we breathe ! assuaged at length 
 JL The flames that drank our vital strength ! 
 Smote with intolerable heat 
 No more our throbbing temples beat. 
 How clear the sky, how pure the air, 
 The heavens how bright, the earth how fair ! 
 The bosom cool, the spirits light, 
 Active the day, and calm the night ! 
 
 But 0, the swiftly shortening day ! 
 Low in the west the sinking ray ! 
 "With rapid pace advancing still 
 " The morning hoar, the evening chill," 
 The falling leaf, the fading year, 
 And Winter ambushed in the rear ! 
 
 Thus, when the fervid Passions cool, 
 And Judgment, late, begins to rule ; 
 When Eeason mounts her throne serene, 
 And social Friendship gilds the scene ; 
 When man, of ripened powers possest, 
 Broods o'er the treasures of his breast ; 
 Exults, in conscious worth elate, 
 
88 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Lord of himself, — almost of fate ; 
 Then, then declines the unsteady flame, 
 Disease, slow mining, saps the frame ; 
 Cold damps of age around are shed 
 That chill the heart and cloud the head. 
 The failing spirits prompt no more, 
 The curtain drops, life's day is o'er. 
 
 ON THE DESERTED VILLAGE. 
 
 IN vain fair Auburn weeps her desert plains, 
 She moves our envy who so well complains ; 
 In vain has proud oppression laid her low, 
 So sweet a garland on her faded brow. 
 Now, Auburn, now absolve impartial fate, 
 Which if it made thee wretched, makes thee great ; 
 So, unobserved, some humble plant may bloom, 
 Till crushed it fills the air with sweet perfume. 
 So had thy swains in ease and plenty slept, 
 Thy Poet had not sung, nor Britain wept. 
 Nor let Britannia mourn her drooping bay, 
 Unhonored genius, and her swift decay ; 
 Patron of the poor ! it cannot be, 
 While one — one Poet yet remains like thee ! 
 Nor can the Muse desert our favored isle, 
 Till thou desert the Muse and scorn her smile. 
 
HYMN. 89 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 "Ye are the salt of the earth." 
 
 SALT of the earth, ye virtuous few, 
 Who season human-kind ; 
 Light of the world, whose cheering ray 
 Illumes the realms of mind : 
 
 Where Misery spreads her deepest shade, 
 
 Your strong compassion glows ; 
 From your blest lips the balm distils, 
 
 That softens mortal woes. 
 
 By dying-beds, in prison glooms, 
 
 Your frequent steps are found ; 
 Angels of love ! you hover near, 
 
 To bind the stranger's wound. 
 
 You wash with tears the bloody page 
 
 Which human crimes deform ; 
 When vengeance threats, your prayers ascend 
 
 And break the gathering storm. 
 
 As down the summer stream of vice 
 The thoughtless many glide ; 
 
90 "WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Upward you steer your steady bark, 
 And stem the rushing tide. 
 
 "Where guilt her foul contagion breathes, 
 
 And golden spoils allure ; 
 Unspotted still your garments shine, — 
 
 Your hands are ever pure. 
 
 "Whene'er you touch the poet's lyre, 
 
 A loftier strain is heard ; 
 Each ardent thought is yours alone, 
 
 And every burning word. 
 
 Yours is the large, expansive thought, 
 
 The high, heroic deed ; 
 Exile and chains to you are dear, — 
 
 To you 't is sweet to bleed. 
 
 You lift on high the warning voice, 
 
 When public ills prevail ; 
 Yours is the writing on the wall 
 
 That turns the tyrant pale. 
 
 The dogs of hell your steps pursue, 
 With scoff, and shame, and loss. 
 
 The hemlock bowl 't is yours to drain, 
 To taste the bitter cross. 
 
HYMN. 91 
 
 E'en yet the steaming scaffolds smoke 
 
 By Seine's polluted stream ; 
 With your rich blood the fields are drenched 
 
 Where Polish sabres gleam. 
 
 E'en now, through those accursed bars 
 
 In vain we send our sighs ; 
 Where, deep in Olmutz' dungeon glooms, 
 
 The patriot martyr lies. 
 
 Yet yours is all through History's rolls 
 
 The kindling bosom feels ; 
 And at your tomb, with throbbing heart, 
 
 The fond enthusiast kneels. 
 
 In every faith, through every clime, 
 
 Your pilgrim steps we trace ; 
 And shrines are dressed, and temples rise, 
 
 Each hallowed spot to grace ; 
 
 And paeans loud, in every tongue, 
 
 And choral hymns resound ; 
 And lengthening honors hand your name 
 
 To time's remotest bound. 
 
 Proceed ! your race of glory run, 
 
 Your virtuous toils endure ! 
 You come, commissioned from on high, 
 
 And your reward is sure. 
 
92 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BAEBAULD. 
 
 WASHIXG-DAY. 
 
 " . . . . And their voice, 
 TurniDg again towards childish treble, pipes 
 And whistles in its sound." 
 
 THE Muses are turned gossips ; they have lost 
 The buskined step, and clear, high-sounding phrase, 
 Language of gods. Come, then, domestic Muse, 
 In slipshod measure loosely prattling on 
 Of farm or orchard, pleasant curds and cream, 
 Or drowning flies, or shoe lost in the mire 
 By little whimpering boy, with rueful face ; 
 Come, Muse, and sing the dreaded Washing-day. 
 Ye who beneath the yoke of wedlock bend, 
 With bowed soul, full well ye ken the day 
 Which week, smooth sliding after week, brings on 
 Too soon; — for to that day nor peace belongs, 
 Xor comfort ; ere the first gray streak of dawn, 
 The red-armed washers come and chase repose. 
 Xor pleasant smile, nor quaint device of mirth, 
 E'er visited that day : the very cat, 
 From the wet kitchen's scared and reeking hearth, 
 Visits the parlor, — an unwonted guest. 
 The silent breakfast -meal is soon despatched ; 
 Uninterrupted, save by anxious looks 
 
WASHING-DAT. 93 
 
 Cast at the lowering sky, if sky should lower. 
 
 From that last evil, preserve us, heavens ! 
 
 For should the skies pour down, adieu to all 
 
 Remains of quiet : then expect to hear 
 
 Of sad disasters, — dirt and gravel stains 
 
 Hard to efface, and loaded lines at once 
 
 Snapped short, — and linen-horse by dog thrown down, 
 
 And all the petty miseries of life. 
 
 Saints have been calm while stretched upon the rack, 
 
 And Guatimozin smiled on burning coals ; 
 
 But never yet did housewife notable 
 
 Greet with a smile a rainy washing-day. 
 
 But grant the welkin fair, require not thou 
 
 Who call'st thyself perchance the master there, 
 
 Or study swept, or nicely dusted coat, 
 
 Or usual 'tendance, — ask not, indiscreet, 
 
 Thy stockings mended, though the yawning rents 
 
 Gape wide as Erebus ; nor hope to find 
 
 Some snug recess impervious : shouldst thou try 
 
 The 'customed garden-walks, thine eyes shall rue 
 
 The budding fragrance of thy tender shrubs, 
 
 Myrtle or rose, all crushed beneath the weight 
 
 Of coarse checked apron, — with impatient hand 
 
 Twitched off when showers impend : or crossing lines 
 
 Shall mar thy musings, as the wet, cold sheet 
 
 Flaps in thy face abrupt. Woe to the friend 
 
 Whose evil stars have urged him forth to claim 
 
94 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 On such a day the hospitable rites ! 
 
 Looks, blank at best, and stinted courtesy, 
 
 Shall he receive. Vainly he feeds his hopes 
 
 With dinner of roast chicken*, savory pie, 
 
 Or tart, or pudding : — pudding he nor tart 
 
 That day shall eat ; nor, though the husband try, 
 
 Mending what can't be helped, to kindle mirth 
 
 From cheer deficient, shall his consort's brow 
 
 Clear up propitious : the unlucky guest 
 
 In silence dines, and early slinks away. 
 
 I well remember, when a child, the awe 
 
 This day struck into me ; for then the maids, 
 
 I scarce knew why, looked cross, and drove me from 
 
 them: 
 !Nor soft caress could I obtain ; nor hope 
 Usual indulgences ; jelly or creams, 
 Eelic of costly suppers, and set by 
 For me their petted one, or buttered toast, 
 When butter was forbid ; or thrilling tale 
 Of ghost or witch or murder, — so I went 
 And sheltered me beside the parlor fire : 
 There my dear grandmother, eldest of forms, 
 Tended the litde ones, and watched from harm, 
 Anxiously fond, though oft her spectacles 
 With elfin cunning hid, and oft the pins 
 Drawn from her ravelled stockings, might have soured 
 One less indulgent. — 
 
TO MR. S. T. COLERIDGE. 95 
 
 At intervals my mother's voice was heard, 
 
 Urging despatch : briskly the work went on, 
 
 All hands employed to wash, to rinse, to wring, 
 
 To fold, and starch, and clap, and iron, and plait. 
 
 Then would I sit me down, and ponder much 
 
 Why washings were. Sometimes through hollow bowl 
 
 Of pipe amused we blew, and sent aloft 
 
 The floating bubbles ; little dreaming then 
 
 To see, Montgolfier, thy silken ball 
 
 Eide buoyant through the clouds, — so near approach 
 
 The sports of children and the toils of men. 
 
 Earth, air, and sky, and ocean hath its bubbles, 
 
 And verse is one of them, — this most of alL 
 
 TO ME. S. T. COLEELDGE. 
 
 1797. 
 
 MIDWAY the hill of science, after steep 
 And rugged paths that tire the unpractised feet, 
 A grove extends ; in tangled mazes wrought, 
 And filled with strange enchantment : — dubious shapes 
 Flit through dim glades, and lure the eager foot 
 Of youthful ardor to eternal chase. 
 Dreams hang on every leaf : unearthly forms 
 Glide through the gloom ; and mystic visions swim 
 
96 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Before the cheated sense. Athwart the mists, 
 
 Far into vacant space, huge shadows stretch, 
 
 And seem realities ; while things of life, 
 
 Obvious to sight and touch, all glowing round, 
 
 Fade to the hue of shadows. — Scruples here, 
 
 With filmy net, most like the autumnal webs 
 
 Of floating gossamer, arrest the foot 
 
 Of generous enterprise ; and palsy hope 
 
 And fair ambition with the chilling touch 
 
 Of sickly hesitation and blank fear. 
 
 Nor seldom Indolence these lawns among 
 
 Fixes her turf-built seat ; and wears the garb 
 
 Of deep pliilosophy, and museful sits, 
 
 In dreamy twilight of the vacant mind, 
 
 Soothed by the whispering shade ; for soothing soft 
 
 The shades ; and vistas lengthening into air, 
 
 With moonbeam rainbows tinted. Here each mind 
 
 Of finer mould, acute and delicate, 
 
 In its high progress to eternal truth 
 
 Bests for a space, in fairy bowers entranced ; 
 
 And loves the softened light and tender gloom ; 
 
 And, pampered with most unsubstantial food, 
 
 Looks down indignant on the grosser world, 
 
 And matter's cumbrous shapings. Youth beloved 
 
 Of Science, — of the Muse beloved, — not here, 
 
 Not in the maze of metaphysic lore, 
 
 Build thou thy place of resting ! lightly tread 
 
PEACE AND SHEPHERD. 97 
 
 The dangerous ground, on noble aims intent ; 
 And be this Circe of the studious cell 
 Enjoyed, but still subservient. Active scenes 
 Shall soon with healthful spirit brace thy mind ; 
 And fair exertion, for bright fame sustained ; 
 For friends, for country, close each spleen-fed fog 
 That blots the wide creation. — 
 Now Heaven conduct thee with a parent's love ! 
 
 PEACE AND SHEPHERD. 
 
 LOW in a deep, sequestered vale, 
 Whence Alpine heights ascend, ' 
 A beauteous nymph, in pilgrim garb, 
 Is seen her steps to bend. 
 
 Her olive garland drops with gore ; 
 
 Her scattered tresses torn, 
 Her bleeding breast, her bruised feet, 
 
 Bespeak a maid forlorn. 
 
 " From bower, and hall, and palace driven, 
 
 To these lone wilds I flee ; 
 My name is Peace, — I love the cot ; 
 
 Shepherd, shelter me ! " 
 
98 WORKS OF BIBS. BAKBAULD. 
 
 " beauteous pilgrim, why dost thou 
 
 From bower and palace flee ? 
 So soft thy voice, so sweet thy look, 
 
 Sure all would shelter thee !' 
 
 " Like Noah's dove, no rest I find ; 
 
 The din of battle roars 
 Where once my steps I loved to print 
 
 Along the myrtle shores : 
 
 " Forever in my frighted ears 
 The savage war-whoop sounds ; 
 
 And like a panting hare I fly 
 Before the opening hounds." 
 
 " Pilgrim, those spiry groves among, 
 The mansions thou mayst see, 
 
 Where cloistered saints chant holy hymns, - 
 Sure such would shelter thee ! " 
 
 " Those roofs with trophied banners stream, 
 There martial hymns resound ; — 
 
 And, Shephard, oft from crosiered hands 
 This breast has felt a wound." 
 
 " Ah ! gentle pilgrim, glad would I 
 Those tones forever hear ! 
 
WEST END FAIR. 99 
 
 With thee to share my scanty lot, 
 That lot to me were dear." 
 
 " But lo, along the vine-clad steep, 
 
 The gleam of armor shines ; 
 His scattered flock, his straw-roofed hut, 
 
 The helpless swain resigns. 
 
 " And now the smouldering flames aspire ; 
 
 Their lurid light I see ; 
 I hear the human wolves approach, 
 
 I cannot shelter thee." 
 
 WEST EKD EAIB. 
 
 DAME Charity one day was tired 
 With nursing of her children three, 
 So might you be 
 If you had nursed and nursed so long 
 A little squalling throng ; — 
 So she, like any earthly lady, 
 Eesolved for once she 'd have a play-day. 
 
 " I cannot always go about 
 
 To hospitals and prisons trudging, 
 
100 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Or fag from morn to night 
 Teaching to spell and write 
 A barefoot rout, 
 Swept from the streets by poor Lancaster, 
 My sub-master. 
 
 " That Howard ran me out of breath, 
 And Thornton and a hundred more 
 
 Will be my death ; 
 The air is sweet, the month is gay, 
 " And I," said she, " must have a holiday." 
 
 So said, she doffed her robes of brow^n, 
 In which she commonly is seen, — 
 
 Like French Beguine, — 
 And sent for ornaments to town : 
 And Taste in Flavia's form stood by, 
 Pencilled her eyebrows, curled her hair, 
 Disposed each ornament with care, 
 And hung her round with trinkets rare, 
 She scarcely, looking in the glass, 
 
 Knew her own face. 
 
 So forth she sallied blithe and gay, 
 And met Dame Fashion by the way ; 
 And many a kind and friendly greeting 
 Passed on their meeting ; 
 
WEST END FAIR. 101 
 
 Nor let the fact your wonder move, 
 
 Abroad and on a gala-day 
 Fashion and she are hand and glove. 
 
 So on they walked together, 
 
 Bright was the weather ; 
 Dame Charity was frank and warm, 
 But being rather apt to tire 
 
 She leant on Fashion's arm. 
 
 And now away for West End Fair, 
 Where whiskey, chariot, coach, and chair 
 
 Are all in requisition. 
 
 In neat attire the Graces 
 Behind the counters take their places, 
 
 And humbly do petition 
 To dress the booths with flowers and sweets, 
 
 As fine as any May-day, 
 Where Charity with Fashion meets, 
 
 And keeps her play-day. 
 
102 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 DIRGE. 
 
 WRITTEN NOVEMBER, 1808. 
 
 PURE spirit ! 0, where art thou now ? 
 0, whisper to my soul ! 
 0, let some soothing thought of thee 
 
 This bitter grief control ! 
 
 'T is not for thee the tears I shed, 
 
 Thy sufferings now are o'er ; 
 The sea is calm, the tempest past, 
 
 On that eternal shore. 
 
 No more the storms that wrecked thy peace 
 
 Shall tear that gentle breast ; 
 Nor Summer's rage, nor Winter's cold, 
 
 Thy poor, poor frame molest. 
 
 Thy peace is sealed, thy rest is sure, 
 
 My sorrows are to come ; 
 Awhile I weep and linger here, 
 
 Then follow to the tomb. 
 
 And is the awful veil withdrawn, 
 That shrouds from mortal eyes, 
 
DIRGE. 103 
 
 In deep, impenetrable gloom, 
 The secrets of the skies ? 
 
 O, in some dream of visioned bliss, 
 
 Some trance of rapture, show- 
 Where, on the bosom of thy God, 
 
 Thou rest'st from human woe ! 
 
 Hence may thy pure devotion's flame 
 
 On me, on me descend ; 
 To me thy strong aspiring hopes, 
 
 Thy faith, thy fervors, lend. 
 
 Let these my lonely path illume, 
 
 And teach my weakened mind 
 To welcome all that 's left of good, 
 
 To all that 's lost resigned. 
 
 Farewell ! with honor, peace, and love, 
 
 Be thy dear memory blest ; 
 Thou hast no tears for me to shed 
 
 When I too am at rest. 
 
104 WORKS OF MRS. BAEBAULD. 
 
 THE UNKNOWN GOD. 
 
 TO learned Athens, led by fame, 
 As once the man of Tarsus came, 
 With pity and surprise, 
 'Midst idol altars as he stood, 
 O'er sculptured marble, brass, and wood 
 He rolled his awful eyes. 
 
 But one, apart, his notice caught, 
 
 That seemed with higher meaning fraught, 
 
 Graved on the wounded stone ; 
 Nor form nor name was there expressed ; 
 Deep reverence filled the musing breast, 
 
 Perusing, " To the God Unknown." 
 
 Age after age has rolled away, 
 Altars and thrones have felt decay, 
 
 Sages and saints have risen ; 
 And, like a giant roused from sleep, 
 Man has explored the pathless deep, 
 
 And lightnings snatched from heaven. 
 
 And many a shrine in dust is laid, 
 Where kneeling nations homage paid, 
 
 . 
 
ODE TO REMORSE. 105 
 
 By rock, or fount, or grove : 
 Ephesian Dian sees no more 
 Her workmen fuse the silver ore, 
 
 ]Nor Capitolian Jove. 
 
 E'en Salem's hallowed courts have ceased 
 With solemn pomps her tribes to feast, 
 
 No more the victim bleeds ; 
 To censers filled with rare perfumes, 
 And vestments from Egyptian looms, — 
 
 A purer rite succeeds. 
 
 Yet still where'er presumptuous man 
 His Maker's essence strives to scan, 
 
 And lifts his feeble hands, 
 Though saint and sage their powers unite 
 To fathom that abyss of light, 
 
 Ah ! still that altar stands. 
 
 ODE TO EE^IOESE. 
 
 DEEAD offspring of the holy light within, 
 Offspring of Conscience and of Sin, 
 Stern as thine awful sire, and fraught with woe 
 From bitter springs thy mother taught to flow, - 
 
106 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Eemorse ! To man alone 't is given 
 Of all on earth, or all in heaven, 
 To wretched man thy bitter cup to drain, 
 Feel thy awakening stings, and taste thy wholesome pain. 
 
 'Midst Eden's blissful bowers, 
 
 And amaranthine flowers, 
 Thy birth portentous dimmed the orient day, 
 
 What time our hapless sire, 
 
 O'ercome by fond desire, 
 The high command presumed to disobey ; 
 Then didst thou rear thy snaky crest, 
 And raise thy scorpion lash to tear the guilty breast : 
 
 And never, since that fatal hour, 
 May man, of woman born, expect to escape thy power. 
 
 Thy goading stings the branded Cain 
 'Cross the untrodden desert drove, 
 Ere from his cradling home and native plain 
 Domestic man had learnt to rove. 
 By gloomy shade or lonely flood 
 Of vast primeval solitude, 
 Thy step his hurried steps pursued, 
 Thy voice awoke his conscious fears, 
 Forever sounding in his ears 
 A father's curse, a brother's blood ; 
 Till life was misery too great to bear, 
 And torturing thought was lost in sullen, dumb despair. 
 
ODE TO REMORSE. 107 
 
 The king who sat on Judah's throne, 
 By guilty love to murder wrought, 
 Was taught thy searching power to own, 
 
 When, sent of Heaven, the seer his royal presence sought. 
 As, wrapt in artful phrase, with sorrow feigned 
 He told of helpless, meek distress, 
 And wrongs that sought from power redress, 
 The pity-moving tale his ear obtained, 
 And bade his better feelings wake ; 
 Then, sudden as the trodden snake 
 On the scared traveller darts his fangs, 
 
 The prophet's bold rebuke aroused thy keenest pangs. 
 
 And that look, that soft, upbraiding look ! 
 A thousand cutting, tender things it spoke, — 
 The sword so lately drawn was not so keen, — 
 Which, as the injured Master turned him round 
 
 In the strange, solemn scene, 
 And the shrill clarion gave the appointed sound, 
 
 Pierced sudden through the reins 
 
 Awakening all thy pains, 
 
 And drew a silent shower of bitter tears 
 Down Peter's blushing cheek, late pale with coward fears. 
 
 Cruel Remorse ! where Youth and Pleasure sport, 
 And thoughtless Folly keeps her court, — 
 
 Crouching 'midst rosy bowers thou lurk'st unseen ; 
 Slumbering the festal hours away, 
 
108 WOBKS or MBS. BABBAULD. 
 
 While Youth disports in that enchanting scene ; 
 
 Till on some fated day 
 Thou with a tiger-spring dost leap upon thy prey, 
 And tear his helpless breast, o'erwhelmed with wild 
 
 dismay. 
 
 Mark that poor wretch with clasped hands ! 
 Pale o'er his parents' grave he stands, — 
 The grave by his ingratitude prepared ; 
 Ah, then, where'er he rests his head, 
 On roses pillowed or the softest down, 
 Though festal wreaths his temples crown, 
 He well might envy Guatimozin's bed, 
 With burning coals and sulphur spread, 
 And with less agony his torturing hour have shared 
 
 For Thou art by to point the keen reproach ; 
 Thou draw'st the curtains of his nightly couch, 
 Bring'st back the reverend face with tears bedewed, 
 
 That o'er his follies yearned ; 
 
 The warnings oft in vain renewed, 
 
 The looks of anguish and of love, 
 
 His stubborn breast that failed to move, 
 AYhen in the scorner's chair he sat, and wholesome 
 counsel spurned. 
 
 Lives there a man whose laboring breast 
 Is with some dark and guilty secret prest, 
 
ODE TO REMOESE. 109 
 
 Who hides within its inmost fold 
 Strange crimes to mortal ear untold ? 
 In vain to sad Chartreuse he flies, 
 'Midst savage rocks and cloisters dim and drear, 
 And there to shun thee tries : 
 In vain untold his crime to mortal ear, 
 Silence and whispered sounds but make thy voice more 
 clear. 
 
 Lo where the cowled monk with frantic rage 
 
 Lifts high the sounding scourge, his bleeding shoulders 
 
 smites ! 
 Penance and fasts his anxious thoughts engage, 
 Weary his days and joyless are his nights, 
 His naked feet the flinty pavement tears, 
 His knee at every shrine the marble wears ; — 
 
 Why does he lift the cruel scourge ? 
 
 The restless pilgrimage why urge ? 
 
 'T is all to quell thy fiercer rage, 
 
 'T is all to soothe thy deep despair, 
 He courts the body's pangs, for thine he cannot bear. 
 
 See, o'er the bleeding corse of her he loved 
 
 The jealous murderer bends unmoved, 
 Trembling with rage, his livid lips express 
 His frantic passion's wild and rash excess. 
 God, she 's innocent ! transfixt he stands, 
 
110 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Pierced through with shafts from thine avenging hands; 
 
 Down his pale cheek no tear will flow, 
 Xor can he shun, nor can he bear, his woe. 
 
 'T was phantoms summoned by thy power, 
 Bound Eichard's couch at midnight hour, 
 That scared the tyrant from unblest repose ; 
 "With frantic haste, " To horse ! to horse ! " he cries, 
 "While on his crowned brow cold sweat-drops rise, 
 
 And fancied spears his spear oppose ; 
 But not the swiftest steed can bear away 
 From thy firm grasp thine agonizing prey. 
 
 Thou wast the fiend, and thou alone, 
 
 That stood'st by Beaufort's mitred head, 
 With upright hair and visage ghastly pale : 
 
 Thy terrors shook his dying bed, 
 Past crimes and blood his sinking heart assail, 
 His hands are clasped, — hark to that hollow groan ! 
 See how his glazed, dim eyeballs wildly roll, 
 'T is not dissolving nature's pains ; that pang is of the 
 soul. 
 
 Where guilty souls are doomed to dwell, 
 'T is thou that mak'st their fiercest hell, 
 The vulture thou that on their liver feeds, 
 As rise to view their past unhallowed deeds : 
 
ODE TO REMORSE. Ill 
 
 With thee condemned to stay 
 Till time has rolled away 
 Long aeras of uncounted }^ears, 
 And every stain is washed in soft, repentant tears. 
 
 Servant of God, — but unbeloved, — proceed, 
 For thou must live and ply thy scorpion-scourge ; 
 
 Thy sharp upbraidings urge 
 
 Against the unrighteous deed, 
 Till thine accursed mother shall expire, 
 And a new world spring forth from renovating fire. 
 
 ! when the glare of day is fled, 
 
 And calm, beneath the evening- star, 
 
 Reflection leans her pensive head, 
 And calls the passions to her solemn bar ; 
 Reviews the censure rash, the hasty word, 
 
 The purposed act too long deferred, 
 
 Of time the wasted treasures lent, 
 And fair occasions lost and golden hours misspent ; 
 
 When anxious Memory numbers o'er 
 Each offered prize we failed to seize ; 
 Or friends laid low, whom now no more 
 Our fondest love can serve or please, 
 And thou, dread power, bring'st back in terror drest 
 The irrevocable past, to sting the careless breast ; — 
 
112 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 ! in that hour be mine* to know, 
 While fast the silent sorrows flow, 
 And wisdom cherishes the wholesome pain, 
 No heavier guilt, no deeper stain, 
 Than tears of meek contrition may atone, 
 Shed at the mercy-seat of Heaven's eternal throne. 
 
 ETEEXITY. 
 
 .... The year has run 
 Its round of seasons, has fulfilled its course, 
 Absolved its destined period, and is borne, 
 Silent and swift, to that devouring gulf, 
 Their womb the grave, where seasons, months, and years, 
 Eevolving periods of uncounted time, 
 All merge and are forgotten. — Thou alone, 
 In thy deep bosom burying all the past, 
 Still art ; and still from thine exhaustless store 
 Xew periods spring, Eternity. — Thy name, 
 Or glad, or fearful, we pronounce, as thoughts 
 "Wandering in darkness shape thee. Thou strange being, 
 Which art and must be, yet which contradict'st 
 All sense, all reasoning, — thou who never wast 
 Less than thyself, and who art still thyself 
 Entire, though the deep draught which Time has taken 
 
 
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. 113 
 
 Equals thy present store. — No line can reach 
 To thy unfathonied depths. The reasoning sage 
 Who can dissect a sunbeam, count the stars, 
 And measure distant worlds, is here a child, 
 And, humbled, drops his calculating pen. 
 And wrecks of empire and of world are borne 
 Like atoms on its bosom. Still tJwu art, 
 And he who does inhabit thee. 
 
 EIGHTEEN" HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. 
 
 STILL the loud death-drum, thundering from afar, 
 O'er the vext nations pours the storm of war : 
 To the stern call still Britain leads her ear, 
 Feeds the fierce strife, the alternate hope and fear ; 
 Bravely, though vainly, dares to strive with Fate, 
 And seeks by turns to prop each sinking state. 
 Colossal power with overwhelming force 
 Bears down each foot of Freedom in its course ; 
 Prostrate she lies beneath the despot's sway, 
 While the hushed nations curse him — and obey. 
 
 Bounteous in vain, with frantic man at strife, 
 Glad Nature pours the means — the joys of life ; 
 
114 WORKS OF MBS. BAKBAULD. 
 
 In vain with orange-blossoms scents the gale, 
 
 The hills with olives clothes, with corn the vale ; 
 
 Man calls to Famine, nor invokes in vain, 
 
 Disease and Eapine follow in her train ; 
 
 The tramp of marching hosts disturbs the plough, 
 
 The sword, not sickle, reaps the harvest now, 
 
 And where the soldier gleans the scant supply, 
 
 The helpless peasant but retires to die ; 
 
 No laws his hut from licensed outrage shield, 
 
 And war's least horror is the ensanguined field. 
 
 Fruitful in vain, the matron counts with pride 
 
 The blooming youths that grace her honored side ; 
 
 Xo son returns to press her widowed hand, 
 
 Her fallen blossoms strew a foreign strand. 
 
 — Fruitful in vain, she boasts her virgin race, 
 
 "Whom cultured arts adorn and gentlest grace ; 
 
 Defrauded of its homage, Beauty mourns 
 
 And the rose withers on its virgin thorns. 
 
 Frequent, some stream obscure, some uncouth name, 
 
 By deeds of blood is lifted into fame ; 
 
 Oft o'er the daily page some soft one bends 
 
 To learn the fate of husband, brothers, friends, 
 
 Or the spread map with anxious eye explores, 
 
 Its dotted boundaries and pencilled shores, 
 
 Asks where the spot that wrecked her bliss is found, 
 
 And learns its name but to detest the sound. 
 
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. 115 
 
 And think'st thou, Britain, still to sit at ease, 
 
 An island queen amidst thy subject seas, 
 
 "While the vext billows, in their distant roar, 
 
 But soothe thy slumbers, and but kiss thy shore ? 
 
 To sport in wars, while danger keeps aloof, 
 
 Thy grassy turf unbruised by hostile hoof ? 
 
 So sing thy flatterers ; — but, Britain, know, 
 
 Thou who hast shared the guilt must share the woe. 
 
 Nor distant is the hour ; low murmurs spread, 
 
 And whispered fears, creating what they dread ; 
 
 Euin, as with an earthquake shock, is here, 
 
 There, the heart- witherings of unuttered fear, 
 
 And that sad death, whence most affection bleeds, 
 
 Which sickness, only of the soul, precedes. 
 
 Thy baseless wealth dissolves in air away, 
 
 Like mists that melt before the morning ray : 
 
 No more on crowded mart or busy street 
 
 Friends, meeting friends, with cheerful hurry greet ; 
 
 Sad, on the ground thy princely merchants bend 
 
 Their altered looks, and evil days portend, 
 
 And fold their arms, and watch with anxious breast 
 
 The tempest blackening in the distant W^est. 
 
 Yes, thou must droop ; thy Midas dream is o'er ; 
 The golden tide of Commerce leaves thy shore, 
 Leaves thee to prove the alternate ills that haunt 
 Enfeebling Luxury and ghastly Want ; 
 
116 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Leaves thee, perhaps, to visit distant lands, 
 And deal the gifts of Heaven with equal hands. 
 
 Yet, my Country, name beloved, revered, 
 
 By every tie that binds the soul endeared, 
 
 Whose image to my infant senses came 
 
 Mixt with Eeligion's light and Freedom's holy flame ! 
 
 If prayers may not avert, if 't is thy fate 
 
 To rank amongst the names that once were great, 
 
 Not like the dim, cold Crescent shalt thou fade, 
 
 Thy debt to Science and the Muse unpaid ; 
 
 Thine are the laws surrounding states revere, 
 
 Thine the full harvest of the mental year, 
 
 Thine the bright stars in Glory's sky that shine, 
 
 And arts that make it life to live are thine. 
 
 If westward streams the light that leaves thy shores, 
 
 Still from thy lamp the streaming radiance pours. 
 
 Wide spreads thy race from Ganges to the pole, 
 
 O'er half the Western world thy accents roll : 
 
 Nations beyond the Apalachian hills 
 
 Thy hand has planted and thy spirit fills : 
 
 Soon as their gradual progress shall impart 
 
 The finer sense of morals and of art, 
 
 Thy stores of knowledge the new states shall know, 
 
 And think thy thoughts, and with thy fancy glow ; 
 
 Thy Lockes, thy Paleys, shall instruct their youth, 
 
 Thy leading star direct their search for truth ; 
 
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. 117 
 
 Beneath the spreading platane's tent-like shade, 
 
 Or by Missouri's rushing waters laid, 
 
 " Old Father Thames " shall be the poet's theme, 
 
 Of Hagley's woods the enamored virgin dream, 
 
 And Milton's tones the raptured ear enthrall, 
 
 Mixt with the roaring of Niagara's fall ; 
 
 In Thomson's glass the ingenuous youth shall learn 
 
 A fairer face of Nature to discern ; 
 
 Nor of the bards that swept the British lyre 
 
 Shall fade one laurel, or one note expire. 
 
 Then, loved Joanna, to admiring eyes 
 
 Thy storied groups in scenic pomp shall rise ; 
 
 Their high-souled strains and Shakespeare's noble rage 
 
 Shall with alternate passion shake the stage. 
 
 Some youthful Basil from thy moral lay 
 
 With stricter hand his fond desires shall sway ; 
 
 Some Ethwald, as the fleeting shadows pass, 
 
 Start at his likeness in the mystic glass ; 
 
 The tragic Muse resume her just control, 
 
 With pity and with terror purge the soul, 
 
 While wide o'er transatlantic realms thy name 
 
 Shall live in light and gather all its fame. 
 
 Where wanders Fancy down the lapse of years, 
 Shedding o'er imaged woes untimely tears ? 
 Fond, moody power ! as hopes — as fears prevail, 
 She longs, or dreads, to lift the awful veil, 
 
 L 
 
118 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 On visions of delight now loves to dwell, 
 Now hears the shriek of woe or Freedom's knell : 
 Perhaps, she says, long ages past away, 
 And set in western wave our closing day, 
 Night, Gothic night, again may shade the plains 
 Where Power is seated, and where Science reigns ; 
 England, the seat of arts, be only known 
 By the gray ruin and the mouldering stone ; 
 That Time may tear the garland from her brow, 
 And Europe sit in dust, as Asia now. 
 
 Yet then the ingenuous youth whom Fancy fires 
 
 With pictured glories of illustrious sires, 
 
 With duteous zeal their pilgrimage shall take 
 
 From the Blue Mountains, or Ontario's lake, 
 
 "With fond, adoring steps to press the sod 
 
 By statesmen, sages, poets, heroes, trod ; 
 
 On Isis' banks to draw inspiring air, 
 
 From Eunnymede to send the patriot's prayer ; 
 
 In pensive thought, where Cam's slow waters wind, 
 
 To meet those shades that ruled the realms of mind ; 
 
 In silent halls to sculptured marbles bow, 
 
 And hang fresh wreaths round Newton's awful brow. 
 
 Oft shall they seek some peasant's homely shed, 
 
 Who toils, unconscious of the mighty dead, 
 
 To ask where Avon's winding w r aters stray, 
 
 And thence a knot of wild flowers bear away ; 
 
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. 119 
 
 Anxious inquire where Clarkson, friend of man, 
 
 Or all-accomplished Jones his race began ; 
 
 If of the modest mansion aught remains 
 
 Where Heaven and Nature prompted Cowper's strains ; 
 
 "Where Koscoe, to whose patriot breast belong 
 
 The Eoman virtue and the Tuscan song, 
 
 Led Ceres to the black and barren moor 
 
 Where Ceres never gained a wreath before : * 
 
 With curious search their pilgrim steps shall rove 
 
 By many a ruined tower and proud alcove, 
 
 Shall listen for those strains that soothed of yore 
 
 Thy rock, stern Skiddaw, and thy fall, Lodore ; 
 
 Feast with Dun Edin's classic brow their sight, 
 
 And "visit Melross by the pale moonlight." 
 
 But who their mingled feelings shall pursue 
 
 When London's faded glories rise to view ? 
 
 The mighty city, which by every road, 
 
 In floods of people poured itself abroad 
 
 Ungirt by Walls, irregularly great, 
 
 No jealous drawbridge, and no closing gate ; 
 
 Whose merchants (such the state which commerce brings) 
 
 Sent forth their mandates to dependent kings ; 
 
 Streets, where the turbaned Moslem, bearded Jew, 
 
 And woolly Afric, met the brown Hindu ; 
 
 * The historian, of the age of Leo brought into cultivation the ex- 
 tensive tract of Chatmoss. — Ed. 
 
120 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Where through each vein spontaneous plenty flowed, 
 Where Wealth enjoyed, and Charity bestowed. 
 Pensive and thoughtful shall the wanderers greet 
 Each splendid square, and still, untrodden street ; 
 Or of some crumbling turret, mined by time, 
 The broken stairs with perilous step shall climb, 
 Thence stretch their view the wide horizon round, 
 By scattered hamlets trace its ancient bound, 
 And, choked no more with fleets, fair Thames survey 
 Through reeds and sedge pursue his idle way. 
 
 With throbbing bosoms shall the wanderers tread 
 The hallowed mansions of the silent dead. 
 Shall enter the long aisle and vaulted dome 
 Where Genius and where Valor find a home ; 
 Awe-struck 'midst chill sepulchral marbles breathe, 
 Where all above is still, as all beneath ; 
 Bend at each antique shrine, and frequent turn 
 To clasp with fond delight some sculptured urn, 
 The ponderous mass of Johnson's form to greet, 
 Or breathe the prayer at Howard's sainted feet. 
 
 Perhaps some Briton, in whose musing mind 
 Those ages live which Time has cast behind, 
 To every spot shall lead his wondering guests 
 On whose known site the beam of glory rests ; 
 Here Chatham's eloquence in thunder broke, 
 
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. 121 
 
 Here Fox persuaded, or here Garrick spoke ; 
 
 Shall boast how Nelson, fame and death in view, 
 
 To wonted victory led his ardent crew, 
 
 In England's name enforced, with loftiest tone,* 
 
 Their duty, — - and too well fulfilled his own : 
 
 How gallant Moore,-(- as ebbing life dissolved, 
 
 But hoped his country had his fame absolved. 
 
 Or call up sages whose capacious mind 
 
 Left in its course a track of light behind ; 
 
 Point where mute crowds on Davy's lips reposed, 
 
 And Nature's coyest secrets were disclosed ; 
 
 Join with their Franklin, Priestley's injured name, 
 
 "Whom, then, each continent shall proudly claim. 
 
 Oft shall the strangers turn their eager feet 
 The rich remains of ancient art to greet, 
 The pictured walls with critic eye explore, 
 And Eeynolds be what Eaphael was before. 
 On spoils from every clime their eyes shall gaze, 
 Egyptian granites and the Etruscan vase ; 
 And when 'midst fallen London they survey 
 The stone where Alexander's ashes lay, 
 Shall own with humbled pride the lesson just 
 
 * Every reader will recollect the sublime telegraphic despatch, 
 " England expects every man to do his duty." 
 
 t " I hope England will be satisfied," were the last words of General 
 Moore. — Ed. 
 
 VOL. II. 6 
 
 
122 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 By Time's slow finger written in the dust. 
 There walks a Spirit o'er the peopled earth, 
 Secret his progress is, unknown his birth ; 
 Moody and viewless as the changing wind, 
 No force arrests his foot, no chains can bind ; 
 Where'er he turns, the human brute awakes, 
 And, roused to better life, his sordid hut forsakes : 
 He thinks, he reasons, glows with purer fires, 
 Feels finer wants, and burns with new desires : 
 Obedient Nature follows where he leads ; 
 The steaming marsh is changed to fruitful meads ; 
 The beasts retire from man's asserted reign, 
 And prove his kingdom was not given in vain. 
 Then from its bed is drawn the ponderous ore, 
 Then Commerce pours her gifts on every shore, 
 Then Babel's towers and terraced gardens rise, 
 And pointed obelisks invade the skies ; 
 The prince commands, in Tyrian purple drest, 
 And Egypt's virgins weave the linen vest. 
 Then spans the graceful arch the roaring tide, 
 And stricter bounds the cultured fields divide. 
 Then kindles Fancy, then expands the heart, 
 Then blow the flowers of Genius and of Art ; 
 Saints, heroes, sages, who the land adorn, 
 Seems rather to descend than to be born ; 
 While History, 'midst the rolls consigned to fame, 
 With pen of adamant inscribes their name. 
 
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. 123 
 
 The Genius now forsakes the favored shore, 
 
 And hates, capricious, what he loved before ; 
 
 Then empires fall to dust, then arts decay, 
 
 And wasted realms enfeebled despots sway ; 
 
 Even Nature 's changed ; without his fostering smile 
 
 Ophir no gold, no plenty yields the Nile ; 
 
 The thirsty sand absorbs the useless rill, 
 
 And spotted plagues from putrid fens distil. 
 
 In desert solitudes then Tadmor sleeps, 
 
 Stern Marius then o'er fallen Carthage weeps ; 
 
 Then with enthusiast love the pilgrim roves 
 
 To seek his footsteps in forsaken groves, 
 
 Explores the fractured arch, the ruined tower, 
 
 Those limbs disjointed of gigantic power ; 
 
 Still at each step he dreads the adder's sting, 
 
 The Arab's javelin, or the tiger's spring ; 
 
 With doubtful caution treads the echoing ground, 
 
 And asks where Troy or Babylon is found. 
 
 And now the vagrant Power no more detains 
 The vale of Tempe or Ausonian plains ; 
 Northward he throws the animating ray, 
 O'er Celtic nations bursts the mental day ; 
 And, as some playful child the mirror turns, 
 N'ow here, now there, the moving lustre burns ; 
 ^ow o'er his changeful fancy more prevail 
 'atavia's dykes than Arno's purple vale ; 
 
124 WORKS OF MRS. BABBAULD. 
 
 And stinted suns, and rivers bound with frost, 
 Than Enna's plains or Baia's viny coast ; 
 Venice the Adriatic weds in vain, 
 And Death sits brooding o'er Campania's plain ; 
 O'er Baltic shores and through Hercynian groves, 
 Stirring the soul, the mighty impulse moves ; 
 Art plies his tools, and Commerce spreads her sail, 
 And wealth is wafted in each shifting gale. 
 The sons of Odin tread on Persian looms, 
 And Odin's daughters breathe distilled perfumes ; 
 Loud minstrel bards, in Gothic halls, rehearse 
 The Bunic rhyme, and " build the lofty verse " : 
 The Muse, whose liquid notes were wont to swell 
 To the soft breathings of the iEolian shell, 
 Submits, reluctant, to the harsher tone, 
 And scarce believes the altered voice her own. 
 And now, where Caesar saw with proud disdain 
 The wattled hut and skin of azure stain, 
 Corinthian columns rear their graceful forms, 
 And light verandas brave the wintry storms, 
 While British tongues the fading fame prolong 
 Of Tully's eloquence and Maro's song. 
 "\Vhere once Bonduca whirled the scythed car, 
 And the fierce matrons raised the shriek of war, 
 Light forms beneath transparent muslins float, 
 And tutored voices swell the artful note. 
 Light-leaved acacias and the shady plane 
 
EIGHTEEN HUNDRED AND ELEVEN. 125 
 
 And spreading cedar grace the woodland reign ; 
 While crystal walls the tenderer plants confine, 
 The fragrant orange and the nectared pine ; 
 The Syrian grape there hangs her rich festoons, 
 Nor asks for purer air or brighter noons : 
 Science and Art urge on the useful toil, 
 New mould a climate and create the soil, 
 Subdue the rigor of the Northern Bear, 
 O'er polar climes shed aromatic air, 
 On yielding Nature urge their new demands, 
 And ask not gifts, but tribute, at her hands. 
 
 London exults : — on London Art bestows 
 Her summer ices and her winter rose ; 
 Gems of the East her mural crown adorn, 
 And Plenty at her feet pours forth her horn. 
 While even the exiles her just laws disclaim, 
 People a continent, and build a name : 
 August she sits, and with extended hands 
 Holds forth the book of life to distant lands. 
 
 But fairest flowers expand but to decay ; „ 
 The worm is in thy core, thy glories pass away ; 
 Arts, arms, and wealth destroy the fruits they bring ; 
 Commerce, like beauty, knows no second spring. 
 Crime walks thy streets, Fraud earns her unblest bread, 
 O'er want and woe thy gorgeous robe is spread, 
 
126 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 And angel charities in vain oppose : 
 
 With grandeur's growth the mass of misery grows. 
 
 For, see, — to other climes the Genius soars, 
 
 He turns from Europe's desolated shores ; 
 
 And lo ! even now, 'midst mountains wrapt in storm, 
 
 On Andes' heights he shrouds his awful form ; 
 
 On Chimborazo's summits treads sublime, 
 
 Measuring in lofty thought the march of Time ; 
 
 Sudden he calls : " 'T is now the hour ! " he cries, 
 
 Spreads his broad hand, and bids the nation rise. 
 
 La Plata hears amidst her torrents' roar ; 
 
 Potosi hears it, as she digs the ore : 
 
 Ardent, the Genius fans the noble strife, 
 
 And pours through feeble souls a higher life, 
 
 Shouts to the mingled tribes from sea to sea, 
 
 And swears — Thy world, Columbus, shall be free. 
 
 LIFE. 
 
 "Animula, vagula, blandula." 
 
 LIFE ! I know not what thou art, 
 But know that thou and I must part ; 
 And when, or how, or where we met 
 I own to me 's a secret yet. 
 But this I know, when thou art fled, 
 
LIFE. 127 
 
 Where'er they lay these limbs, this head, 
 No clod so valueless shall be, 
 As all that then remains of me. 
 whither, whither dost thou fly, 
 Where bend unseen thy trackless course, 
 And in this strange divorce, 
 Ah, tell where I must seek this compound I ? 
 
 To the vast ocean of empyreal flame, 
 From whence thy essence came, 
 Dost thou thy flight pursue, when freed 
 From matter's base encumbering weed ? 
 Or dost thou, hid from sight, 
 Wait, like some spell-bound knight, 
 
 Through blank, oblivious years the appointed hours 
 
 To break thy trance and reassume thy power ? 
 
 Yet canst thou, without thought or feeling be ? 
 
 say what art thou, when no more thou 'rt thee ? 
 
 Life ! we 've been lon<? together 
 Through pleasant and through cloudy weather ; 
 'T is hard to part when friends are dear, — 
 Perhaps 't will cost a sigh, a tear ; 
 Then steal away, give little warning, 
 Choose thine own time ; 
 Say not Good Night, — but in some brighter clime 
 Bid me Good Morning. 
 
128 WORKS OF MRS. BARB.VULD. 
 
 ON THE KING'S ILLNESS. 
 
 1811. 
 
 REST, rest, afflicted spirit, quickly pass 
 Thine hour of bitter suffering ! Rest awaits thee, 
 There, where, the load of weary life laid down, 
 The peasant and the king repose together : 
 There peaceful sleep, thy quiet grave bedewed 
 With tears of those who loved thee. Not for thee, . 
 In the dark chambers of the nether world, 
 Shall spectre kings rise from their burning thrones 
 And point the vacant seat, and scoffing say, 
 Art thou become like us ? — not for thee ! 
 For thou hadst human feelings, and hast lived 
 A man with men ; and kindly charities, 
 Even such as warm the cottage hearth, were thine. 
 And therefore falls the tear from eyes not used 
 To gaze on kings with admiration fond. 
 And thou hast knelt at meek Eeligion's shrine 
 With no mock homage, and hast owned her rights 
 Sacred in every breast ; and therefore rise, 
 Affectionate, for thee, the orisons 
 
 And mingled prayers, alike from vaulted domes 
 
 « 
 
 Whence the loud organ peals, and raftered roofs 
 Of humbler worship. — Still remembering this, 
 
ON THE KING'S ILLNESS. 129 
 
 A nation's pity and a nation's love 
 
 Linger beside thy couch, in this the day 
 
 Of thy sad visitation, veiling faults 
 
 Of erring judgment, and not will perverse. 
 
 Yet, that thou hadst closed the wounds of war ! 
 
 That had been praise to suit a higher strain. 
 
 Farewell the years rolled down the gulf of time ! 
 Thy name has chronicled a long, bright page 
 Of England's story ; and perhaps the babe 
 Who opens, as thou closest thine, his eyes 
 On this eventful world, when aged grown, 
 Musing on times gone by, shall sigh, and say, 
 Shaking his thin gray hairs, whitened with grief, 
 Our father's days were happy. Fare thee well ! 
 My thread of life has even run with thine 
 For many a lustre ; and thy closing day 
 I contemplate, not mindless of my own, 
 Nor to its call reluctant. 
 
 6* 
 
130 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 A THOUGHT OX DEATH: 
 
 NOVEMBER, 1814. 
 
 WHEN life as opening buds is sweet, 
 And golden hopes the fancy greet, 
 And Youth prepares his joys to meet/ — 
 Alas, how hard it is to die ! 
 
 When just is seized some valued prize, 
 And duties press, and tender ties 
 Forbid the soul from earth to rise, — 
 How awful then it is to die ! 
 
 When, one by one, those ties are torn, 
 And friend from friend is snatched forlorn, 
 And man is left alone to mourn, — 
 Ah, then how easy 't is to die ! 
 
 When faith is firm and conscience clear, 
 And words of peace the spirit cheer, 
 And visioned glories half appear, — 
 'T is joy, 't is triumph, then, to die. 
 
 When trembling limbs refuse their weight, 
 And films, slow gathering, dim the sight, 
 And clouds obscure the mental light, — 
 'T is nature's precious boon to die. 
 
 
STANZAS. 131 
 
 STANZAS ; 
 
 IN THE MANNER OF SPENSER. 
 
 SO long estranged from every Muse's lyre, 
 And grovelling in the tangled net of Care ; 
 What powerful breath shall kindle up that fire 
 Smothered with damps of most unkindly air ? 
 Ah, how is quenched the lamp that burnt so fair ! 
 Come, sweet seducers, late too far away, 
 Once more to my deserted cell repair, 
 Your rebel courts again your gentle sway ; — 
 Come, soothe the winter's night, and charm the sum- 
 mer's day. 
 
 Come, clear companions of my youthful hour, 
 Fill my fond breast with your majestic themes ; 
 Meet me again on hill, by stream, or bower, 
 And bathe my fancy in the bliss of dreams. 
 Vain wish ! no more the star of Fancy gleams ; 
 They with becoming scorn reject thy prayer ; 
 Nor will they haunt thy bower, or bless thy streams, 
 No more to thy deserted cell repair : — 
 " Go, court the world," they cry, " thou art not worth 
 our care." 
 
 Bustle and hurry, noise and thrall they hate, 
 And plodding Method with her leaden rule ; 
 
132 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 And all that swells the unwieldy pomp of state ; 
 And all that binds to earth the golden fool ; 
 And creeping Labor with his patient tool ; 
 Free like the birds they wander unconfined, 
 Nor dip their wings in Lucre's muddy pool ; 
 Business they hate, in crowded nooks enshrined, 
 That spins her dirty web, and clouds the ethereal mind. 
 
 Ah, why should man, in hard, unsocial strife, 
 And withering care whose vigils never cease, 
 Fretting away this little thread of life, 
 Of his sad birthright reap such large increase ! 
 Why should he toil for aught but bread and peace ? 
 Why rear to heaven his day-built pyramids ? 
 Nor from his tasks himself, poor slave ! release ; 
 With anxious thought, which wholesome rest forbids, 
 Drying the balm of sleep from Sorrow's swollen lids. 
 
 Despising cheap delights, he loves to scoop 
 His marble palace from the rock's hard breast, 
 And in close dungeon walls himself to coop, 
 On golden couches wooing pale unrest ; 
 With foreign looms his stately halls are drest, 
 And grim-wrought tapestry clothes the darkened room ; 
 "While in the flowery vale Peace builds her nest, 
 Amidst the purple heath or yellow broom, 
 Or where 'midst rustling corn the nodding poppies 
 bloom. 
 
H 
 
 THE FIRST FIRE. 133 
 
 THE FIEST FIRE. 
 
 OCTOBER 1st, 1815. 
 
 A, old acquaintance ! many a month has past 
 Since last I viewed thy ruddy face ; and I, 
 
 Shame on me ! had meantime wellnigh forgot 
 That such a friend existed. Welcome now ! — 
 When summer suns ride high, and tepid airs 
 Dissolve in pleasing languor, then indeed 
 We think thee needless, and in wanton pride 
 Mock at thy grim attire and sooty jaws, 
 And breath sulphureous, generating spleen, — 
 As Frenchmen say ; Frenchmen, who never knew 
 The sober comforts of a good coal fire. 
 
 — Let me imbibe thy warmth, and spread myself 
 Before thy shrine adoring : — magnet thou 
 Of strong attraction, daily gathering in 
 Friends, brethren, kinsmen, variously dispersed, 
 All the dear charities of social life, 
 To thy close circle. Here a man might stand, 
 And say, This is my world ! who would not bleed 
 Rather than see thy violated hearth 
 Prest by a hostile foot ? The winds sing shrill ; 
 Heap on the fuel ! Not the costly board, 
 Nor sparkling glass, nor wit, nor music, cheer 
 Without thy aid. If thrifty thou dispense 
 
134 WORKS OF MRS. BAItBAULD. 
 
 Thy gladdening influence, in the chill saloon 
 The silent shrug declares the unpleased guest. 
 
 — How grateful to belated traveller, 
 Homeward returning, to behold the blaze 
 From cottage window, rendering visible 
 
 The cheerful scene within ! There sits the sire, 
 Whose wicker chair, in sunniest nook enshrined, 
 His age's privilege, — a privilege for which 
 Age gladly yields up all precedence else 
 In gay and bustling scenes, — supports his limbs. 
 Cherished by thee, he feels the grateful warmth 
 Creep through his feeble frame and thaw the ice 
 Of fourscore years, and thoughts of youth arise. 
 
 — Nor less the young ones press within, to see 
 Thy face delighted, and with husk of nuts, 
 
 Or crackling holly, or the gummy pine, 
 
 Feed thy immortal hunger : cheaply pleased, 
 
 They gaze delighted while the leaping flames 
 
 Dart like an adder's tongue upon their prey ; 
 
 Or touch with lighted reed thy wreaths of smoke ; 
 
 Or listen, while the matron sage remarks 
 
 Thy bright blue scorching flame and aspect clear, 
 
 Denoting frosty skies. Thus pass the hours, 
 
 While Winter spends without his idle rage. 
 
 — Companion of the solitary man, 
 
 From gayer scenes withheld ! With thee he sits, 
 
THE FIRST FIRE. 135 
 
 Converses, moralizes ; musing asks 
 
 How many aeras of uncounted time 
 
 Have rolled away since thy black, unctuous food 
 
 Was green with vegetative life, and what 
 
 This planet then : or marks, in sprightlier mood, 
 
 Thy flickering smiles play round the illumined room, 
 
 And fancies gay discourse, life, motion, mirth, 
 
 And half forgets he is a lonely creature. 
 
 — Nor less the bashful poet loves to sit 
 Snug, at the midnight hour, with only thee 
 Of his lone musings conscious. Oft he writes, 
 And blots, and writes again ; and oft, by fits, 
 Gazes intent with eyes of vacancy 
 On thy bright face ; and still at intervals, 
 Dreading the critic's scorn, to thee commits, 
 Sole confidant and safe, his fancies crude. 
 
 — wretched he, with bolts and massy bars 
 In narrow cell immured, whose green, damp walls, 
 That weep unwholesome dews, have never felt 
 Thy purifying influence ! Sad he sits 
 Day after day till in his youthful limbs 
 Life stagnates, and the hue of hope is fled 
 From his wan cheek. And scarce less wretched he, — 
 When wintry winds blow loud and frosts bite keen, — 
 The dweller of the clay-built tenement, 
 
106 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Poverty-struck, who, heartless, strives to raise 
 From sullen turf, or stick plucked from the hedge, 
 The short-lived blaze ; while chill around him spreads 
 The dreary fen, and Ague, sallow-faced, 
 Stares through the broken pane ; — assist him, ye 
 On whose warm roofs the sun of plenty shines, 
 And feel a glow beyond material fire ! 
 
 THE CATERPILLAR. 
 
 "TVT~0, helpless thing, I cannot harm thee now ; 
 
 JL 1 Depart in peace, thy little life is safe, 
 
 For I have scanned thy form with curious eye, 
 
 Xoted the silver line that streaks thy back, 
 
 The azure and the orange that divide 
 
 Thy velvet sides ; thee, houseless wanderer, 
 
 My garment has enfolded, and my arm 
 
 Felt the light pressure of thy hairy feet ; 
 
 Thou hast curled around my finger ; from its tip, 
 
 Precipitous descent ! with stretched-out neck, 
 
 Bending thy head in airy vacancy 
 
 This way and that, inquiring, thou hast seemed 
 
 To ask protection ; now, I cannot kill thee. 
 
 Yet I have sworn perdition to thy race, 
 
 And recent from the slaughter am I come 
 
THE CATERPILLAR. 137 
 
 Of tribes and embryo nations : I have sought 
 
 With sharpened eye and persecuting zeal, 
 
 Where, folded in their silken webs they lay 
 
 Thriving and happy ; swept them from the tree 
 
 And crushed whole families beneath my foot ; . 
 
 Or, sudden, poured on their devoted heads 
 
 The vials of destruction. This I 've done, 
 
 Xor felt the touch of pity : but when thou — 
 
 A single wretch, escaped the general doom, 
 
 Making me feel and clearly recognize 
 
 Thine individual existence, life, 
 
 And fellowship of sense with all that breathes — 
 
 Present'st thyself before me, I relent, 
 
 And cannot hurt thy weakness. So the storm 
 
 Of horrid war, o'erwhelming cities, fields, 
 
 And peaceful villages, rolls dreadful on : 
 
 The victor shouts triumphant ; he enjoys 
 
 The roar of cannon and the clang of arms, 
 
 And urges, by no soft relentings stopped, 
 
 The work of death and carnage. Yet should one, 
 
 A single sufferer from the field escaped, ♦ 
 
 Panting and pale, and bleeding at his feet, 
 
 Lift his imploring eyes, — the hero weeps ; 
 
 He is grown human, and capricious Pity, 
 
 Which would not stir for thousands, melts for one 
 
 With sympathy spontaneous : — 'T is not Virtue, 
 
 Yet 't is the weakness of a virtuous mind. 
 
138 WORKS OF MBS. BAEBAULD. 
 
 OX THE DEATH OF THE PRINCESS CHARLOTTE. 
 
 YES, Britain mourns, as with electric touch, 
 For youth, for love, for happiness destroyed ; 
 Her universal population melts 
 Jn grief spontaneous, and hard hearts are moved, 
 And rough, unpolished natures learn to feel 
 For those they envied, levelled in the dust 
 By Fate's impartial stroke ; and pulpits sound 
 With vanity and woe to earthly goods, 
 And urge and dry the tear. — Yet one there is 
 Who 'midst this general burst of grief remains 
 In strange tranquillity ; whom not the stir 
 And long-drawn murmurs of the gathering crowd, 
 That by his very windows trail the pomp 
 Of hearse and blazoned arms, and long array 
 Of sad funereal rites, nor the loud groans 
 And deep-felt anguish of a husband's heart, 
 Can move to mingle with this flood one tear : 
 In careless apathy, perhaps in mirth, 
 He wears the day. Yet is he near in blood, 
 The very stem on which this blossom grew, 
 And at his knees she fondled in the charm 
 And grace spontaneous which alone belongs 
 To untaught infancy. Yet, forbear ! 
 
THE WAKE OF THE KING OF SPAIN. 139 
 
 Nor deem him hard of heart ; for awful, struck 
 
 By Heaven's severest visitation, sad, 
 
 Like a scathed oak amidst the forest trees, 
 
 Lonely he stands ; — leaves, bud, and shoot, and fall; 
 
 He holds no sympathy with living nature 
 
 Or time's incessant change. Then in this hour, 
 
 While pensive thought is busy with the woes 
 
 And restless change of poor humanity, 
 
 Think then, think of him, and breathe one prayer, 
 
 From the full tide of sorrows spare one tear 
 
 For him who does not weep ! 
 
 THE WAKE OE THE KLKG OF SPAIK* 
 
 ARRAYED in robes of regal state, 
 But stiff and cold, the monarch sate ; 
 In gorgeous vests, his chair beside, 
 Stood prince and peer, the nation's pride ; 
 And paladin and high-born dame 
 Their place amid the circle claim ; 
 And wands of office lifted high, 
 And arms and blazoned heraldry, — 
 
 * The kings of Spain for nine clays after death are placed sitting in 
 robes of state with their attendants around them, and solemnly sum- 
 moned by the proper officers to their meals and their amusements as 
 if living. — Ed. 
 
140 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 All mute like marble statues stand, 
 Nor raise the eye, nor move the hand : 
 No voice, no sound to stir the air, 
 The silence of the grave is there. 
 
 The portal opens, — hark, a voice ! 
 * " Come forth, king ! king, rejoice ! 
 The bowl is filled, the feast is spread, 
 Come forth, king ! " The king is dead. 
 The bowl, the feast, he tastes no more, 
 The feast of life for him is o'er. 
 
 Again the sounding portals shake, 
 And speaks again the voice that spake : 
 " The sun is high, the sun is warm, 
 Forth to the field the gallants swarm, 
 The foaming bit the courser champs, 
 His hoof the turf impatient stamps ; 
 Light on their steeds the hunters spring ; 
 The sun is high, — Come forth, king ! " 
 
 Along these melancholy walls 
 
 In vain the voice of pleasure calls : 
 
 The horse may neigh/ and bay the hound, • 
 
 He hears no more ; his sleep is sound. 
 
 Retire ; — once more the portals close ; 
 
 Leave, leave him to his dread repose. 
 
THE BABY-HOUSE. 141 
 
 THE BABY-HOUSE. 
 
 DEAB Agatha, I give you joy, 
 And much admire your pretty toy 
 A mansion in itself complete, 
 And fitted to give guests a treat ; 
 With couch and table, chest and chair, 
 The bed or supper to prepare ; 
 We almost wish to change ourselves 
 To fairy forms of tripping elves, 
 To press the velvet couch, and eat 
 From tiny cups the sugared meat. 
 I much suspect that many a sprite 
 Inhabits it at dead of night ; 
 That, as they dance, the listening ear 
 The pat of fairy feet might hear ; 
 That, just as you have said your prayers, 
 They hurry-scurry down the stairs : 
 And you 11 do well to try to find 
 Tester or ring they 've left behind. 
 
 But think not, Agatha, you own 
 That toy, a Baby-house, alone ; 
 For many a sumptuous one is found 
 To press an ampler space of ground. 
 
142 WORKS OF MRS. BABBAULD. 
 
 The broad-based Pyramid that stands 
 
 Casting its shade in distant lands, 
 
 Which asked some mighty nation's toil 
 
 With mountain-weight to press the soil, 
 
 And there has raised its head sublime 
 
 Through seras of uncounted time, — 
 
 Its use, if asked, 't is only said, 
 
 A Baby-house to lodge the dead. 
 
 Nor less beneath more genial skies 
 
 The domes of pomp and folly rise, 
 
 Whose sun through diamond windows streams, 
 
 "While gems and gold reflect his beams ; 
 
 Where tapestry clothes the storied wall, 
 
 And fountains spout and waters fall ; 
 
 The peasant faints beneath his load, 
 
 Nor tastes the grain his hands have sowed, 
 
 While scarce a nation's wealth avails 
 
 To raise thy Baby-house, Versailles. 
 
 And Baby-houses oft appear 
 
 On British ground, of prince or peer ; 
 
 Awhile their stately heads they raise, 
 
 The admiring traveller stops to gaze ; 
 
 He looks again — where are they now ? 
 
 Gone to the hammer or the plough : 
 
 Then trees, the pride of ages, fall, 
 
 And naked stands the pictured wall ; 
 
 And treasured coins from distant lands 
 
KIDDLE. 143 
 
 Must feel the touch of sordid hands ; 
 And gems, of classic stores the boast, 
 Fall to the cry of — Who bids most ? 
 Then do not, Agatha, repine 
 That cheaper Baby-house is thine. 
 
 RIDDLE. 
 
 THIS creature, though extremely thin, 
 In shape is almost square ; 
 Has many heads, on which ne'er grew 
 One single lock of hair. 
 
 Yet several of their tribe there are 
 
 Whose case you must bewail, 
 Of whom in truth it may be said 
 
 TKey 've neither head nor tail. 
 
 In purer times, ere vice prevailed, 
 
 They met with due regard, 
 The wholesome counsels that they gave 
 
 With reverence were heard. 
 
 To marriages and funerals 
 Their presence added grace, 
 
1-W WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 And though the king himself were by, 
 They took the highest place. 
 
 Their business is to stir up men 
 A constant watch to keep ; 
 
 Instead of which, — sad reverse ! — 
 They make them fall asleep. 
 
 Not so in former times it was, 
 
 Howe'er it came to pass ; 
 Though they their company ne'er left 
 
 Till empty was the glass. 
 
 The moderns ean't be charged with this, 
 
 But may their foes defy, 
 To prove such practices on them, 
 
 Though they 're extremely dry. 
 
LINES WRITTEN IN A LADY'S ALBUM. 145 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN IN A YOUNG LADY'S ALBUM OF DIFFERENT 
 COLORED PAPER. 
 
 LIFE'S checkered scenes these varied leaves display, 
 Pure white, and tenderest blush, and fading gray; — 
 The rosy tints of morning will not last, 
 And youth's gay, flattering season soon is past. 
 may thy gentle breast no changes know, 
 But such as from time's smoothest currents flow ; 
 No cares, but those whose mellowing influence steals 
 Mild o'er the expansive heart that thinks and feels ! 
 And with affection tried, experienced truth 
 Tint the white page of innocence and youth ! 
 May Love for thee exert his fullest power, 
 And gild with sunniest gleams life's latest hour ! 
 And friendship, health, and pleasure long be thine, 
 When cold the heart that pens this feeble line ! 
 
 VOL. II. 
 
146 WOKKS OF MRS. BA11BAULD. 
 
 TO A FRIEXD. 
 
 MAY never more of pensive melancholy 
 Within thy heart, beneath thy roof appear, 
 Than just to break the charm of idle folly, 
 And prompt for others' woes the melting tear ; 
 No more than just that tender gloom to spread 
 Where thy beloved Muses wont to stray, 
 To lift the thought from this low earthy bed, 
 Or bid hope languish from a brighter day ; 
 And deeper sink within thy feeling heart 
 Love's pleasing wounds, or friendship's polished dart ! 
 
 DEJECTION 
 
 WHEN sickness clouds the languid eye, 
 And seeds of sharp diseases fly 
 Swift through the vital frame ; 
 Rich drugs are torn from earth and sea, 
 And balsam drops from every tree, 
 To quench the parching flame. 
 
DEJECTION. 147 
 
 But oh ! what opiate can assuage 
 
 The throbbing breast's tumultuous rage, 
 
 Which mingling passions tear ! 
 What art the wounds of grief can bind, 
 Or soothe the sick, impatient mind 
 
 Beneath corroding care ! 
 
 Not all the potent herbs that grow 
 On purple heath or mountain's brow 
 
 Can banished peace restore ; 
 In vain the spring of tears to dry, 
 For purer air or softer sky 
 
 We quit our native shore. 
 
 Friendship, the richest balm that flows, 
 Was meant to heal our sharpest woes, 
 
 But runs not always pure ; 
 And Love — has sorrows of his own, 
 Which not an herb beneath the moon 
 
 Is found of power to cure. 
 
 Soft Pity, mild, dejected maid, 
 With tenderest hand applies her aid 
 
 To dry the frequent tear; 
 But her own griefs, of finer kind, 
 Too deeply wound the feeling mind 
 
 With anguish more severe. 
 
148 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 
 TO ME. BOWRIXG, 
 
 ON HIS POETICAL TRANSLATIONS FROM VARIOUS LANGUAGES. 
 
 BO WRING, the music of thy polished strains 
 Through every tongue its equal power sustains. 
 To the rude Russ it gives a softer touch, 
 It melts to mellower sounds the homely Dutch, 
 With bloodless conquest from each land it bears 
 The precious spoil of long-recorded years ; 
 And, pleased its holy ardor to diffuse, 
 With thy own spirit sanctifies the Muse. 
 Thus, in some window's deep recesses laid, 
 The soft iEolian harp its power displayed, 
 From the shrill east-wind and the stormy north 
 It drew soft airs and gentle breathings forth ; 
 Subdued to harmony each passing sound, 
 Waked with unusual notes the echoes round, 
 With happy magic softened, as it past, 
 The hollow whistling of the keenest blast ; 
 And each rude gust that swept the changing sky 
 Dissolved to strains of liquid harmony. 
 
FRAGMENT. 149 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 AS the poor school-boy, when the slow-paced months 
 Have brought vacation times, and one by one 
 His playmates and companions all are fled 
 Or ready ; and to him — to him alone 
 No summons comes ; he left of all the train 
 Paces with lingering steps the vacant halls, 
 No longer murmuring with the Muse's song, 
 And silent playground scattered wide around 
 With implements of sports, resounding once 
 With cheerful shouts ; and hears no sound of wheels 
 To bear him to his father's bosom home ; 
 For, conscious though he be of time misspent, 
 And heedless faults and much amiss, yet hopes 
 A father's pardon and a father's smile 
 Blessing his glad return .... Thus I 
 Look to the hour when I shall follow those 
 That are at rest before me. 
 
150 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 OCTOGENARY REFLECTIONS. 
 
 SAY, ye who through this round of eighty years 
 Have proved its joys and sorrows, hopes and fears, 
 Say, what is life, ye veterans, who have trod, 
 Step following steps, its flowery, thorny road ? 
 Enough of good to kindle strong desire, 
 Enough of ill to damp the rising fire, 
 Enough of love and fancy, joy and hope, 
 To fan desire and give the passions scope. 
 Enough of disappointment, sorrow, pain, 
 To seal the wise man's sentence, All is vain, — 
 And quench the wish to live those years again. 
 Science for man unlocks her various store, 
 And gives enough to urge the wish for more ; 
 Systems and suns lie open to his gaze, 
 Nature invites his love, and God his praise ; 
 Yet doubt and ignorance with his feelings sport, 
 And Jacob's ladder is some rounds too short. 
 Yet still to humble hope enough is given 
 Of light from reason's lamp and light from Heaven, 
 To teach us what to follow, what to shun, 
 To bow the head and say, " Thy will be done ! " 
 
THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. 151 
 
 THE DEATH OF THE VIRTUOUS. 
 
 SWEET is the scene when Virtue dies ! 
 When sinks a righteous soul to rest, 
 How mildly beam the closing eyes, 
 
 How gently heaves the expiring breast s 
 
 So fades a summer cloud away ; 
 
 So sinks the gale when storms are o'er ; 
 So gently shuts the eye of day ; 
 
 So dies a wave along the shore. 
 
 Triumphant smiles the victor's brow, 
 Fanned by some angel's purple wing ; 
 
 Where is, Grave ! thy victory now ? 
 And where, insidious Death ! thy sting ? 
 
 Farewell, conflicting joys and fears, 
 
 Where light and shade alternate dwell ; 
 
 How bright the unchanging morn appears ! 
 Farewell, inconstant world, farewell ! 
 
 Its duty done, — as sinks the clay, 
 Light from its load the spirit flies ; 
 
 While heaven and earth combine to say, 
 " Sweet is the scene when Virtue dies ! " 
 
152 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 HYMNS. 
 
 HYMN I. 
 
 JEHOVAH reigns : let every nation hear, 
 And at his footstool bow with holy fear ; 
 Let heaven's high arches echo with his name, 
 And the wide-peopled earth his praise proclaim ; 
 Then send it down to hell's deep glooms resounding, 
 Through all her caves in dreadful murmurs sounding. 
 
 He rules with wide and absolute command 
 O'er the broad ocean and the steadfast land : 
 Jehovah reigns, unbounded and alone, 
 And all creation hangs beneath his throne : 
 He reigns alone ; let no inferior nature 
 Usurp or share the throne of the Creator. 
 
 He saw the struggling beams of infant light 
 Shoot through the massy gloom of ancient night ; 
 His spirit hushed the elemental strife, 
 And brooded o'er the kindling seeds of life ; 
 Seasons and months began their long procession, 
 And measured o'er the year in bright succession. 
 
 The joyful sun sprung up the ethereal way, 
 Strong as a giant, as a bridegroom gay ; 
 
HYMNS. 153 
 
 And the pale moon diffused her shadowy light, 
 
 Superior o'er the dusky brow of night ; 
 Ten thousand glittering lamps the skies, adorning, 
 Numerous as dew-drops from the womb of morning. 
 
 Earth's blooming face with rising flowers he drest, 
 And spread a verdant mantle o'er her breast ; 
 Then from the hollow of his hand he pours 
 The circling water round her winding shores, 
 The new 7 born world in their cool arms embracing 
 And with soft murmurs still her banks caressing. 
 
 At length she rose complete in finished pride, 
 
 All fair and spotless as a virgin bride ; 
 
 Fresh with untarnished lustre as she stood, 
 
 Her Maker blessed his work, and called it good ; 
 The morning-stars with joyful acclamation 
 Exulting sang, and hailed the new creation. 
 
 Yet this fair world, the creature of a day, 
 Though built by God's right hand, must pass away ; 
 And long oblivion creep o'er mortal tilings, 
 The fate of empires, and the pride of kings ; 
 External night shall veil their proudest story, 
 And drop the curtain o'er all human glory. 
 
 The sun himself, with weary clouds opprest, 
 
 Shall in his silent, dark pavilion rest ; 
 7* 
 
154 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 His golden urn shall broke and useless lie, 
 Amidst the common ruins of the sky ; 
 The stars rush headlong in the wild commotion, 
 And bathe their glittering foreheads in the ocean. 
 
 But fixed, God ! forever stands thy throne ; 
 
 Jehovah reigns, a universe alone ; 
 
 The eternal lire that feeds each vital flame, 
 
 Collected or diffused, is still the same. 
 He dwells within his own unfathomed essence, 
 And fills all space with his unbounded presence. 
 
 But, oh ! our highest notes the theme debase, 
 And silence is our least injurious praise : 
 Cease, cease your songs, the daring flight control, 
 Eevere him in the stillness of the soul ; 
 With silent duty meekly bend before him, 
 And deep within your inmost hearts adore him. 
 
 HYMN II. 
 
 Praise to God, immortal praise,* 
 For the love that crowns our days ; 
 
 * " Although the fig-tree shall not blossom, neither shall fruit be in 
 the vines ; the labor of the olive shall fail, and the fields shall yield 
 no meat ; the flocks shall be cut off from the fold, and there shall be 
 no herd in the stalls : yet I will rejoice in the Lord, I will joy in 
 the God of my salvation." — Habakkuk iii. 17, 18. 
 
HYMNS. 155 
 
 Bounteous source of every joy, 
 Let thy praise our tongues employ ; 
 
 For the blessings of the field, 
 For the stores the gardens yield, 
 For the vine's exalted juice, 
 For the generous olive's use ; 
 
 Flocks that whiten all the plain, 
 Yellow sheaves of ripened grain ; 
 Clouds that drop their fattening dews, 
 Suns that temperate warmth diffuse : 
 
 All that Spring with bounteous hand 
 Scatters o'er the smiling land : 
 All that liberal Autumn pours 
 From her rich, o'erflowing stores : 
 
 These to thee, my God, we owe ; 
 Source whence all our blessings flow ; 
 And for these my soul shall raise 
 Grateful vows and solemn praise. 
 
 Yet should rising whirlwinds tear 
 From its stem the ripening ear ; 
 Should the fig-tree's blasted shoot 
 Drop her green, untimely fruit ; - 
 
156 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Should the vine put forth no more, 
 Nor the olive yield her store ; 
 Though the sickening flocks should fall, 
 And the herds desert the stall ; 
 
 Should thine altered hand restrain 
 The early and the latter rain ; 
 Blast each opening bud of joy, 
 And the rising year destroy : 
 
 Yet to thee my soul should raise 
 Grateful vows and solemn praise ; 
 And, when every blessing 's flown, 
 Love thee — for thyself alone. 
 
 HYMN III.- 
 
 FOR EASTER SUNDAY. 
 
 Again the Lord of life and light 
 
 Awakes the kindling ray ; 
 Unseals the eyelids of the morn, 
 
 And pours increasing day. 
 
 what a night was that, which wrapt 
 The heathen world in gloom ! 
 
 
HYMNS. 157 
 
 what a sun which broke this day, 
 Triumphant from the tomb ! 
 
 This day be grateful homage paid, 
 
 And loud hosannas sung ; 
 Let gladness dwell in every heart, 
 
 And praise on every tongue. 
 
 Ten thousand differing lips shall join 
 
 To hail this welcome morn, 
 Which scatters blessings from its wings 
 
 To nations yet unborn. 
 
 Jesus, the friend of human-kind, 
 
 With strong compassion moved, 
 Descended like a pitying God, 
 
 To save the souls he loved. 
 
 The powers of darkness leagued in vain 
 
 To bind his soul in death ; 
 He shook their kingdom, when he fell, 
 
 With his expiring breath. 
 
 Not long the toils of hell could keep 
 
 The hope of Judah's line ; 
 Corruption never could take hold 
 
 On aught so much divine. 
 
158 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 And now his conquering chariot- wheels 
 
 Ascend the lofty skies ; 
 While broke beneath his powerful cross 
 
 Death's iron sceptre lies. 
 
 Exalted high at God's right hand, 
 
 The Lord of all below, 
 Through him is pardoning love dispensed, 
 
 And boundless blessings flow. 
 
 And still for erring, guilty man 
 
 A brother's pity flows ; 
 And still his bleeding heart is touched 
 
 With memory of our woes. 
 
 To thee, my Saviour and my King, 
 
 Glad homage let me give ; 
 And stand prepared like thee to die, 
 
 With thee that I may live. 
 
 HYMN IV. 
 
 Behold, where, breathing love divine, 
 
 Our dying Master stands ! 
 His weeping followers, gathering round, 
 
 Keceive his last commands. 
 
 
 
HYMNS. 159 
 
 From that mild teacher's parting lips 
 
 What tender accents fell ! 
 The gentle precept which he gave 
 
 Became its author well. 
 
 " Blest is the man whose softening heart 
 
 Feels all another's pain ; 
 To whom the supplicating eye 
 
 Was never raised in vain. 
 
 "Whose breast expands with generous warmth 
 
 A stranger's woes to feel ; 
 And bleeds in pity o'er the wound 
 
 He wants the power to heal. 
 
 " He spreads his kind, supporting arms 
 
 To every child of grief; 
 His secret bounty largely flows, 
 
 And brings unasked relief. 
 
 " To gentle offices of love 
 
 His feet are never slow ; 
 He views through mercy's melting eye 
 
 A brother in a foe. 
 
 " Peace from the bosom of his God, 
 My peace to him I give ; 
 
160 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 And when he kneels before the throne, 
 His trembling soul shall live. 
 
 " To him protection shall be shown, 
 
 And mercy from above 
 Descend on those who thus fulfil 
 
 The perfect law of love." 
 
 HYMN V. 
 
 Awake, my soul ! lift up thine eyes, 
 See where thy foes against thee rise, 
 In long array, a numerous host ; 
 Awake, my soul ! or thou art lost. 
 
 Here giant Danger threatening stands 
 Mustering his pale, terrific bands ; 
 There Pleasure's silken banners spread, 
 And willing souls are captive led. 
 
 See where rebellious passions rage, 
 And fierce desires and lusts engage ; 
 The meanest foe of all the train 
 Has thousands and ten thousands slain. 
 
 Thou tread'st upon enchanted ground, 
 Perils and snares beset thee round ; 
 
HYMNS. 161 
 
 Beware of all, guard every part, 
 But most, the traitor in thy heart. 
 
 " Come then, my soul, now learn to wield 
 The weight of thine immortal shield " ; 
 Put on the armor from above, 
 Of heavenly truth and heavenly love. 
 
 The terror and the charm repel, 
 And powers of earth, and powers of hell ; 
 The Man of Calvary triumphed here ; 
 Why should his faithful followers fear ? 
 
 HYMN VI. 
 
 PIOUS FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 How blest the sacred tie that binds, 
 
 In union sweet, according minds ! 
 
 How swift the heavenly course they run, 
 
 Whose hearts, whose faith, whose hopes, are one ! 
 
 To each the soul of each how dear ! 
 What jealous love, what holy fear ! 
 How doth the generous flame within 
 Kefine from earth and cleanse from sin ! 
 
1G2 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Their streaming tears together flow 
 For human guilt and mortal woe ; 
 Their ardent prayers together rise 
 Like mingled flames in sacrifice. 
 
 Together both they seek the place 
 Where God reveals his awful face : 
 How high, how strong, their raptures swell, 
 There 's none but kindred souls can tell. 
 
 Nor shall the glowing flame expire 
 When nature droops her sickening fire ; 
 Then shall they meet in realms above, 
 A heaven of joy — because of love. 
 
 HYMN VII. 
 
 Come unto me, all that are weary and heavy laden, and I will give 
 you rest." 
 
 Come, said Jesus' sacred voice, 
 Come and make my paths your choice ; 
 I will guide you to your home ; 
 Weary pilgrim, hither come ! 
 
 Thou who houseless, sole, forlorn, 
 
 Long hast borne the proud world's scorn, 
 
HYMNS. 163 
 
 Long hast roamed the barren waste, — 
 Weary pilgrim, hither haste ! 
 
 Ye, who tossed on beds of pain, 
 Seek for ease, but seek in vain, 
 Ye, whose swollen and sleepless eyes 
 Watch to see the morning rise ; 
 
 Ye, by fiercer anguish torn, 
 In remorse for guilt who mourn ; 
 Here repose your heavy care, 
 A wounded spirit who can bear ! 
 
 Sinner, come ! for here is found 
 Balm that flows for every wound ; 
 Peace that ever shall endure, 
 Best eternal, sacred, sure. 
 
 HYMN VIII. 
 u The world is not their friend, nor the world's law." 
 
 Lo, where a crowd of pilgrims toil' 
 
 Yon craggy steeps among ! 
 Strange their attire, and strange their mien, 
 
 As wild they press along. 
 
 Their eyes with bitter streaming tears 
 Now bend towards the ground, 
 
164 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Now rapt, to heaven their looks the)' raise ; 
 And bursts of song resound. 
 
 And hark ! a voice from midst the throng 
 Cries, " Stranger, wouldst thou know 
 
 Our name, our race, our destined home, 
 Our cause of joy or woe, — 
 
 " Our country is Emanuel's land, 
 
 "We seek that promised soil ; 
 The songs of Zion cheer our hearts, 
 
 "While strangers here we toil. 
 
 " Oft do our eyes with joy o'erflow, 
 
 And oft are bathed in tears ; 
 Yet naught but heaven our hopes can raise, 
 
 And naught but sin our fears. 
 
 " The flowers that spring along the road 
 
 We scarcely stoop to pluck ; 
 "We walk o'er beds of shining ore, 
 
 Xor waste one wistful look ; . 
 
 " We tread the path our Master trod, 
 
 "We bear the cross he bore ; 
 And ever}* thorn that wounds our feet 
 
 His temples pierced before : 
 
 
HYMNS. 165 
 
 " Our powers are oft dissolved away 
 
 In ecstasies of love ; 
 And while our bodies wander here, 
 
 Our souls are fixed above ; 
 
 " We purge our mortal dross away, 
 
 Eefining as we run ; 
 But while we die to earth and sense, 
 
 Our heaven is begun." 
 
 HYMN IX. 
 
 Joy to the followers of the Lord ! 
 Thus saith the sure, the eternal word. 
 Not of earth the joy it brings, 
 Tempered in celestial springs : 
 
 'T is the joy of pardoned sin, 
 When conscience cries, 'T is well within ; 
 'T is the joy that fills the breast 
 When the passions sink to rest : 
 
 'T is a joy that, seated deep, 
 Leaves not when we sigh and weep ; 
 It spreads itself in virtuous deeds, 
 With sorrow sighs, in pity bleeds. 
 
166 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Stern and awful are its tones 
 When the patriot martyr groans, 
 And the throbbing pulse beats high 
 To rapture, mixed with agony. 
 
 A tenderer, softer form it wears, 
 Dissolved in love, dissolved in tears, 
 When humble souls a Saviour greet, 
 And sinners clasp the mercy-seat. 
 
 'T is joy e'en here ! a budding flower, 
 Struggling with snows and storm and shower, 
 And waits the moment to expand, 
 Transplanted to its native land. 
 
 HYMN X. 
 
 A PASTORAL HYMN. 
 
 * Gentle pilgrim, tell me why 
 Dost thou fold thine arms and sigh, 
 And wistful cast thine eyes around, — 
 Whither, pilgrim, art thou bound ? " 
 " The road to Zion's gates I seek ; 
 If thou canst inform me, speak." 
 " Keep yon right-hand path with care, 
 
HYMNS. 167 
 
 Though crags obstruct, and brambles tear ; 
 
 You just discern a narrow track, — 
 
 Enter there and turn not back." 
 
 " Say where that pleasant pathway leads, 
 
 Winding down yon flowery meads ? 
 
 Songs and dance the way beguiles, 
 
 Every face is drest in smiles." 
 
 " Shun with care that flowery way ; 
 
 'T will lead thee, pilgrim, far astray." 
 
 " Guide or counsel do I need ? " 
 
 " Pilgrim, he who runs may read." 
 
 * Is the way that I must keep 
 
 Crossed by waters wide and deep ? " 
 
 " Did it lead through flood and fire, 
 
 Thou must not stop, — thou must not tire." 
 
 " Till I have my journey past, 
 
 Tell me, will the daylight last ? 
 
 Will the sky be bright and clear 
 
 Till the evening shades appear ? " 
 
 " Though the sun now rides so high, 
 
 Clouds may veil the evening sky ; 
 
 East sinks the sun, fast wears the day, 
 
 Thou must not stop — thou must not stay : 
 
 God speed thee, pilgrim, on thy way ! " 
 
168 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 SABBATH HYMNS. 
 
 HYMN XL 
 
 SLEEP, sleep to-day, tormenting cares, 
 Of earth and folly born ! 
 Ye shall not dim the light that streams 
 From this celestial morn. 
 
 To-morrow will be time enough 
 
 To feel your harsh control ; 
 Ye shall not violate this day, 
 
 The sabbath of my soul. 
 
 Sleep, sleep forever, guilty thoughts ! 
 
 Let fires of vengeance die ; 
 And, purged from sin, may I behold 
 
 A God of purity. 
 
 HYMN XII. 
 
 When, as returns this solemn day, 
 Man comes to meet his maker, God, 
 What rites, what honors shall he pay ? 
 How spread his sovereign's praise abroad ? 
 
SABBATH HYMNS. 169 
 
 From marble domes and gilded spires 
 Shall curling clouds of incense rise ? 
 And gems, and gold, and garlands deck 
 The costly pomp of sacrifice ? 
 
 Vain sinful man ! Creation's lord 
 Thy golden offerings well may spare ; 
 But give thy heart, and thou shalt find 
 Here dwells a God who heareth prayer. 
 
 VOL. II. 
 

PKOSE WORKS 
 
Prose Works 
 
 THE HILL OF SCIENCE: 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 IN that season of the year when the serenity of the 
 sky, the various fruits which cover the ground, the 
 discolored foliage of the trees, and all the sweet but 
 fading graces of inspiring autumn open the mind to 
 benevolence, and dispose it for contemplation, I was 
 wandering in a beautiful and romantic country, till 
 curiosity began to give way to weariness ; and I sat me 
 down on the fragment of a rock overgrown with moss, 
 where the rustling of the falling leaves, the dashing of 
 waters, and the hum of the distant city soothed my 
 mind into the most perfect tranquillity ; and sleep 
 insensibly stole upon me as I was indulging the 
 agreeable reveries which the objects around me natu- 
 rally inspired. 
 
 I immediately found myself in a vast extended plain, 
 in the middle of which arose a mountain higher than I 
 
174 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 had before any conception of. It was covered with a 
 multitude of people, chiefly youth ; many of whom 
 pressed forwards with the liveliest expression of ardor 
 in their countenance, though the way was in many 
 places steep and difficult. I observed that those who 
 had but just begun to climb the hill thought themselves 
 not far from the top ; but as they proceeded, new hills 
 were continually rising to their view ; and the summit 
 of the highest they could before discern seemed but the 
 foot of another, till the mountain at length appeared 
 to lose itself in the clouds. As I was gazing on these 
 things with astonishment, my good genius suddenly 
 appeared. "The mountain before thee," said he, "is 
 the hill of Science. On the top is the temple of Truth, 
 whose head is above the clouds, and whose face is 
 covered with a veil of pure light. Observe the progress 
 of her votaries ; be silent and attentive." 
 
 I saw that the only regular approach to the" moun- 
 tain was by a gate called the gate of languages. It 
 was kept by a woman of a pensive and thoughtful 
 appearance, whose lips were continually moving, as 
 though she repeated something to herself. Her name 
 was Memory. On entering this first enclosure I was 
 stunned with a confused murmur of jarring voices and 
 dissonant sounds, which increased upon me to such a 
 degree that I was utterly confounded, and could com- 
 pare the noise to nothing but the confusion of tongues 
 
THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 175 
 
 at Babel. The road was also rough and stony, and 
 rendered more difficult by heaps of rubbish continually 
 tumbled down from the higher parts of the mountain, 
 and by broken ruins of ancient buildings, which the 
 travellers were obliged to climb over at every step ; 
 insomuch that many, disgusted with so rough a begin- 
 ning, turned back, and attempted the mountain no 
 more : while others, having conquered this difficulty, 
 had no spirits to ascend further, and, sitting down on 
 some fragment of the rubbish, harangued the mul- 
 titude below with the greatest marks of importance 
 and self-complacency. 
 
 About half-way up the hill, I observed on each side 
 of the path a thick forest covered with continual fogs, 
 and cut out into labyrinths, cross alleys, and serpentine 
 walks, entangled with thorns and briers. This was 
 called the wood of Error: and I heard the voices of 
 many who were lost up and down in it, calling to one 
 another, and endeavoring in vain to extricate them- 
 selves. The trees in many places shot their boughs 
 over the path, and a thick mist often rested on it ; yet 
 never so much but that it was discernible by the light 
 which beamed from the countenance of Truth. 
 
 In the pleasantest part of the mountain were placed 
 the bowers of the Muses, whose office it was to cheer 
 the spirits of the travellers, and encourage their faint- 
 ing steps with songs from their divine harps. Not far 
 
176 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 from hence were the fields of Fiction, filled with a 
 variety of wild flowers springing up in the greatest 
 luxuriance, of richer scents and brighter colors than I 
 had observed in any other climate. And near them 
 was the dark walk of Allegory, so artificially shaded 
 that the light at noonday was never stronger than that 
 of a bright moonshine. This gave it a pleasingly ro- 
 mantic air ~for those who delighted in contemplation. 
 The paths and alleys were perplexed with intricate 
 windings, and were all terminated with the statue of 
 a Grace, a Virtue, or a Muse. 
 
 After I had observed these things I turned my eyes 
 towards the multitudes who were climbing the steep 
 ascent, and observed amongst them a youth of a lively 
 look, a piercing eye, and something fiery and irregular 
 in all his motions. His name was Genius. He darted 
 like an eagle up the mountain, and left his companions 
 gazing after him with envy and admiration: but his 
 progress was unequal, and interrupted by a thousand 
 caprices'. When Pleasure warbled in the valley, he 
 mingled in her train. When Pride beckoned towards 
 the precipice, he ventured to the tottering edge. He 
 delighted in devious and untried paths ; and made so 
 many excursions from the road that his feebler compan- 
 ions often outstripped him. I observed that the Muses 
 beheld him with partiality; but Truth often frowned 
 and turned aside her face. While Genius was thus wast- 
 
THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 177 
 
 ing his strength in eccentric flights, I saw a person of a 
 very different appearance, named Application. He crept 
 along with a slow and unremitting pace, his eyes fixed 
 on the top of the mountain, patiently removing every 
 stone that obstructed his way, till he saw most of those 
 below him who had at first derided his slow and toil- 
 some progress. Indeed, there were few who ascended 
 the hill with equal and uninterrupted steadiness ; for, 
 besides the difficulties of the way, they were continually 
 solicited to turn aside by a numerous crowd of Appe- 
 tites, Passions, and Pleasures, whose importunity, when 
 they had once complied with, they became less and less 
 able to resist ; and, though they often returned to the 
 path, the asperities of the road were more severely felt, 
 the hill appeared more steep and rugged, the fruits 
 which were wholesome and refreshing seemed harsh 
 and ill-tasted, their sight grew dim, and their feet 
 tripped at every little obstruction. 
 
 I saw, with some surprise, that the Muses, whose 
 business was to cheer and encourage those who were 
 toiling up the ascent, would often sing in the bowers 
 of Pleasure, and accompany those who were enticed 
 away at the call of the Passions. They accompanied 
 them, however, but a little way, and always forsook 
 them when they lost sight of the hill. Their tyrants 
 then doubled their chains upon the unhappy captives, 
 and led them away without resistance to the cells of 
 
 8* L 
 
 L 
 
178 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Ignorance or the mansions of Misery. Amongst the 
 innumerable seducers who were endeavoring to draw 
 away the votaries of Truth from the path of Science, 
 there was one so little formidable in her appearance, 
 and so gentle and languid in her attempts, that I should 
 scarcely have taken notice of her, but for the numbers 
 she had imperceptibly loaded with her chains. In- 
 dolence (for so she was called), far from proceeding to 
 open hostilities, did not attempt to turn their feet out 
 of the path, but contented herself with retarding their 
 progress ; and the purpose she could not force them to 
 abandon, she persuaded them to delay. Her touch had 
 a power like that of the torpedo, which withered the 
 strength of those who came within its influence. Her 
 unhappy captives still turned their faces towards the 
 temple, and always • hoped to arrive there ; but the 
 ground seemed to slide from beneath their feet, and 
 they found themselves at the bottom before they sus- 
 pected that they had changed their place. The placid 
 serenity which at first appeared in their countenance 
 changed by degrees into a melancholy languor, which 
 was tinged with deeper and deeper gloom as they glided 
 down the stream of Insignificance ; a dark and sluggish 
 water, which is curled by no breeze and enlivened by 
 no murmur, till it falls into a dead sea, where the 
 startled passengers are awakened by the shock, and the 
 next moment buried in the gulf of Oblivion. 
 
THE HILL OF SCIENCE. 179 
 
 Of all the unhappy deserters from the paths of 
 Science, none seemed less able to return than the 
 followers of Indolence. The captives of Appetite and 
 Passion could often seize the moment when their 
 tyrants were languid or asleep, to escape from their 
 enchantment ; but the dominion of Indolence w T as con- 
 stant and unremitted, and seldom resisted till resistance 
 was in vain. 
 
 After contemplating these things I turned my eyes 
 towards the top of the mountain, where the air was 
 always pure and exhilarating, the path shaded with 
 laurels and other evergreens, and the effulgence which 
 beamed from the face of the goddess seemed to shed a 
 glory round her votaries. " Happy," said I, " are they 
 who are permitted to ascend the mountain ! " — but while 
 I was pronouncing this exclamation with uncommon 
 ardor, I saw standing beside me a form of diviner 
 features and a more benign radiance. " Happier," said 
 she, " are those whom Virtue conducts to the mansions 
 of Content ! " — " What," said I, " does Virtue then reside 
 in the vale ? " — "I am found," said she, " in the vale, 
 and I illuminate the mountain. I cheer the cottager at 
 his toil, and inspire the sage at his meditation. I 
 mingle in the crowd of cities, and bless the hermit in 
 his cell. I have a temple in every heart that owns my 
 influence ; and to him that wishes for me I am already 
 present. Science may raise you to eminence, but I alone 
 
 L 
 
180 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 can guide you to felicity ! " While the goddess was 
 thus speaking, I stretched out my arms towards her 
 with a vehemence which broke my slumbers. The 
 chill dews were falling around me, and the shades of 
 evening stretched over the landscape. I hastened 
 homeward, and resigned the night to silence and 
 meditation. 
 
ON ROMANCES. 181 
 
 ON ROMANCES. 
 
 AN IMITATION. 
 
 OF all the multifarious productions which the 
 efforts of superior genius or the labors of scho- 
 lastic industry have crowded upon the world, none are 
 perused with more insatiable avidity, or disseminated 
 with more universal applause, than the narrations of 
 feigned events, descriptions of imaginary scenes, and 
 delineations of ideal characters. The celebrity of other 
 authors is confined within very narrow limits. The 
 geometrician and divine, the antiquary and the critic, 
 however distinguished by uncontested excellence, can 
 only hope to please those whom a conformity of dispo- 
 sition has engaged in similar pursuits ; and must be 
 content to be regarded by the rest of the world with the 
 smile of frigid indifference, or the contemptuous sneer 
 of self-sufficient folly. The collector of shells and the 
 anatomist of insects is little inclined to enter into theo- 
 logical disputes : the divine is not apt to regard with 
 veneration the uncouth diagrams and tedious calcula- 
 tions of the astronomer : the man whose life has been 
 consumed in adjusting the disputes of lexicographers, or 
 
182 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 elucidating the learning of antiquity, cannot easily bend 
 his thoughts to recent transactions, or readily interest 
 himself in the unimportant history of his contempora- 
 ries : and the cit, who knows no business but acquiring 
 wealth, and no pleasure but displaying it, has a heart 
 equally shut up to argument and fancy, to the bat- 
 teries of syllogism and the arrows of wit. To the writer 
 of fiction alone every ear is open and every tongue 
 lavish of applause : curiosity sparkles in every eye, and 
 every bosom is throbbing with concern. 
 
 It is, however, easy to account for this enchantment. 
 To follow the chain of perplexed ratiocination, to review 
 with critical skill the airy architecture of systems, to 
 unravel the web of sophistry, or weigh the merits of 
 opposite hypotheses, requires perspicacity, and pre-sup- 
 poses learning. Works of this kind, therefore, are not 
 so well adapted to the generality of readers as familiar 
 and colloquial composition ; for few can reason, but all 
 can feel ; and many who cannot enter into any argu- 
 ment may yet listen to a tale. The writer of romance 
 has even an advantage over those who endeavor to 
 amuse by the play of fancy ; who, from the fortuitous 
 collision of dissimilar ideas, produce the scintillations 
 of wit, or by the vivid glow of poetical imagery delight 
 the imagination with colors of ideal radiance. The 
 attraction of the magnet is only exerted upon similar 
 particles ; and to taste the beauties of Homer it is requi- 
 
ON ROMANCES. 183 
 
 site to partake his fire ; but every one can relish the 
 author who represents common life, because every one 
 can refer to the originals from whence his ideas were 
 taken. He relates events to which all are liable, and 
 applies to passions which all have felt. The gloom of 
 solitude, the languor of inaction, the corrosions of dis- 
 appointment, and the toil of thought, induce men to 
 step aside from the rugged road of life, and wander in 
 the fairy land of fiction, where every bank is sprinkled 
 with flowers, and every gale loaded with perfume ; where 
 every event introduces a hero, and every cottage is in- 
 habited by a Grace. Invited by these flattering scenes, 
 the student quits the investigation of truth, in which he 
 perhaps meets with no less fallacy, to exhilarate his 
 mind with new ideas, more agreeable, and more easily 
 attained : the busy relax their attention by desultory 
 reading, and smooth the agitation of a ruffled mind with 
 images of peace, tranquillity, and pleasure : the idle and 
 the gay relieve the listlessness of leisure, and diversify 
 the round of life by a rapid series of events pregnaut 
 with rapture and astonishment ; and the pensive solitary 
 fills up the vacuities of his heart by interesting himself 
 in the fortunes of imaginary beings, and forming con- 
 nections with ideal excellence. 
 
 It is, indeed, no ways extraordinary that the mind 
 should be charmed by fancy and attracted by pleasure ; 
 but that we should listen with complacence to the 
 
184 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 groans of misery and delight to view the exacerbations 
 of complicated anguish, that we should choose to chill 
 the bosom with imaginary fears and dim the eyes with 
 fictitious sorrow, seems a kind of paradox of the heart, 
 and can only be credited because it is universally felt. 
 Various are the hypotheses which have been found to 
 account for the disposition of the mind to riot in this 
 species of intellectual luxury. Some have imagined 
 that we are induced to acquiesce with greater patience 
 in our own lot by beholding pictures of life tinged with 
 deeper horrors, and loaded with more excruciating calam- 
 ities ; as to a person suddenly emerging out of a dark 
 room the faintest glimmering of twilight assumes a lus- 
 tre from the contrasted gloom. Others, with yet deeper 
 refinement, suppose that we take upon ourselves this 
 burden of adscititious sorrows, in order to feast upon 
 the consciousness of our own virtue. We commiserate 
 others, say they, that we may applaud ourselves ; and 
 the sigh of compassionate sympathy is always followed 
 by the gratulations of self-complacent esteem. But 
 surely they who would thus reduce the sympathetic 
 emotions of pity to a system of refined selfishness have 
 but ill attended to the genuine feelings of humanity. 
 It would, however, exceed the limits of this paper 
 should I attempt an accurate investigation of these sen- 
 timents. But let it be remembered that we are more 
 attracted by those scenes which interest our passions, 
 
ON ROMANCES. 185 
 
 or gratify our curiosity, than those which delight our 
 fancy ; and, so far from being indifferent to the miseries 
 of others, we are, at the time, totally regardless of our 
 own. And let not those on whom the hand of Time 
 has impressed the characters of oracular wisdom cen- 
 sure with too much acrimony productions which are 
 thus calculated to please the imagination and interest 
 the heart. They teach us to think, by inuring us to 
 feel : they ventilate the mind by sudden gusts of pas- 
 sion, and prevent the stagnation of thought by a fresh 
 infusion of dissimilar ideas. 
 
186 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 AN INQUIRY INTO THOSE KINDS OF DISTRESS 
 WHICH EXCITE AGREEABLE SENSATIONS. 
 
 WITH A TALE. 
 
 IT is undoubtedly true, though a phenomenon of the 
 human mind difficult to account for, that the 
 representation of distress frequently gives pleasure; 
 from which general observation many of our modern 
 writers of tragedy and romance seem to have drawn 
 this inference, — that, in order to please, they have 
 nothing more to do than to paint distress in natural 
 and striking colors. With this view, they heap together 
 all the afflicting events and dismal accidents their 
 imagination can furnish; and when they have half 
 broke the reader's heart, they expect he should thank 
 them for his agreeable entertainment. An author of 
 this class sits down, pretty much like an inquisitor, to 
 compute how much suffering he can inflict upon the 
 hero of his tale before he makes an end of ' him ; with 
 this difference, indeed, that the inquisitor only tortures 
 those who are at least reputed criminals, whereas the 
 writer generally chooses the most excellent character in 
 his piece for the subject of his persecution. The great 
 
AN INQUIRY. 187 
 
 criterion of excellence is placed in being able to draw 
 tears plentifully ; and concluding we shall weep the 
 more, the more the picture is loaded with doleful events, 
 they go on, telling 
 
 " .... of sorrows upon sorrows 
 Even to a lamentable length of woe." 
 
 A monarch once proposed a reward for the discovery 
 of a new pleasure ; but if any one could find out a new 
 torture, or nondescript calamity, he would be more 
 entitled to the applause of those who fabricate books 
 of entertainment. 
 
 But the springs of pity require to be touched with a 
 more delicate hand ; and it is far from being true that 
 we are agreeably affected by everything that excites 
 our sympathy. It shall therefore be the business of 
 this essay to distinguish those kinds of distress which 
 are pleasing in the representation from those which are 
 really painful and disgusting. 
 
 The view or relation of mere misery can never be 
 pleasing. We have, indeed, a strong sympathy with 
 all kinds of misery ; but it is a feeling of pure, unmixed 
 pain, similar in kind, though not equal in degree, to 
 what we feel for ourselves on the like occasions ; and 
 never produces that melting sorrow, that thrill of 
 tenderness, to which we give the name of pity. They 
 are two distinct sensations, marked by very different 
 external expression. One causes the nerves to tingle, 
 
188 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the flesh to shudder, and the whole countenance to be 
 thrown into strong contractions : the other relaxes the 
 frame, opens the features, and produces tears. When 
 we crush a noxious or loathsome animal, we may sym- 
 pathize strongly with the pain it suffers, but with far 
 different emotions from the tender sentiment we feel 
 for the dog of Ulysses, who crawled to meet his long- 
 lost master, looked up, and died at his feet. Extreme 
 bodily pain is perhaps the most intense suffering we are 
 capable of, and if the fellow-feeling with misery alone 
 was grateful to the mind, the exhibition of a man in a 
 fit of the toothache, or under a chirurgical operation, 
 would have a fine effect in a tragedy. But there must 
 be some other sentiment combined with this kind of in- 
 stinctive sympathy before it becomes in any degree 
 pleasing, or produces the sweet emotion of pity. This 
 sentiment is love, esteem, the complacency we take in 
 the contemplation of beauty, of mental or moral excel- 
 lence, called forth and rendered more interesting by 
 circumstances of pain and danger. Tenderness is, much 
 more properly than sorrow, the spring of tears ; for it 
 affects us in that manner, whether combined with joy or 
 grief; perhaps more in the former case than the latter. 
 And I believe we may venture to assert, that no distress 
 which produces tears is wholly without a mixture of 
 pleasure. When Joseph's brethren were sent to buy 
 corn, if they had perished in the desert by wild beasts, 
 
AN INQUIRY. 139 
 
 or been reduced (as in the horrid adventures of a Pierre 
 de Yaud) to eat one another, we might have shuddered, 
 but we should not have wept for them. The gush of 
 tears breaks forth when Joseph made himself known 
 to his brethren, and fell on their neck, and kissed 
 them. When Hubert prepares to burn out Prince 
 Arthur's eyes, the shocking circumstance, of itself, 
 would only affect us with horror: it is the amiable 
 simplicity of the young prince, and his innocent affec- 
 tion to his intended murderer, that draws our tears, and 
 excites that tender sorrow which we love to feel, and 
 which refines the heart while we do feel it. 
 
 We see, therefore, from this view of our internal 
 feelings, that no scenes of misery ought to be exhibited 
 which are not connected with the display of some moral 
 excellence or agreeable quality. If fortitude, power, 
 and strength of mind are called forth, they produce 
 the sublime feelings of wonder and admiration : if the 
 softer qualities of gentleness, grace, and beauty, they 
 inspire love and pity. The management of these latter 
 emotions is our present object. 
 
 And let it be remembered, in the first place, that the 
 misfortunes which excite pity must not be too horrid and 
 overwhelming. The mind is rather stunned than soft- 
 ened by great calamities. They are little circumstances 
 that work most sensibly upon the tender feelings. For 
 this reason a well-written novel generally draws more 
 
 . 
 
190 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 tears than a tragedy. The distresses of tragedy are 
 more calculated to amaze and terrify than to move 
 compassion. Battles, torture, and death are in every 
 page. The dignity of the characters, the importance 
 of the events, the pomp of verse and imagery, interest 
 the grander passions, and raise the mind to an enthusi- 
 asm little favorable to the weak and languid notes of 
 pity. The tragedies of Young are in a fine strain of 
 poetry, and the situations are worked up with great 
 energy ; but the pictures are in too deep a shade : all 
 his pieces are full of violent and gloomy passions, and 
 so overwrought with horror, that, instead of awakening 
 any pleasing sensibility, they leave on the mind an 
 impression of sadness mixed with terror. Shakespeare 
 is sometimes guilty of presenting scenes too shocking. 
 Such is the trampling out of Gloster's eyes, and such 
 is the whole play of Titus Andronicus. But Lee, 
 beyond all others, abounds with this kind of images. 
 He delighted in painting the most daring crimes and 
 cruel massacres; and though he has shown himself 
 extremely capable of raising tenderness, he continually 
 checks its course by shocking and disagreeable expres- 
 sions. His pieces are in the same taste with the 
 pictures of Spagnolet, and there are many scenes in his 
 tragedies winch no one can relish who would not look 
 with pleasure on the flaying of St. Bartholomew. The 
 following speech of Marguerite, in the Massacre of 
 
AN INQUIRY. 191 
 
 Paris, was, I suppose, intended to express the utmost 
 tenderness of affection. 
 
 " Die for him ! that 's too little ; I could burn 
 Piecemeal away, or bleed to death by drops, 
 Be flayed alive, then broke upon the wheel, 
 Yet with a smile endure it all for Guise : 
 And when let loose from torments, all one wound, 
 Run with my mangled arms and crush him dead." 
 
 Images like these will never excite the softer passions. 
 We are less moved -at the description of an Indian 
 tortured with all the dreadful ingenuity of that savage 
 people, than with the fatal mistake of the lover in the 
 Spectator, who pierced an artery in the arm of his 
 mistress as he was letting her blood. Tragedy and 
 romance writers are likewise apt to make too free with 
 the more violent expressions of passion and distress, by 
 which means they lose their effect. Thus an ordinary 
 author does not know how to express any strong emo- 
 tion otherwise than by swoonings or death ; so that a 
 person experienced in this kind of reading, when a girl 
 faints away at parting with her lover, or a hero kills 
 himself for the loss of his mistress, considers it as the 
 established etiquette upon such occasions, and turns 
 over the pages with the utmost coolness and unconcern; 
 whereas real sensibility, and a more intimate knowledge 
 of human nature, would have suggested a thousand lit- 
 tle touches of grief, which, though slight, are irresistible. 
 
192 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 We are too gloomy a people. Some of the French novels 
 are remarkable for little affecting incidents, imagined 
 with delicacy and told with grace. Perhaps they have 
 a better turn than we have for this kind of writing. 
 
 A judicious author will never attempt to raise pity 
 by anything mean or disgusting. As we have already 
 observed, there must be a degree of complacence mixed 
 with our sorrows to produce an agreeable sympathy; 
 nothing, therefore, must be admitted which destroys 
 the grace and dignity of suffering ; the imagination 
 must have an amiable figure to dwell upon ; there are 
 circumstances so ludicrous and disgusting, that no 
 character can preserve a proper decorum under them, 
 or appear in an agreeable light. Who can read the 
 following description of Polypheme without finding 
 his compassion entirely destroyed by aversion and 
 loathing ? 
 
 " . . . . His bloody hand 
 Snatched two unhappy of my martial band, 
 And dashed like dogs against the stony floor, 
 The pavement swims with brains and mingled gore ; 
 Torn limb from limb, he spreads his horrid feast, 
 And fierce devours it like a mountain beast ; 
 He sucks the marrow, and the blood he drains, 
 Nor entrails, flesh, nor solid bone remains." 
 
 Or that of Scylla, — 
 
 "In the wide dungeon she devours her food, 
 And the flesh trembles while she churns the blood. " 
 
 
AN INQUIRY. 193 
 
 Deformity is always disgusting, and the imagination 
 cannot reconcile it with the idea of a favorite character ; 
 therefore the poet and romance-writer are fully justified 
 in giving a larger share of beauty to their principal 
 figures than is usually met with in common life. A 
 late genius, indeed, in a whimsical mood, gave us a lady 
 with her nose crushed for the heroine of his story ; but 
 the circumstance spoils the picture ; and though in the 
 course of the story it is kept a good deal out of sight, 
 whenever it does occur to the imagination we are hurt 
 and disgusted. It was an heroic instance of virtue in 
 the nuns of a certain abbey, who cut off their noses and 
 lips to avoid violation ; yet this would make a very bad 
 subject for a poem or a play. Something akin to this 
 is the representation of anything unnatural, of which 
 kind is the famous story of the Eoman charity ; and for 
 this reason I cannot but think it an unpleasing subject 
 for either the pen or the pencil. 
 
 Poverty, if truly represented, shocks our nicer feel- 
 ings ; therefore, whenever it is made use of to awaken 
 our compassion, the rags and dirt, the squalid appear- 
 ance and mean employments incident to that state, 
 must be kept out of sight, and the distress must arise 
 from the idea of depression, and the shock of falling 
 from higher fortunes. We do not pity Belisarius as a 
 poor, blind beggar ; and a painter would succeed very 
 ill who should sink him to the meanness of that condi- 
 
 VOL. II. 9 M 
 
194 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 tion. He must let us still discover the conqueror of the 
 Vandals, the general of the imperial armies, or we shall 
 be little interested. Let us look at the picture of the 
 old woman of Otway : — 
 
 " .... A wrinkled hag with age grown double, 
 Picking dry sticks, and muttering to herself ; 
 • Her eyes with scalding rheum were galled and red ; 
 Cold palsy shook her head ; her hands seemed withered ; 
 And on her crooked shoulder had she wrapt 
 The tattered remnant of an old striped hanging, 
 Which served to keep her carcass from the cold ; 
 So there was nothing of a piece about her." 
 
 Here is the extreme of wretchedness,* and instead of 
 melting into pity, we should turn away with disgust, if 
 we were not pleased with it, as we are with a Dutch 
 painting, from the exact imitation of nature. Indeed, 
 the author only intended it to strike horror. But how 
 different are the sentiments we feel for the lovely Bel- 
 videra ! \Ye see none of those circumstances which ren- 
 der poverty an unamiable thing. When the goods are 
 seized by an execution, our attention is turned to the 
 piles of massy plate, and all the ancient, most domestic 
 ornaments, which imply grandeur and consequence; or 
 to such instances of their hard fortune as will lead us to 
 pity them as lovers. "We are struck and affected with the 
 general face of ruin ; but we are not brought near enough 
 to discern the ugliness of its features. Belvidera ruined, 
 Belvidera deprived of friends, without a home, aban- 
 
AN INQUIRY. 195 
 
 doned to the wide world, — we can contemplate with 
 all the pleasing sympathy of pity; but had she been 
 represented as really sunk into low life, had we seen 
 her employed in the most servile offices of poverty, our 
 compassion would have given way to contempt and dis- 
 gust. Indeed, we may observe in real life that poverty 
 is only pitied so long as people can keep themselves 
 from the effects of it. When in common language we 
 say a miserable object, we mean an object of distress 
 which, if we relieve, we turn away from at the same 
 time. To make pity pleasing, the object of it must not 
 in any view be* disagreeable to the imagination. How 
 admirably has the author of " Clarissa " managed this 
 point ! Amidst scenes of suffering which rend the heart, 
 in poverty, in a prison, under the most shocking outrages, 
 the grace and delicacy of her character never suffers 
 even for a moment : there seems to be a charm about 
 her which prevents her receiving a stain from anything 
 which happens ; and Clarissa, abandoned and undone, 
 is the object not only of complacence but veneration. 
 
 I would likewise observe, that if an author would 
 have us feel a strong degree of compassion, his charac- 
 ters must not be too perfect. The stern fortitude and 
 inflexible resolution of a Cato may command esteem, 
 but does not excite tenderness ; and faultless rectitude 
 of conduct, though no rigor be mixed with it, is of too 
 sublime a nature to inspire compassion. Virtue has a 
 
196 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 kind of self-sufficiency ; it stands upon its own basis, 
 and cannot be injured by any violence. It must there- 
 fore be mixed with something of helplessness and im- 
 perfection, with an excessive sensibility or a simplicity 
 bordering upon weakness, before it raises, in any great 
 degree, either tenderness or familiar love. If there be a 
 fault in the masterly performance just now mentioned, 
 it is that the character of Clarissa is so inflexibly right, 
 her passions are under such perfect command, and her 
 prudence is so equal to every occasion, that she seems 
 not to need that sympathy we should bestow upon one 
 of a less elevated character ; and perhaps. we should feel 
 a livelier emotion of tenderness for the innocent girl 
 whom Lovelace calls his Eose-bud, but that the story 
 of Clarissa is so worked up by the strength of coloring, 
 and the force of repeated impressions, as to command 
 all our sorrow. 
 
 Pity seems too degrading a sentiment to be offered at 
 the shrine of faultless excellence. The sufferings of 
 martyrs are rather beheld with admiration and sym- 
 pathetic triumph than with tears ; and we never feel 
 much for those whom we consider as themselves raised 
 above common feelings. 
 
 The last rule I shall insist upon is, that scenes of 
 distress should not be too long continued. All our 
 finer feelings are in a manner momentary, and no art 
 can carry them beyond a certain point, either in intense- 
 
AN INQUIRY. 197 
 
 ness or duration. Constant suffering deadens the heart 
 to tender impressions ; as we may observe in sailors and 
 others who are grown callous by a life of continual 
 hardships. It is therefore highly necessary, in a long 
 work, to relieve the mind by scenes of pleasure and 
 gayety ; and I cannot think it so absurd a practice as 
 our modern delicacy has represented it, to intermix wit 
 and fancy with the pathetic, provided care be taken not 
 to check the passions while they_ are flowing. The 
 transition from a pleasurable state of mind to tender 
 sorrow is not so difficult as we imagine. When the 
 mind is opened by gay and agreeable scenes, every im- 
 pression is felt more sensibly. Persons of a lively tem- 
 per are much more susceptible of that sudden swell of 
 sensibility which occasions tears, than those of a grave 
 and saturnine cast ; for this reason women are more 
 easily moved to weeping than men. Those who have 
 touched the springs of pity with the finest hand, have 
 mingled light strokes of pleasantry and mirth in their 
 most pathetic passages. Yery different is the conduct 
 of many novel- writers, who, by plunging us into scenes 
 of distress without end or limit, exhaust the powers, 
 and before the conclusion either render us insensible to 
 everything, or fix a real sadness upon the mind. The 
 uniform style of tragedies is one reason why they affect 
 so little. In our old plays all the force of language is 
 reserved for the more interesting parts ; and in scenes 
 
198 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 of common life there is no attempt to rise above com- 
 mon language ; whereas we, by that pompous manner 
 and affected solemnity which we think it necessary to 
 preserve through the whole piece, lose the force of an 
 elevated or passionate expression where the occasion 
 •really suggests it. 
 
 Having thus considered the manner in which ficti- 
 tious distress must be managed to render it pleasing, 
 let us reflect a little upon the moral tendency of such 
 representations. Much has been said in favor of them, 
 and they are generally thought to improve the tender 
 and humane feelings ; but this, I own, appears to me 
 very dubious. That they exercise sensibility is true ; 
 but sensibility does not increase with exercise. By the 
 constitution of our frame our habits increase, our emo- 
 tions decrease, by repeated acts ; and thus a wise pro- 
 vision is made, that, as our compassion grows weaker, 
 its place should be supplied by habitual benevolence. 
 But in these writings our sensibility is strongly called 
 forth without any possibility of exerting itself in virtu- 
 ous action, and those emotions which we shall never 
 feel again with equal force are wasted without advan- 
 tage. Nothing is more dangerous than to let virtuous 
 impressions of any kind pass through the mind without 
 producing their proper effect. The awakenings of re- 
 morse, virtuous shame and indignation, the glow of 
 moral approbation, — if they do not lead to action, grow 
 
AN INQUIRY. 199 
 
 less and less vivid every time they recur, till at length 
 the mind grows absolutely callous. The being affected 
 with a pathetic story is undoubtedly a sign of an amia- 
 ble disposition, but perhaps no means of increasing it. 
 On the contrary, young people, by a course of this kind 
 of reading, often acquire something of that apathy and 
 indifference which the experience of real life would have 
 given them, without its advantages. 
 
 Another reason why plays and romances do not im- 
 prove our humanity is, that they lead us to require a 
 certain elegance of manners and delicacy of virtue which 
 is not often found with poverty, ignorance, and mean- 
 ness. The objects of pity in romance are as different 
 from those in real life as our husbandmen from the 
 shepherds of Arcadia ; and a girl who will sit weeping 
 the w T hole night at the delicate distresses of a lady 
 Charlotte, or lady Julia, shall be little moved at the 
 complaint of her neighbor, who, in a homely phrase and 
 vulgar accent, laments to her that she is not able to get 
 bread for her family. Eomance-writers likewise make 
 great misfortunes so familiar to our ears, that w r e have 
 hardly any pity to spare for the common accidents of 
 life ; but we ought to remember that misery has a claim 
 to relief, however we may be disgusted with its appear- 
 ance ; and that we must not fancy ourselves charitable, 
 when we are only pleasing our imagination. 
 
 It would perhaps be better if our romances were 
 
200 WORKS OF MRS. BARRAULD. 
 
 more like those of the old stamp, which tended to raise 
 human nature, and inspire a certain grace and dignity 
 of manners of which we have hardly the idea. The 
 high notions of honor, the wild and fanciful spirit of 
 adventure and romantic love, elevated the mind : our 
 novels tend to depress and enfeeble it. Yet there is a 
 species of this kind of writing which must ever afford 
 an exquisite pleasure to persons of taste and sensibility ; 
 where noble sentiments are mixed with well-fancied 
 incidents, pathetic touches with dignity and grace, and 
 invention with chaste correctness. Such will ever inter- 
 est our sweetest passions. I shall conclude this paper 
 with the following tale. 
 
 In the happy period of the Golden Age, when all the 
 celestial inhabitants descended to the earth and con- 
 versed familiarly with mortals, among the most cher- 
 ished of the heavenly powers were twins, the offspring 
 of Jupiter, Love and Joy. Where they appeared, the 
 flowers sprung up beneath their feet, the sun shone 
 with a brighter radiance, and all nature seemed embel- 
 lished by their presence. They were inseparable com- 
 panions, and their growing attachment was favored by 
 Jupiter, who had decreed that a lasting union should 
 be solemnized between them as soon as they were 
 arrived at maturer years. But in the mean time the 
 
AN INQUIRY. 201 
 
 sons of men deviated from their native innocence ; vice 
 and ruin overran the earth with giant strides ; and 
 Astrea, with her train of celestial visitants, forsook 
 their polluted abodes. Love alone remained, having 
 been stolen away by Hope, who was his nurse, and 
 conveyed by her to the forest of Arcadia, where he was 
 brought up among the shepherds. But Jupiter assigned 
 him a different partner, and commanded him to espouse 
 Sorrow, the daughter of Ate. He complied with reluc- 
 tance; for her features were harsh and disagreeable, 
 her eyes sunk, her forehead contracted into perpetual 
 wrinkles, and her temples were covered with a wreath 
 of cypress and wormwood, from this union sprung a 
 virgin in whom might be traced a strong resemblance 
 to both her parents; but the sullen and unamiable 
 features of her mother were so mixed and blended with 
 the sweetness of her father, that her countenance, 
 though mournful, was highly pleasing. The maids and 
 shepherds of the neighboring plains gathered round, 
 and called her Pity. A redbreast was observed to build 
 in the cabin where she was born ; and while she was 
 yet an infant, a dove pursued by a hawk flew into her 
 bosom. This nymph had a dejected appearance, but 
 so soft and gentle a mien that she was beloved to a 
 degree of enthusiasm. Her voice was low and plaintive, 
 but inexpressibly sweet ; and she loved to lie for hours 
 together on the banks of some wild and melancholy 
 
 9* 
 
 L 
 
202 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 stream, singing to her lute. She taught men to weep, 
 for she took a strange delight in tears ; and often, 
 when the virgins of the hamlet were assembled at their 
 evening sports, she would steal in amongst them, and 
 captivate their hearts by her tales full of a charming 
 sadness. She wore on her head a garland composed of 
 her father's myrtles twisted with her mother's cypress. 
 
 One day, as she sat musing by the waters of Helicon, 
 her tears by chance fell into the fountain; and ever 
 since the Muse's spring has retained a strong taste of 
 the infusion. Pity was commanded by Jupiter to follow 
 the steps of her mother through the world, dropping 
 balm into the wounds slie made, and binding up the 
 hearts she had broken. She follows with her hair loose, 
 her bosom bare and throbbing, her garments torn by 
 the briers, and her feet bleeding with the roughness of 
 the path. The nymph is mortal, for her mother is so ; 
 and when she has fulfilled her destined course upon 
 the earth, they shall both expire together, and Love be 
 again united to Joy, his immortal and long-betrothed 
 bride. 
 
THE CURE" OF THE BANKS OF THE RHONE. 203 
 
 THE CUKE OE THE BANKS OF THE EHONE. 
 
 "WRITTEN IN 1791. 
 
 AFEIEND of mine, who pretends to have very 
 good information from the Continent, commu- 
 nicated to me the following account : I confess it comes 
 in a shape a little questionable; however, I send 
 it to you, Mr. Editor, exactly as my friend read it to 
 me from a private letter which he said he had just 
 received. 
 
 " A few days after the bishop of Paris and his vicars 
 had set the example of renouncing their clerical char- 
 acter, a cure from a village on the banks of the Rhone, 
 followed by some of his parishioners with an offering 
 of gold and silver saints, chalices, rich vestments, etc., 
 presented himself at the bar of the House. The sight 
 of the gold put the Convention in very good humor, 
 and the cure, a thin, venerable-looking man with gray 
 hairs, was ordered to speak. ' I come,' said he, ' from 
 the village of , where the only good building stand- 
 ing (for the chateau has been pulled down) is a very 
 fine church; my parishioners beg you will take it to 
 make a hospital for the sick and wounded of both 
 
204 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 parties, — they are both equally our countrymen : the 
 gold and silver, part of which we have brought you, 
 they entreat you will devote to the service of the state, 
 and that you will cast the bells into cannon to drive 
 away its foreign invaders : for myself, I come with 
 great pleasure to resign my letters of ordination, of 
 induction, and every deed and title by which I have 
 been constituted a member of your ecclesiastical polity. 
 Here are the papers ; you may burn them, if you please, 
 in the same fire with the genealogical trees and patents 
 of the nobility. I desire likewise that you will dis- 
 continue my salary. I am still able to support myself 
 by the labor of my hands, and I beg of you to believe 
 that I never felt sincerer joy than I now do in making 
 this renunciation. I have longed to see this day: I 
 see it, and am glad.' 
 
 " When the old man had done speaking, the applauses 
 were immoderate. ' You are an honest man/ said they 
 all at once ; ' you are a brave fellow ; you do not 
 believe in God ' ; — and the president advanced to give 
 him the fraternal embrace. The cure did not seem 
 greatly elated with these tokens of approbation ; he 
 retired back a few steps, and thus resumed his dis- 
 course. ' Before you applaud my sentiments, it is fit 
 you should understand them ; perhaps they may not 
 entirely coincide with your own. I rejoice in this 
 day, not because I wish to see religion degraded, but 
 
THE CURE* OF THE BANKS OF THE RHONE. 205 
 
 because I wish to see it exalted and purified. By dis- 
 solving its alliance with the state, you have given it 
 dignity and independence. You have done it a piece 
 of service which its well-wishers would, perhaps, never 
 have had courage to render it, but which is the only 
 thing wanted to make it appear in its genuine beauty 
 and lustre. Nobody will now say of me that I am 
 performing the offices of my religion as a trade ; he is 
 paid for telling the people such and such things ; he is 
 hired to keep up a useless piece of mummery. They 
 cannot now say this, and therefore I feel myself raised 
 in my own esteem, and shall speak to them with a con- 
 fidence and frankness which, before this, I never durst 
 venture to assume. We resign without reluctance our 
 gold and silver images and embroidered vestments, be- 
 cause we have never found that gold and silver made 
 the heart more pure or the affections more heavenly; 
 we can also spare our churches, for the heart that 
 wishes to lift itself up to God will never be at a loss 
 for room to do it in ; but we cannot spare our religion, 
 because, to tell you the truth, we never had so much oc- 
 casion for it. I understand that you accuse us priests 
 of having told the people a great many falsehoods. I 
 suspect this may have been the case ; but till this day 
 we have never been allowed to inquire whether the 
 things which we taught them were true or not. You 
 required us formerly to receive them all without proof, 
 
206 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 and you would have us now reject them all without 
 discrimination ; neither of these modes of conduct be- 
 come philosophers, such as you would be thought to 
 be. I am going to employ myself diligently along with 
 my parishioners to sift the wheat from the chaff, the 
 true from the false ; if we are not successful, we shall 
 be at least sincere. I do fear, indeed, that while I 
 wore these vestments which we have brought you, and 
 spoke in that gloomy building which we have given up 
 to you, I told my flock a great many idle stories. I 
 cannot but hope, however, that the errors we have 
 fallen into have not been very material, since the village 
 has been in general sober and good, the peasants are 
 honest, ctocile, and laborious, the husbands love their 
 wives and the wives their husbands ; they are fortu- 
 nately not too rich to be compassionate, and they have 
 constantly relieved the sick and fugitives of all parties 
 whenever it has lain in their way. I think, therefore, 
 what I have taught them cannot be so very much 
 amiss. You want to extirpate priests ; but will you 
 hinder the ignorant from applying for instruction, the 
 unhappy for comfort and hope, the unlearned from 
 looking up to the learned ? If you do not, you will 
 have priests, by whatever name you may order them 
 to be called ; but it certainly is not necessary they 
 should wear a particular dress, or be appointed by state- 
 letters of ordination. My letters of ordination are my 
 
THE CURE* OF THE BANKS OF THE RHONE. 207 
 
 zeal, my charity, my ardent love for my dear children 
 of the village ; if I were more learned, I would add 
 my knowledge, but alas ! we all know very little ; to 
 man every error is pardonable but want of humility. 
 We have a public walk with a spreading elm at the 
 end of it, and a circle of green round it, with a con- 
 venient bench. Here I shall draw together the children 
 as they are playing around me. I shall point to the 
 vines laden with fruit, to the orchards, to the herds of 
 cattle lowing around us, to the distant hills stretching 
 one behind another ; and they will ask me, How came 
 all these things ? I shall tell them all I know or have 
 heard from wise men who have lived before me ; they 
 will be penetrated with love and veneration ; they will 
 kneel, — I shall kneel with them ; they will not be at 
 my feet, but all of us at the feet of that good Being 
 whom we shall worship together; and thus they will 
 receive within their tender minds a religion. The old 
 men will come sometimes from having deposited under 
 the green sod one of their companions, and place them- 
 selves by my side ; they will look wistfully at the turf, 
 and anxiously inquire, Is he gone forever ? Shall we 
 soon be like him ? Will no morning break over the 
 tomb ? When the wicked cease from troubling, will 
 the good cease from doing good ? We will talk of these 
 things : I will comfort them. I will tell them of the 
 goodness of God \ I will speak to them of a life to 
 
208 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 come ; I will bid them hope for a state of retribution. 
 In a clear night, when the stars slide over our heads, 
 they will ask what these bright bodies are, and by what 
 rules they rise and set. And we will converse about 
 different forms of being, and distant worlds in the 
 immensity of space, governed by the same laws, till 
 we feel our minds raised from what is grovelling, and 
 refined from what is sordid. You talk of Xature, — 
 this is Nature ; and if you could at this moment extin- 
 guish religion in the minds of the world, thus would 
 it be kindled again, and thus again excite the curios- 
 ity and interest the feelings of mankind. You have 
 changed our holidays ; you have an undoubted right, 
 as our civil governors, so to do ; it is very immaterial 
 whether they are kept once in seven days, or once in 
 ten ; some, however, you will leave us, and when they 
 occur, I shall tell those who choose to hear me, of the 
 beauty and utility of virtue, of the dignity of right 
 conduct. ^Ye shall talk of good men who have lived 
 in the world, and of the doctrines they taught ; and if 
 any of them have been persecuted and put to death for 
 their virtue, we shall reverence their memories the 
 more. — I hope in all this there is no harm. There is a 
 book out of which I have sometimes taught my people ; 
 it says we are to love those who do us hurt, and to 
 pour oil and wine into the wounds of the stranger. It 
 has enabled my children to bear patiently the spoiling 
 
THE CURE* OF THE BANKS OF THE RHONE. 209 
 
 of their goods, and to give up their own interest for the 
 general welfare. I think it cannot be a very bad book, 
 I wish more of it had been read in your town ; perhaps 
 you would not have had quite so many assassinations 
 and massacres. In this book we hear of a person called 
 Jesus. Some worship him as a God ; others, as I am 
 told, say it is wrong to do so. — Some teach that he 
 existed from the beginning of ages ; others, that he was 
 born of Joseph and Mary. I cannot tell whether these 
 controversies will ever be decided; but in the mean 
 time I think we cannot do otherwise than well in imi- 
 tating him ; for I learn that he loved the poor, and went 
 about doing go od. 
 
 " ' Fellow-citizens, as I travelled hither from my own 
 village, I saw peasants sitting among the smoking ruins 
 of their cottages, — rich men and women reduced to 
 miserable poverty ; fathers lamenting their children in 
 the bloom and pride of youth ; and I said to myself, 
 these people cannot afford to part with their religion. 
 But indeed you cannot take it away ; if, contrary to 
 your first declaration, you choose to try the experiment 
 of persecuting it, you will only make us prize it more 
 and love it better. Eeligion, true or false, is so neces- 
 sary to the mind of man, that even you have begun to 
 make yourselves a new one. You are sowing the seeds 
 of superstition ; and in two or three generations your 
 posterity will be worshipping some clumsy idol, with 
 
210 WORKS OF MBS. BAEBAULD. 
 
 the rites, perhaps, of a bloody Moloch or a lascivious 
 Thammuz. It was not worth while to have been 
 philosophers and destroyed the images of our saints for 
 this ; but let every one choose the religion that pleases 
 him ; I and my parishioners are. content with ours, — 
 it teaches us to bear the evils your childish or sanguin- 
 ary decrees have helped to bring upon the country.' " 
 
 The cure turned his footsteps homeward, and the 
 Convention looked for some minutes on one another 
 before they resumed their work of blood. 
 
ON EVIL. 211 
 
 ON EVIL. 
 
 A RHAPSODY. 
 
 OEVIL, creature abhorred of God and man ! 
 whence is thy origin ? how did so deformed and 
 monstrous a birth gain entrance into the fair creation ? 
 Canst thou be from God, — since thou art so opposite 
 to his nature ? And if from man, — why was he 
 suffered to produce thee ? Weak, unexperienced, un- 
 suspecting man, — why was he permitted to bring such 
 enormous ruin on his own head, and that of all his 
 posterity ? Was there no warning voice, no sheltering 
 hand, to save him from such a fall, — to save thy image, 
 God, from pollution ? Let us sit down in sad shades, 
 and join the moral poet, — 
 
 " Who mourns for virtue lost, and ruined man." 
 
 What fair, what amiable creatures were our first par- 
 ents when they came from the hands of their Maker ! 
 They knew neither Pain, nor Sin, the sire of Pain ; 
 nor Shame, the daughter of Sin. Innocent, happy, and 
 immortal : — so far from practising evil that they had 
 not even the knowledge of it. Their passions, nicely 
 balanced, admitted no internal war. A milky innocence 
 
212 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 in their veins, their eyes beaming with smiles, — the 
 smiles of candor and simplicity, — they were the head 
 of the happy creation, till one fatal moment ruined all. 
 The Garden of Paradise is shut forever ; and man, 
 (unhappy outcast !) exposed to the war of elements 
 without and passions within, his peace broken, his 
 heart torn by the conflict of jarring emotions, his life 
 worn away by perplexing doubts and heart-withering 
 care, moistens his daily bread with tears ; and, after 
 struggling a few years in the hard, unequal warfare, he 
 returns to the dust from whence he was taken. 
 
 Such is the dark side of the picture. — But let us 
 change the view, and see whether in reality the human 
 race have such great reason to lament the fall of their 
 first progenitor. Whether virtuous man now is not a 
 nobler creature than sinless man then ? the pupil of rea- 
 son, than the child of nature ? the follower of the second, 
 than the offspring of the first Adam ? Man in his first 
 state had a mind untainted with crimes ; but unformed, 
 uncultivated, void of moral ideas, he could not rise 
 but by his fall ; he could not attain to more perfection 
 but by moral discipline ; he could not know the joys 
 of self- approbation, without being subject to remorse, 
 — of sympathy, without feeling distress. Had he 
 been always innocent, he had been nothing more than 
 innocent ; had he never known his weakness, he had 
 never acquired strength. Behold him now, fashioned 
 
ON EVIL. 213 
 
 by the hand of culture, and shining through the dark 
 cloud of ruin, guilt, and pain that is spread over him. 
 What a different creature from the former man ! He 
 now knows vice, but abhors it ; temptation, but resists 
 it ; error, but he laments it. His passions were once 
 balanced, they are now subdued; he has tasted good 
 and evil, and he knows to choose the one and refuse 
 the other. Intellectual ideas crowd upon him, and a 
 new world opens within his breast. His nature is raised, 
 refined, exalted: he lives by faith, by devotion, by 
 spiritual communion, by repentance, — he, weeping 
 beneath the bitter cross, washes off the stain of sin. 
 The world is beneath his feet ; for behold he prayeth, 
 and things unseen become present to his soul. Meek 
 resignation blunts the edge of suffering ; and trium- 
 phant hope looks beyond all suffering to glory and to 
 joy. Thus advancing through life, he learns some new 
 lesson at every step ; till by receiving, but still more 
 by conferring benefits, by bearing, and still further by 
 forgiving injuries, his mind is disciplined, his moral 
 sense awakened, his taste for beauty, order, and recti- 
 tude unfolded. He becomes endeared to those he has 
 wept and prayed and struggled with through this vale 
 of sin and suffering ; he learns to pity and to love his 
 fellow-partners of mortality; till at length the divine 
 flame of universal charity begins to kindle in his breast. 
 Then is the era of a new birth ; then does he become 
 
21-4 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 partaker of a divine nature : sense is mortified, passion 
 is subdued, self is annihilated. And is not this a noble 
 creature ? a being worth forming by so expensive and 
 painful a process ? a being God may delight in ? a 
 faithful, well-disciplined soldier, fit to co-operate in any 
 plan, or mingle with any order of rational and moral 
 beings throughout the wide creation ? Place him where 
 you will, he has learned to follow, to trust in, the 
 Supreme Being; he has learned humility from his 
 errors, steadiness and watchfulness from his weakness ; 
 his virtues depend not now on constitution, but on firm 
 principles and established habits. Is this the feeble 
 being whose infant mind was unable to resist the 
 allurements of forbidden fruit ? who so easily listened 
 to the seduction of the tempter ? See him now resist- 
 ing unto blood, superior to principalities and powers, 
 to wicked men and bad angels : neither terrors nor 
 pleasures can move him. He once believed not the 
 living voice of Ins Maker ; having not seen, he now 
 believes. His gratitude once was faint and languid, 
 though he was surrounded with pleasant things. He 
 now loves God, though overwhelmed with sorrow and 
 pain ; trusts in him, though surrounded with difficul- 
 ties ; hopes even against hope, and prays without 
 ceasing. His hopes now are superior to his joys then. 
 Glorious exchange ! from reposing on flowers, to tread 
 upon stars, — from naked purity, to a robe of glory, 
 
 I 
 
ON EVIL. 215 
 
 — from the food which cometh out of the earth to 
 the bread which cometh down from heaven. For igno- 
 rance of ill he hath knowledge of good; for smiles 
 of innocence, tears of rapture; for the bowers of 
 paradise, the gates of heaven. Hadst thou, Adam, never 
 fallen, shepherds and husbandmen only would have 
 sprung from thee; now patriots, martyrs, confessors, 
 apostles ! 
 
216 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. 
 
 I HAPPENED the other day to take a solitary walk 
 amongst the venerable ruins of an old abbey. The 
 stillness and solemnity of the place were favorable to 
 thought, and naturally led me to a train of ideas rela- 
 tive to the scene; when, like a good Protestant, I 
 began to indulge a secret triumph in the ruin of so 
 many structures which I had always considered as the 
 haunts of ignorance and superstition. 
 
 Ye are fallen, said I, ye dark and gloomy mansions 
 of mistaken zeal, where the proud priest and lazy monk 
 fattened upon the riches of the land, and crept like ver- 
 min from their cells, to spread their poisonous doctrines 
 through the nation, and disturb the peace of kings. 
 Obscure in their origin, but daring and ambitious in 
 their guilt ! See how the pure light of heaven is clouded 
 by the dim glass of the arched window, stained with the 
 gaudy colors of monkish tales and legendary fiction, — 
 fit emblem how reluctantly they admitted the fairer 
 light of truth amidst these dark recesses, and how much 
 they have debased its genuine lustre ! The low cells, 
 the long and narrow aisles, the gloomy arches, the damp 
 and secret caverns which wind beneath the hollow 
 
ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. 217 
 
 ground, far from impressing on the mind the idea of 
 the God of truth and love, seem only fit for those dark 
 places of the earth in which are the habitations of cru- 
 elty. These massy stones and scattered reliques of the 
 vast edifice, like the large bones and gigantic armor of a 
 once formidable ruffian, produce emotions of mingled 
 dread and exultation. Farewell, ye once venerated seats ! 
 enough of you remains, and may it always remain, to re- 
 mind us from what we have escaped, and make posterity 
 forever thankful for this fairer age of liberty and light. 
 
 Such were for a while my meditations ; but it is 
 cruel to insult a fallen enemy, and I gradually fell into 
 a different train of thought. I began to consider whether 
 something might not be advanced in favor of these 
 institutions during the barbarous ages in which they 
 flourished ; and, though they have been productive of 
 much mischief and superstition, whether they might not 
 have spread the glimmering of a feeble ray of knowl- 
 edge through that thick night which once involved the 
 Western hemisphere. 
 
 And where, indeed, could the precious remains of 
 classical learning, and the divine monuments of ancient 
 taste, have been safely lodged amidst the ravages of that 
 age of ferocity and rapine which succeeded the desolation 
 of the Eoman Empire, except in sanctuaries like these, 
 consecrated by the superstition of the times beyond 
 their intrinsic merit ? The frequencj 7 " of wars, and the 
 
 VOL. II. 10 
 
218 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 licentious cruelty with which they were conducted, left 
 neither the hamlet of the peasant nor the castle of the 
 baron free from depredation ; but the church and mon- 
 astery generally remained inviolate. There Homer and 
 Aristotle were obliged to shroud their heads from the 
 rage of Gothic ignorance ; and there the sacred records 
 of Divine truth were preserved, like treasure hid in the 
 earth in troublesome times, safe, but unenjoyed. Some 
 of the barbarous nations were converted before their 
 conquests, and most of them soon after their settlement 
 in the countries they overran. Those buildings which 
 their new faith taught them to venerate, afforded a shel- 
 ter for those valuable manuscripts which must otherwise 
 have been destroyed in the common wreck. At the 
 revival of learning, they were produced from their 
 dormitories. A copy of the Pandects of Justinian, that 
 valuable remain of Eoman law which first gave to 
 Europe the idea of a more perfect jurisprudence, and 
 gave men a relish for a new and important study, was 
 discovered in a monastery of Amalphi. Most of the 
 classics were recovered by the same means ; and to this 
 is owing, — to the books and learning preserved in these 
 repositories, — that we were not obliged to begin anew, 
 and trace every art by slow and uncertain steps from 
 its first origin. Science, already full-grown and vigor- 
 ous, awaked as from a trance, shook her pinions, and 
 soon soared to the heights of knowledge. 
 
ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. 219 
 
 Nor was she entirely idle during her recess ; at least 
 we cannot but confess that what little learning remained 
 in the world was amongst the priests and religious or- 
 ders. Books, before the invention of paper and the art 
 of printing, were so dear, that few private persons pos- 
 sessed any. The only libraries were in convents ; and 
 the monks were often employed in transcribing manu- 
 scripts, which was a very tedious, and at that time a 
 very necessary task. It was frequently enjoined as a 
 penance for some slight offence, or given as an exercise 
 to the younger part of the community. The monks 
 were obliged by their rules to spend some stated hours 
 every day in reading and study ; nor was any one to be 
 chosen abbot without a competent share of learning. 
 They were the only historians ; and though their ac- 
 counts be interwoven with many a legendary tale, and 
 darkened by much superstition, still they are better than 
 no histories at all ; and we cannot but think ourselves 
 obliged to them for transmitting to us, in any dress, the 
 annals of their country. 
 
 They were likewise almost the sole instructors of 
 youth. Towards the end of the tenth century there 
 were no schools in Europe but the monasteries, and 
 those which belonged to Episcopal residences ; nor any 
 masters but the Benedictines. It is true, their course 
 of education extended no further than what they called 
 the seven liberal arts, and these were taught in a very 
 
 . 
 
220 WOEKS OF MBS. BARBAULD. 
 
 dry and uninteresting manner. But this was the genius 
 of the age, and it should not be imputed to them as a 
 reproach that they did not teach well, when no one 
 taught better. We are guilty of great unfairness when 
 we compare the schoolmen with the philosophers of a 
 more enlightened age. We should contrast them with 
 those of their own times ; with a high-constable of 
 France who could not read ; with kings who made the 
 sign of the cross in confirmation of their charters, because 
 they could not write their names ; with a whole people 
 without the least glimmering of taste or literature. 
 Whatever was their real knowledge, there was a much 
 greater difference between men of learning and the bulk 
 of the nation at that time than there is at present ; and 
 certainly some of the disciples of those schools who, 
 though now fallen into disrepute, were revered in their 
 day by the names of the subtle or the angelic doctors, 
 showed an acuteness and strength of genius which, if 
 properly directed, would have gone far in philosophy ; 
 and they only failed because their inquiries were not 
 the objects of the human powers. Had they exercised 
 half that acuteness on facts and experiments, they had 
 been truly great men. However, there were not want- 
 ing some, even in the darkest ages, whose names will 
 be always remembered with pleasure by the lovers of 
 science. Alcuin, the preceptor of Charlemagne, the 
 first who introduced a taste for polite literature into 
 
ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. 221 
 
 France, and the chief instrument that prince made use 
 of in his noble endeavors for the encouragement of 
 learning, — to whom the universities of Soissons, Tours, 
 and Paris owe their origin ; the historians, Matthew 
 Paris and William of Malrosbury ; the elegant and un- 
 fortunate Abelard ; and, to crown the rest, the English 
 Franciscan, Poster Bacon. 
 
 It may be here observed, that forbidding the vulgar 
 tongue in the offices of devotion, and in reading the 
 Scriptures, though undoubtedly a great corruption in 
 the Christian church, was of infinite service to the in- 
 terests of learning. When the ecclesiastics had locked 
 up their religion in a foreign tongue, they would take 
 care not to lose the key. This gave an importance to 
 the learned languages ; and every scholar could not only 
 read, but wrote and disputed in Latin, which without 
 such a motive would probably have been no more 
 studied than the Chinese. And at the time when the 
 modern languages of Europe were yet unformed and 
 barbarous, Latin was of great use as a kind of universal 
 tongue by which learned men might converse and cor- 
 respond with each other. 
 
 Indeed, the monks were almost the only set of men 
 who had leisure or opportunity to pay the least atten- 
 tion to literary subjects. A learned education (and a 
 very little went to that title) was reckoned peculiar to 
 the religious. It was almost esteemed a blemish on the 
 
222 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 savage and martial character of* the gentry to have any 
 tincture of letters. A man, therefore, of a studious and 
 retired turn, averse to quarrels, and not desirous of the 
 fierce and sanguinary glory of those times, beheld in 
 the cloister a peaceful and honorable sanctuary ; where, 
 without the reproach of cowardice, or danger of invasion, 
 he might devote himself to learning, associate with men 
 of his own turn, and have free access to libraries and 
 manuscripts. In this enlightened and polished age, 
 where learning is diffused through every rank, and 
 many a merchant's clerk possesses more real knowledge 
 than half the literati of that era, we can scarcely con- 
 ceive how gross an ignorance overspread those times, 
 and how totally all useful learning might have been lost 
 amongst us, had it not been for an order of men vested 
 with peculiar privileges, and protected by even a super- 
 stitious degree of reverence. 
 
 Thus the Muses, with their attendant arts, in strange 
 disguise indeed, and uncouth trappings, took refuge in 
 the peaceful gloom of the convent. Statuary carved a 
 madonna or a crucifix ; Painting illuminated a missal ; 
 Eloquence made the panegyric of a saint ; and History 
 composed a legend. Yet still they breathed, and were 
 ready, at any happier period, to emerge from obscurity 
 with all their native charms and undiminished lustre. 
 
 But there were other views in which those who 
 devoted themselves to a monastic life might be supposed 
 
ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. 223 
 
 useful to society. They were often employed either in 
 cultivating their gardens, or in curious mechanical 
 works ; as indeed the nuns are still famous for many 
 elegant and ingenious manufactures. By the constant 
 communication they had with those of their own order, 
 and with their common head at Eome, they maintained 
 some intercourse between nations at a time when trav- 
 elling was dangerous, and commerce had not, as now, 
 made the most distant parts of the globe familiar to 
 each other ; and they keep up a more intimate bond of 
 union amongst learned men of all countries, who would 
 otherwise have been secluded from all knowledge of 
 each other. A monk mmht travel with more conven- 
 ience than any one else ; his person was safe, and he 
 was sure of meeting with proper accommodations. The 
 intercourse with Eome must have been peculiarly favor- 
 able to these Northern nations, as Italy for a long time 
 led the way in every improvement of politeness or 
 literature ; and if we imported their superstitions, we 
 likewise imported their manufactures, their knowledge, 
 and their taste. Thus Alfred sent for Italian monks 
 when he wanted to civilize his people, and introduce 
 among them some tincture of letters. It may likewise 
 be presumed that they tempered the rigor of monarchy. 
 Indeed they, as well as the sovereigns, endeavored to 
 enslave the people ; but subjection was not likely to be 
 so abject and unlimited where the object of it was 
 
224 WORKS OF MBS. BARBAULD. 
 
 divided, and each showed by turns that the other might 
 be opposed. It must have been of service to the cause 
 of liberty to have a set of men whose laws, privileges, 
 and immunities the most daring kings were afraid to 
 trample on ; and this, before a more enlightened spirit 
 of freedom had arisen, might have its effect in prevent- 
 ing the states of Christendom from falling into such 
 entire slavery as the Asiatics. 
 
 Such an order would in some degree check the ex- 
 cessive regard paid to birth. A man of mean origin 
 and obscure parentage saw himself excluded from 
 almost every path of secular preferment, and almost 
 treated as a being of an inferior species by the high 
 and haughty spirit of the gentry ; but he was at liberty 
 to aspire to the highest dignities of the Church ; and 
 there have been many who, like Sextus V., have by 
 their industry and personal merit alone raised them- 
 selves to a level with kings. 
 
 It should likewise be remembered that many of the 
 orders were charitable institutions ; as the knights of 
 faith and charity in the thirteenth century, who were 
 associated for the purpose of suppressing those bands 
 of robbers which infested the public roads in France ; 
 the brethren of the Order of the Redemption, for redeem- 
 ing slaves from the Mahometans; the Order of St. 
 Anthony, first established for th^ relief of the poor 
 under certain disorders ; and the brethren and sisters of 
 
ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. 225 
 
 the pious and Christian schools, for educating poor chil- 
 dren. These supplied the place of hospitals and such 
 other foundations, which are now established on the 
 broader basis of public benevolence. To bind up the 
 wounds of the stranger was peculiarly the office of the 
 inhabitants of the convent ; and they often shared the 
 charities they received. The exercise of hospitality is 
 still their characteristic, and must have been of particu- 
 lar use formerly, when there were not the conveniences 
 and accommodations for travelling which we now enjoy. 
 The learned stranger was always sure of an agreeable 
 residence amongst them; and as they all understood 
 Latin, they served him for interpreters, and introduced 
 him to a sight of whatever was curious or valuable in 
 the countries which he visited. They checked the 
 spirit of savage fierceness, to which our warlike ances- 
 tors were so prone, with the mildness and sanctity of 
 religious influences ; they preserved some respect to 
 law and order, and often decided controversies by 
 means less bloody than the sword, though confessedly 
 more superstitious. 
 
 A proof that these institutions had a favorable aspect 
 towards civilization may be drawn from a late history 
 of Ireland. " Soon after the introduction of Christianity 
 into that kingdom," says Dr. Leland, " the monks fixed 
 their habitations in deserts, which they cultivated with 
 their own hands, and rendered the most delightful spots 
 10* o 
 
 i 
 
226 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 in the kingdom. These deserts became well-policed 
 cities ; and it is remarkable enough, that to the monks 
 we owe so useful an institution in Ireland as the bring- 
 ing great numbers together into one civil community. 
 In these cities the monks set up schools, and taught 
 not only the youth of Ireland, but the neighboring 
 nations, furnishing them also with books. They be- 
 came umpires between contending chiefs, and when 
 they could not Confine them within the bounds of 
 reason and religion, at least terrified them by denoun- 
 cing Divine vengeance against their excesses." 
 
 Let it be considered, too, that when the minds of men 
 began to open, some of the most eminent reformers 
 sprung from the bosom of the Church, and even of the 
 convent. It was not the laity who began to think. 
 The ecclesiastics were the first to perceive the errors 
 they had introduced. The Church was reformed from 
 within, not from without ; and, like the silk- worm, when 
 ripened in their cells to maturer vigor and perfection, 
 they pierced the cloud themselves had spun, and within 
 which they had so long been enveloped. 
 
 And let not the good Protestant be too much startled 
 if I here venture to insinuate that the monasteries 
 were schools of some high and respectable virtues. 
 Poverty, chastity, and a renunciation of the world, 
 were certainly intended in the first plan of these in- 
 stitutions ; and though, from the unavoidable frailty of 
 
ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. 227 
 
 human nature, they were not always observed, certain 
 it is that many individuals amongst them have been 
 striking examples of the self-denying virtues ; and as 
 the influence they acquired was only built upon the 
 voluntary homage of the mind, it may be presumed 
 such an ascendency was not originally gained without 
 some species of merit. The fondness for monkery is 
 easily deduced from some of the best principles in the 
 human heart. It was indeed necessity that in the 
 third century first drove the Christians to shelter 
 themselves from the Decian persecution in the soli- 
 tary deserts of Thebais ; but the humor soon spread, 
 and numbers under the name of hermits, or eremites, 
 secluded themselves from the .commerce of mankind, 
 choosing the wildest solitudes, living in caves and 
 hollows of the rocks, and subsisting on such roots and 
 herbs as the ground afforded them. About the fourth 
 century they were gathered into communities, and 
 increased with surprising rapidity. It was then that, 
 by a great and sudden revolution, the fury of persecu- 
 tion had ceased, and the governing powers were become 
 friendly to Christianity. But the agitation of men's 
 minds did not immediately subside with the storm. 
 The Christians had so long experienced the necessity of 
 resigning all the enjoyments of life, and were so de- 
 tached from every tie which might interfere with the 
 profession of their faith, that upon a more favorable 
 
228 
 
 WORKS OF MllS. BARBAULD. 
 
 turn of affairs they hardly dared open their minds to 
 pleasurable emotions. They thought the life of a good 
 man must be a continual warfare between mind and 
 body ; and having been long used to see ease and safety 
 on the one side and virtue on the other, no wonder 
 if the association was so strong in their minds as to 
 suggest the necessity of voluntary mortification, and 
 lead them to inflict those sufferings upon themselves 
 which they no longer apprehended from others. They 
 had continually experienced the amazing effects of 
 Christianity in supporting its followers under hardship, 
 tortures, and death ; and they thought little of its in- 
 fluence in regulating the common behavior of life, if it 
 produced none of those great exertions they had been 
 used to contemplate. They were struck with the change 
 from heathen licentiousness to the purity of the gospel ; 
 and thought they could never be far enough removed 
 from that bondage of the senses which it had just cost 
 them so violent a struggle to escape. The minds of men 
 were working with newly received opinions, not yet 
 mellowed into a rational faith ; and the young converts, 
 astonished at the grandeur and sublimity of the doc- 
 trines which then first entered their hearts with irresisti- 
 ble force, thought them worthy to engross their whole 
 attention. The mystic dreams of the Platonist mingled 
 with the enthusiasm of the martyr ; and it soon became 
 the prevailing opinion that silence, solitude, and c,on- 
 
ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. 229 
 
 templation were necessary for the reception of Divine 
 truth. Mistaken ideas prevailed of a purity and per- 
 fection far superior to the rules of common life, which 
 was only to be attained by those who denied themselves 
 all the indulgences of sense ; and thus the ascetic sever- 
 ities of the cloister succeeded in some degree to the 
 philosophic poverty of the Cynic school and the lofty 
 virtues of the Stoic. 
 
 Indeed, it is now the prevailing taste in morals to 
 decry every observance which has the least appearance 
 of rigor, and to insist only on the softer virtues. But let 
 it be remembered that self-command and self-denial are 
 as necessary to the practice of benevolence, charity, and 
 compassion, as to any other duty ; that it is impossible 
 to . live to others without denying ourselves ; and that 
 the man who has not learned to curb his appetites and 
 passions is ill qualified for those sacrifices which the 
 friendly affections are continually requiring of him. The 
 man who has that one quality of self-command will find 
 little difficulty in the practice of any other duty ; as, 
 on the contrary, he who has it not, though possessed of 
 the gentlest feelings and most refined sensibilities, will 
 soon find his benevolence sink into a mere companion- 
 able easiness of temper, neither useful to others nor 
 happy for himself. A noble enthusiasm is sometimes 
 of use to show how far human nature can go. Though 
 it may not be proper or desirable that numbers should 
 
230 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 seclude themselves from the common duties and ordi- 
 nary avocations of life for the austerer lessons of the 
 cloister, yet it is not unuseful that some should push 
 their virtues to even a romantic height ; and it is 
 encouraging to reflect, in the hour of temptation, that 
 the love of ease, the aversion' to pain, every appetite 
 and passion, and even the strongest propensities in our 
 nature, have been controlled ; that the empire of the 
 mind over the body has been asserted in its fullest 
 extent ; and that there have been men in all ages 
 capable of voluntarily renouncing all the world offers, 
 voluntarily suffering all it dreads, and living indepen- 
 dent, and unconnected with it. Nor was it a small 
 advantage, or ill calculated to support the dignity of 
 science, that a man of learning might be respectable 
 in a coarse gown, a leathern girdle, and barefooted. 
 Cardinal Ximenes preserved the severe simplicity of a 
 convent amidst the pomp and luxury of palaces ; and 
 to those who thus thought it becoming in the highest 
 stations to affect the appearance of poverty, the reality 
 surely could not be very dreadful. 
 
 There is yet another light in which these institutions 
 may be considered. It is surely not improper to pro- 
 vide a retreat for those who, stained by some deep and 
 enormous crime, wish to expiate by severe and un- 
 common penitence those offences which render them 
 unworthy of freer commerce with the world. Kepent- 
 
ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. 231 
 
 ance is never so secure from a relapse as when it breaks 
 off at once from every former connection, and, entering 
 upon a new course of life, bids adieu to every object 
 that might revive the idea of temptations which have 
 once prevailed. In these solemn retreats, the stillness 
 and acknowledged sanctity of the place, with the strik- 
 ing novelty of everything around them, might have 
 great influence in calming the passions ; might break 
 the force of habit, and suddenly induce a new turn of 
 thinking. There are likewise afflictions so overwhelm- 
 ing to humanity that they leave no relish in the mind 
 for anything else than to enjoy its own melancholy in 
 silence and solitude ; and to a heart torn with remorse, 
 or oppressed with sorrow, the gloomy severities of La 
 Trappe are really a relief. Retirement is also the 
 favorite wish of age. Many a statesman and many a 
 warrior, sick of the bustle of that world to which they 
 had devoted the prime of their days, have longed for 
 some quiet cell, where, like Cardinal Wolsey or Charles 
 V., they might shroud their gray hairs, and lose sight 
 of the follies with which they had been too much tainted. 
 Though there is, perhaps, less to plead for immuring 
 beauty in a cloister, and confining that part of the spe- 
 cies who are formed to shine in families and sweeten 
 society to the barren duties and austere discipline of a 
 monastic life, yet circumstances might occur in which 
 they would, even to a woman, be a welcome refuge. A 
 
232 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 young female, wlioni accident or war had deprived of 
 her natural protectors, must, in an age of barbarism, be 
 peculiarly exposed and helpless. A convent offered her 
 an asylum where she might be safe, at least, if not 
 happy ; and add to the consciousness of unviolated vir- 
 tue the flattering dreams of angelic purity and perfec- 
 tion. There were orders, as well among the women as 
 the men, instituted for charitable purposes, such as that 
 of the virgins of love, or daughters of mercy, founded in 
 1660 for the relief of the sick poor, with others for in- 
 structing their children. These must have been pecu- 
 liarly suited to the softness and compassion of the sex ; 
 and to this it is no doubt owing, that still, in Catholic 
 countries, ladies of the highest rank often visit the hos- 
 pitals and houses of the poor, waiting on them with the 
 most tender assiduity, and performing such offices as 
 our Protestant ladies would be shocked at the thoughts 
 of. We should also consider that most of the females 
 who now take the veil are such as have no agreeable 
 prospects in life. Why should not these be allowed to 
 quit a world which will never miss them ? It is easier 
 to retire from the public than to support its disregard. 
 The convent is to them a shelter from poverty and neg- 
 lect. Their little community grows dear to them. The 
 equality which subsists among these sisters of obscu- 
 rity, the similarity of their fate, the peace, the leisure 
 they enjoy, give rise to the most endearing friendships. 
 
ON MONASTIC INSTITUTIONS. 
 
 233 
 
 Their innocence is shielded by the simplicity of their 
 life from even the idea of ill ; and they are flattered by 
 the notion of a voluntary renunciation of pleasures, 
 which, probably, had they continued in the world, they 
 would have had little share in. 
 
 After all that can be said, we have reason enough to 
 rejoice that the superstitions of former times are now 
 fallen into disrepute. What might be a palliative at 
 one time, soon became a crying evil in itself. When 
 the fuller day of science began to dawn, the monkish 
 orders were willing to exclude its brightness, that the 
 dim lamp might still glimmer in their cell. Their grow- 
 ing vices have rendered them justly odious to society, 
 and they seem in a fair way of being forever abolished. 
 But may we not still hope that the world was better 
 than it would have been without them, and that He 
 who knows to bring good out of evil has made them, in 
 their day, subservient to some useful purposes ? The 
 corruptions of Christianity, which have been accu- 
 mulating for so many ages, seem to be now gradually 
 clearing away, and some future period may perhaps 
 exhibit our religion in all its native simplicity. 
 
 So the pure, limpid stream, -when foul with stains 
 Of rushing torrents and descending rains, 
 "Works itself clear, and as it runs refines, 
 Till by degrees the floating mirror shines ; 
 Reflects each flower that on its borders grows, 
 And a new heaven in its fair bosom shows. 
 
234 WORKS OF MRS. BABBAULD. 
 
 AGAIXST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPEC- 
 TATIONS. 
 
 " 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 appearance of things : see whether they have the ad- 
 vantage 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 ? Xo, 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 Ejpictetus. 
 
 AS 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 un- 
 derstood and attended to ; and though we may suffer 
 inconveniences, we are seldom disappointed in conse- 
 quence of them. Xo man expects to preserve orange- 
 
AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 235 
 
 trees in the open air 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 intellec- 
 tual system, laws as determinate, fixed, and invariable 
 as any in Newton's " Principia." The progress of vege- 
 tation 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 never will 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 mind and integrity often censure the dispositions of 
 Providence for suffering characters they despise to run 
 away with advantages which, they yet know, are pur- 
 chased 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, 
 
236 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 fame, integrity, knowledge. Every tiling is marked at 
 a settled price. Our time, our labor, our ingenuity, is 
 so much ready money which we are to lay out to the 
 best advantage. Examine, compare, choose, reject ; but 
 stand to your own judgment; and do not, like chil- 
 dren, when you have purchased one thing, repine that 
 you do not possess another which you did not purchase. 
 Such is the force of 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 the sacrificing everything else to ? You may 
 then be rich. Thousands have become so from the 
 lowest beginnings by toil, and patient diligence, and 
 attention 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 the schools must be 
 considerably lowered, and mixed with the baser alloy 
 of a jealous and worldly-minded prudence. You must 
 learn to do hard, if not unjust things ; and 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 house- 
 
AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 237 
 
 hold truths. In short, you must not attempt to enlarge 
 your ideas, or polish your taste, or refine your sen- 
 timents ; but must keep on in one beaten track, without 
 turning aside either to the right hand or to the left. 
 " But I cannot submit to drudgery like this, — I feel a 
 spirit above it." 'T is well : be above it, then, only do 
 not repine that you are not rich. 
 
 Is knowledge the pearl of price ? That too may be 
 purchased — by steady application, and long, solitary 
 hours of study and reflection. Bestow these, and you 
 shall be wise. " But (says the man of letters) what a 
 hardship it is 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 
 retirement ? Was it to be rich that you grew pale over 
 the midnight lamp, and distilled the sweetness from 
 the Greek and Eoman spring? You have then mis- 
 taken your path, and ill employed your industry. 
 " What reward have I, then, for all my labors ? " What 
 reward ! A large, comprehensive 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 reflec- 
 
 . 
 
238 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 tion. A perpetual spring of fresh ideas, and the con- 
 scious dignity of superior intelligence. Good heaven ! 
 and what revvard can you ask besides? 
 
 " But is it not some reproach upon the economy of 
 Providence that such a one, who is a mean, dirty fellow, 
 should have amassed wealth enough to buy half 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 in- 
 dependence, and have a delicacy and reserve in your 
 temper which renders it impossible for you to elbow 
 your way in the world, and be the herald of your 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 regard to the rules of morality make him scru- 
 
AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 239 
 
 pulous and fearful of offending is often heard to com- 
 plain of the disadvantages lie lies under in every path 
 of honor and profit. " Could I but 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 perturbation; unsullied whiteness and simplicity 
 of manners ; a genuine integrity, 
 
 " Fure in the last recesses of the mind," — 
 
 if you think these advantages an inadequate recom- 
 pense for what you resign, dismiss your scruples this 
 instant, and be a slave-merchant, a parasite, or — what 
 you please. 
 
 " If these be motives weak, break off betimes " ; 
 
 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 lower the tone of philosophy, and make it consistent 
 with all the indulgences of indolence and sensuality. 
 
240 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 They never thought 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 advantages 
 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. 
 
 There is no one quality gives so much dignity to a 
 character 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 with- 
 hold 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 a?gis and your thunder-bolts, and you must curl 
 and perfume your hair, and place a garland on your 
 head, and -walk with a soft step, and assume a winning, 
 
AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 241 
 
 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. 
 
 It must be confessed that men of genius are of all 
 others most inclined to make these unreasonable claims. 
 As their relish for enjoyment is strong, their views 
 large and comprehensive, and they feel themselves 
 lifted above the common bulk of mankind, they are 
 apt to slight that natural reward of praise and admira- 
 tion which is ever largely paid to distinguished abili- 
 ties, and to expect to be called forth to public notice 
 and favor, without considering that their talents are 
 commonly very unfit for active life ; that their eccen- 
 tricity and turn for speculation disqualifies them for 
 the business of the world, which is best carried on by 
 men of moderate genius ; and that society is not obliged 
 to reward any one who is not useful to it. The poets 
 have been a very unreasonable race, and have often 
 complained loudly of the neglect of genius and the 
 ingratitude of the age. The tender and pensive Cowley 
 and the elegant Shenstone had their minds tinctured 
 by this discontent ; and even the sublime melancholy 
 of Young was too much owing to the stings of dis- 
 appointed ambition. 
 
 The moderation we have been endeavoring to in- 
 culcate will likewise prevent much mortification and 
 
 VOL. II. 11 p 
 
242 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 disgust in our commerce with mankind. As we ought 
 not to wish in ourselves, so neither should we expect 
 in our friends, contrary qualifications. Young and san- 
 guine, when we enter the world, and feel our affections 
 drawn forth by any particular excellence in a character, 
 we immediately give it credit for all others ; and are 
 beyond measure disgusted when we come to discover, 
 as we soon must discover, the defects in the other side 
 of the balance. But nature is much more frugal than 
 to heap together all manner of shining qualities in one 
 glaring mass. Like a judicious painter, she endeavors 
 to preserve a certain unity of style and coloring in 
 her pieces. Models of absolute perfection are only to 
 be met with in romance ; where exquisite beauty, and 
 brilliant wit, and profound judgment, and immaculate 
 virtue are all blended together to adorn some favorite 
 character. As an anatomist knows that the racer 
 cannot have the strength and muscles of the draught- 
 horse, and that winged men, griffins, and mermaids 
 must be mere creatures of the imagination ; so the phi- 
 losopher is sensible that there are combinations of moral 
 qualities which never can take place but in idea. There 
 is a different air and complexion in characters as well 
 as in faces, though perhaps each equally beautiful ; and 
 the excellences of one cannot be transferred to the 
 other. Thus if one man possesses a stoical apathy of 
 soul, acts independent of the opinion of the world, and 
 
AGAINST INCONSISTENCY IN OUR EXPECTATIONS. 243 
 
 fulfils every duty with mathematical exactness, you 
 must not expect that man to be greatly influenced by 
 the weakness of pity or the partialities of friendship ; 
 you must not be offended that he does not fly to meet 
 you after a short absence, or require from him the 
 convivial spirit and honest effusions of a warm, open, 
 susceptible heart. If another is remarkable for a lively, 
 active zeal, inflexible integrity, a strong indignation 
 against vice, and freedom in reproving it, he will 
 probably have some little bluntness in his address not 
 altogether suitable to polished life ; he will want the 
 winning arts of conversation ; he will disgust by a 
 kind of haughtiness and negligence in his manner, and 
 often hurt the delicacy of his acquaintance with harsh 
 and disagreeable truths. 
 
 We usually say, that man is a genius, but he has 
 some whims and oddities ; such a one has a very 
 general knowledge, but he is superficial, etc.. Now, in 
 all such cases we should speak more rationally did we 
 substitute therefore for but. He is a genius, therefore 
 he is whimsical ; and the like. 
 
 It is the fault of the present age, owing to the freer 
 commerce that different ranks and professions now 
 enjoy with each other, that characters are not marked 
 with sufficient strength ; the several classes run too 
 much into one another. We have fewer pedants, it is 
 true, but we have fewer striking originals. Every one 
 
244 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 is expected to have such a tincture of general knowl- 
 edge as is incompatible with going deep into any 
 science ; and such a conformity to fashionable manners 
 as checks the free workings of the ruling passion, and 
 gives an insipid sameness to the face of society, under 
 the idea of polish and regularity. 
 
 There is a cast of manners peculiar and becoming to 
 each age, sex, and profession ; one, therefore, should not 
 throw out illiberal and commonplace censures against 
 another. Each is perfect in its kind. A woman as a 
 woman; a tradesman as a tradesman. We are often 
 hurt by the brutality and sluggish .conceptions of the 
 vulgar; not considering that some there must be to 
 be hewers of wood and drawers of water, and that 
 cultivated genius, or even any great refinement and 
 delicacy in their moral feelings, would be a real mis- 
 fortune to them. 
 
 Let us then study the philosophy of the human 
 mind. The man who is master of this science will 
 know what to expect from every one. From tins 
 man ; wise advice ; from that, cordial sympathy ; from 
 another, casual entertainment. The passions and in- 
 clinations of others are Ins tools, which he can use 
 with as much precision as he would the mechanical 
 powers ; and he can as readily make allowance for the 
 workings of vanity, or the bias of self-interest in his 
 friends, as for the power of friction or the irregularities 
 of the needle. 
 
ON EDUCATION. 245 
 
 on education; 
 
 THE other day I paid a visit to a gentleman 
 with whom, though greatly my superior in for- 
 tune, I have long been in habits of easy intimacy. 
 He rose in the world by honorable industry; and 
 married, rather late in life, a lady to whom he had 
 been long attached, and in whom centred the wealth 
 of several expiring families. Their earnest wish for 
 children was not immediately gratified. At length they 
 were made happy by a son, who, from the moment he 
 was born, engrossed all their care and attention. My 
 friend received me in his library, where I found him 
 busied in turning over books of education, of which 
 he had collected all that were worthy of notice, from 
 Xenophon to Locke, and from Locke to Catherine 
 Macaulay. As he knows I have been engaged in the 
 business of instruction, he did me the honor to consult 
 me on the subject of his researches, hoping, he said, 
 that, out of all the systems before him, we should be 
 able to form a plan equally complete and comprehen- 
 sive ; it being the determination of both himself and his 
 lady to choose the best that could be had, and to spare 
 neither pains nor expense in making their child all 
 
246 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 that was great and good. I gave him my thoughts 
 with the utmost freedom, and, after I returned home, 
 threw upon paper the observations which had occurred 
 to me. 
 
 The first thing to be considered, with respect to 
 education, is the object of it. This appears to me to 
 have been generally misunderstood. Education, in its 
 largest sense, is a thing of great scope and extent. It 
 includes the whole process by which a human being 
 is formed to be what he is, in habits, principles, and 
 cultivation of every kind. But of this, a very small 
 part is in the power even of the parent himself ; a small- 
 er still can be directed by purchased tuition of any 
 kind. You engage for your child masters and tutors 
 at large salaries ; and you do well, for they are compe- 
 tent to instruct him ; they will give him the means, 
 at least, of acquiring science and accomplishments ; 
 but in the business of education, properly so called, 
 they can do little for you. Do you ask, then, what 
 will educate your son ? Your example will educate 
 him ; your conversation with your friends, the busi- 
 ness he sees you transact, the likings and dislikings 
 you express, these will educate him ; — the society 
 you live in will educate him ; your domestics will edu- 
 cate him; above all, your rank and situation in life, 
 your house, your table, your pleasure-grounds, your 
 hounds and your stables, will educate him It is not 
 
ON EDUCATION. 247 
 
 in your power to withdraw him from the continual 
 influence of these things, except you were to withdraw 
 yourself from them also. You speak of beginning the 
 education of your son. The moment he was able to 
 form an idea, his education was already begun; the 
 education of circumstances, — insensible education, — 
 which, like insensible perspiration, is of more constant 
 and powerful effect, and of infinitely more consequence 
 to the habit, than that which is direct and apparent. 
 This education goes on at every instant of time ; it goes 
 on like time ; you can neither stop it nor turn its 
 course. What these have a tendency to make your 
 child, that he will be. Maxims and documents are 
 good precisely till they are tried, and no longer ; they 
 will teach him to talk, and nothing more. The circum- 
 stances in which your son is placed will be even more 
 prevalent than your example ; and you have no right 
 to expect him to become what you yourself are, but by 
 the same means. You, that have toiled during youth, 
 to set your son upon higher ground, and to enable him 
 to begin where you left off, do not expect that son to be 
 what you were, — diligent, modest, active, simple in his 
 tastes, fertile in resources. You have put him under 
 quite a different master. Poverty educated you ; wealth 
 will educate him. You cannot suppose the result will 
 be the same. You must not even expect that he will 
 be what you now are ; for, though relaxed perhaps from 
 
248 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the severity of your frugal habits, you still derive 
 advantage from having formed them ; and in your 
 heart you like plain dinners, and early hours, and old 
 friends, whenever your fortune will permit you to enjoy 
 them. But it will not be so with your son ; his tastes 
 will be formed by your present situation, and in no 
 degree by your former one. But I take great care, you 
 will say, to counteract these tendencies, and to bring 
 him up in hardy and simple manners ; I know their 
 value, and am resolved that he shall acquire no other. 
 Yes, you make him hardy ; that is to say, you take a 
 country-house in a good air, and make him run, well 
 clothed and carefully attended, for, it may be, an hour, 
 in a clear, frosty winter's day upon your gravelled ter- 
 race ; or perhaps you take the puny, shivering infant 
 from his warm bed, and dip him in an icy- cold bath, — 
 and you think you have done great matters. And so 
 you have ; you have done all you can. But you were 
 suffered to run abroad half the day on a bleak heath, 
 in weather fit and unfit, wading barefoot through dirty 
 ponds, sometimes losing your way benighted, scram- 
 bling over hedges, climbing trees, in perils every hour, 
 both of life and limb. Your life was of very little con- 
 sequence to any one ; even your parents, encumbered 
 with a numerous family, had little time to indulge the 
 softnesses of affection or the solicitude of anxiety ; and 
 to every one else it was of no consequence at all. It is 
 
ON EDUCATION. 249 
 
 not possible for you, it would not even be right for you, 
 in your present situation, to pay no more attention to 
 your child than was paid to you. In these mimic 
 experiments of education there is always something 
 which distinguishes them from reality ; some weak part 
 left unfortified, for the arrows of misfortune to find 
 their way into. Achilles was a young nobleman, dios 
 Achilleus, and therefore, though he had Charon for his 
 tutor, there was one foot left undipped. You may throw 
 by Eousseau ; your parents practised without having 
 read it ; you may read, but imperious circumstances 
 forbid you the practice of it. 
 
 You are sensible of the advantages of simplicity of 
 diet ; and you make a point of restricting that of your 
 child to the plainest food, for you are resolved that he 
 shall not be nice. But this plain food is of the choi- 
 cest quality, prepared by your own cook ; his fruit is 
 ripened from your walls ; his cloth, his glasses, all the 
 accompaniments of the table, are such as are only met 
 with in families of opulence ; the very servants who 
 attend him are neat, well dressed, and have a certain 
 air of fashion. You may call this simplicity ; but I 
 say he will be nice, — for it is a kind of simplicity 
 which only wealth can attain to, and which will sub- 
 ject him to be disgusted at all common tables. Besides, 
 he will from time to time partake of those delicacies 
 which your table abounds with ; you yourself will give 
 11* 
 
250 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 him of them occasionally ; yon would he unkind if you 
 did not. Your servants, if good-natured, will do the 
 same. Do you think you can keep the full stream of 
 luxury running by his lips, and he not taste of it ? 
 Vain imagination ! 
 
 I would not be understood to inveigh against wealth, 
 or against the enjoyments of it ; they are real enjoy- 
 ments, and allied to many elegancies in manners and in 
 taste • — I only wish to prevent unprofitable pains and 
 inconsistent expectations. 
 
 You are sensible of the benefit of early rising ; and 
 you may, if you please, make it a point that your 
 daughter shall retire with her governess, and your son 
 with his tutor, at the hour when you are preparing 
 to see company. But their sleep, in the first place, 
 will not be so sweet and undisturbed amidst the rattle 
 of carriages, and the glare of tapers glancing through 
 the rooms, as that of the village child in his quiet cot- 
 tage, protected by silence and darkness ; and, moreover, 
 you may depend upon it, that, as the coercive power of 
 education is laid aside, they will in a few months slide 
 into the habitudes of the rest of the family, whose hours 
 are determined by their company and situation in life. 
 You have, however, done good, as far as it goes ; it is 
 something gained, to defer pernicious habits, if we can- 
 not prevent them. 
 
 There is nothing which has so little share in educa- 
 
ON EDUCATION. 251 
 
 tion as direct precept. To be convinced of this, we 
 need only reflect that there is no one point we labor 
 more to establish with children than that of their 
 speaking truth ; and there is not any in which we suc- 
 ceed worse. And why ? Because children readily see 
 we have an interest in it. Their speaking truth is 
 used by us as an engine of government. " Tell me, 
 my dear child, when you have broken anything, and I 
 will not be angry with you." " Thank you for nothing," 
 says the child. " If I prevent you from finding it out, 
 I am sure you will not be angry " ; and nine times out 
 of ten he can prevent it. He knows that, in the com- 
 mon intercourses of life, you tell a thousand falsehoods. 
 But these are necessary lies on important occasions. 
 
 Your child is the best judge how much occasion he 
 has to tell a lie ; he may have as great occasion for it 
 as you have to conceal a bad piece of news from a sick 
 friend, or to hide your vexation from an unwelcome 
 visitor. That authority which extends its claims over 
 every action and even every thought, which insists 
 upon an answer to every interrogation, however indis- 
 creet or oppressive to the feelings, will, in young or 
 old, produce falsehood ; or, if in some few instances the 
 deeply imbibed fear of future and unknown punish- 
 ment should restrain from direct falsehood, it will pro- 
 duce a habit of dissimulation which is still worse. The 
 child, the slave, or the subject, who, on proper occasions, 
 
252 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 may not say " I do not choose to tell," will certainly, 
 by the circumstances in which you place him, be driven 
 to have recourse to deceit, even should he not be coun- 
 tenanced by your example. 
 
 I do not mean to assert that sentiments inculcated 
 in education have no influence, — they have much, 
 though not the most ; but it is the sentiments we let 
 drop occasionally, the conversation they overhear when 
 playing unnoticed in a corner of' the room, which has 
 an effect upon children, and not what is addressed 
 directly to them in the tone of exhortation. If you 
 would know precisely the effect these set discourses 
 have upon your child, be pleased to reflect upon that 
 which a discourse from the pulpit, which you have 
 reason to think merely professional, has upon you. 
 Children have almost an intuitive discernment between 
 the maxims you bring forward for their use and those 
 by which you direct your own conduct. Be as cunning 
 as you will, they are always more cunning than you. 
 Every child knows whom his father and mother love, 
 and see with pleasure, and whom they dislike ; for 
 whom they think themselves obliged to set out their 
 best plate and china ; whom they think it an honor to 
 visit, and upon whom they confer honor by admitting 
 them to their company. " Respect nothing so much as 
 virtue," says Eugenio to his son ; " virtue and talents 
 are the only grounds of distinction." The child pres- 
 
ON EDUCATION. 253 
 
 ently has occasion to inquire why his father pulls off 
 his hat to some people and not to others ; he is told 
 that outward respect must be proportioned to different 
 stations in life. Tins is a little difficult of comprehen- 
 sion ; however, by dint of explanation, he gets over it 
 tolerably well. But he sees his father's house in the 
 bustle and hurry of preparation ; common business laid 
 aside, everybody in movement, an unusual anxiety to 
 please and to shine. Nobody is at leisure to receive 
 his caresses or attend to his questions ; his lessons are 
 interrupted, his hours deranged. At length a guest 
 
 arrives ; it is my Lord , whom he has heard you 
 
 speak of twenty times as one of the most worthless 
 characters upon earth. Your child, Eugenio, has re- 
 ceived a lesson of education. Eesume, if you will, your 
 systems of morality on the morrow, you will in vain 
 attempt to eradicate it. " You expect company, mamma ; 
 must I be dressed to-day ? " " No, it is only good Mrs. 
 Such-a-one." Your child has received a lesson of edu- 
 cation ; one which he well understands and will long 
 remember. You have sent your child to a public 
 school ; but to secure his morals against the vice winch 
 you too justly apprehend abounds there, you have giv- 
 en him .a private tutor, — a man of strict morals and 
 religion. He may help him to prepare his tasks ; but 
 do you imagine it will be in his power to form his 
 mind ? His school-fellows, the allowance you give him, 
 
254 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the manners of the age and of the place, will do that ; 
 and not the lectures which he is obliged to hear. If 
 these are different from what you yourself experienced, 
 you must not be surprised to see him gradually recede 
 from the principles, civil and religious, which you hold, 
 and break off from your connections, and adopt manners 
 different from your own. This is remarkably exempli- 
 fied amongst those of the Dissenters who have risen to 
 wealth and consequence. I believe it would be diffi- 
 cult to find an instance of families who for three gen- 
 erations have kept their carriage and continued Dis- 
 senters. 
 
 Education, it is often observed, is an expensive thing. 
 It is so ; but the paying for lessons is the smallest part 
 of the cost. If you would go to the price of having 
 your son a worthy man, you must be so yourself; your 
 friends, your servants, your company, must be all of 
 that stamp. Suppose this to be the case, much is done: 
 but there will remain circumstances which perhaps you 
 cannot alter, that will still have their effect. Do you 
 wish him to love simplicity ? Would you be content 
 to lay down your coach, to drop your title ? Where is 
 the parent who would do this to educate his son ? You 
 carry him to the workshops of artisans, and show him 
 different machines and fabrics, to awaken his ingenuity. 
 The necessity of getting his bread would awaken it 
 much more effectually. The single circumstance of 
 
ON EDUCATION. 255 
 
 having a fortune to get, or a fortune to spend, will 
 probably operate more strongly upon his mind, not 
 only than your precepts, but even than your example. 
 You wish your child to be modest and unassuming; 
 you are so, perhaps, yourself, — and you pay liberally 
 a preceptor for giving him lessons of humility. You 
 do not perceive that the very circumstance of having a 
 man of letters and accomplishments retained about his 
 person, for his sole advantage, tends more forcibly to 
 inspire him with an idea of self-consequence than all 
 the lessons he can give him to repress it. "Why do 
 not you look sad, you rascal ? " says the undertaker 
 to his man in the play of " The Funeral " ; "I give you 
 I know not how much money for looking sad, and the 
 more I give you, the gladder I think you are." So will 
 it be with the wealthy heir. The lectures that are 
 given him on condescension and affability only prove 
 to him upon how much higher ground he stands than 
 those about him ; and the very pains that are taken 
 with his moral character will make him proud, by 
 showing him how much he is the object of attention. 
 You cannot help these things. Your servants, out of 
 respect to you, will bear with his petulance ; your 
 company, out of respect to you, will forbear to check 
 his impatience ; and you yourself, if he is clever, will 
 repeat his observations. 
 
 In the exploded doctrine of sympathies you are 
 
256 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 directed, if you have cut your finger, to let that alone, 
 and put your plaster upon the knife. This is very bad 
 doctrine, I must confess, in philosophy, but very good 
 in morals. Is a man luxurious, self-indulgent ? do not 
 apply your iihysic of the soul to him, but cure his 
 fortune. Is he haughty ? cure his rank, his title. Is 
 he vulgar ? cure his company. Is he diffident or mean- 
 spirited ? cure his poverty, give him consequence, — 
 but these prescriptions go far beyond the family recipes 
 of education. 
 
 \Yhat, then, is the result ? In the first place, that we 
 should contract our ideas of education, and expect no 
 more from it than it is able to perform. It can give 
 instruction. There will always be an essential dif- 
 ference between a human being cultivated and un- 
 cultivated. Education can provide proper instructors 
 in the various arts and sciences, and portion out to the 
 best advantage those precious hours of youth which 
 never will return. It can likewise give, in a great 
 degree, personal habits ; and even if these should after- 
 wards give way under the influence of contrary circum- 
 stances, your child will feel the good effects of them, 
 for the later and the less will he go into what is wrong. 
 Let us also be assured that the business of education, 
 properly so called, is not transferable. You may engage 
 masters to instruct your child in this or the other 
 accomplishment, but you must educate him yourself. 
 
OX EDUCATION. 257 
 
 You not only ought to do it, but you must do it, whether 
 you intend it or no. As education is a thing necessary 
 for all, — for the poor and for the rich, for the illiterate 
 as well as for the learned, — Providence has not made it 
 dependent upon systems uncertain, operose, and difficult 
 of investigation. It is not necessary, with Eousseau 
 or Madame Genlis, to devote to the education of one 
 child the talents and the time of a number of grown 
 men ; to surround him with an artificial world ; and to 
 counteract, by maxims, the natural tendencies of the 
 situation he is placed in, in society. Every one has time 
 to educate his child : the poor man educates him while 
 working in his cottage ; the man of business while 
 employed in his counting-house. 
 
 Do we see a father who is diligent in his profession, 
 domestic in Ms habits, whose house is the resort of 
 well-informed, intelligent people, — a mother whose 
 time is usefully filled, whose attention to her duties 
 secures esteem, and whose amiable manners attract 
 affection ? Do not be solicitous, respectable couple, 
 about the moral education of your offspring; do not 
 be uneasy because you cannot surround them with the 
 apparatus of books and systems, or fancy you must 
 retire from the world to devote yourselves to their 
 improvement. In your world they are brought up 
 much better than they could be under any plan of 
 factitious education which you could provide for them ; 
 
 Q 
 
258 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 they will imbibe affection from your caresses, taste 
 from your conversation, urbanity from the commerce 
 of your society, and mutual love from your example. 
 Do not regret that you are not rich enough to provide 
 tutors and governors, to watch his steps with sedulous 
 and servile anxiety, and furnish him with maxims it is 
 morally impossible he should act upon when grown up. 
 Do not you see how seldom this over-culture produces 
 its effect, and how many shining and excellent charac- 
 ters start up every day from the bosom of obscurity, 
 with scarcely any care at all ? 
 
 Are children, then, to be neglected ? Surely not ; but, 
 having given them the instruction and accomplish- 
 ments which their situation in life requires, let us 
 reject superfluous solicitude, and trust that their char- 
 acters will form themselves from the spontaneous in- 
 fluence of good examples, and circumstances which 
 impel them to useful action. 
 
 But the education of your house, important as 
 it is, is only a part of a more comprehensive system. 
 Providence takes your child where you leave him. 
 Providence continues his education upon a larger scale, 
 and by a process which includes means far more effica- 
 cious. Has your son entered the world at eighteen, 
 opinionated, haughty, rash, inclined to dissipation ? Do 
 not despair ; he may yet be cured of these faults, if it 
 pleases Heaven. There are remedies which you could 
 
ON EDUCATION. 259 
 
 not persuade yourself to use, if they were in your 
 power, and which are specific in cases of this kind. 
 How often do we see the presumptuous, giddy youth 
 changed into the wise counsellor, the considerate, steady 
 friend ! How often the thoughtless, gay girl, into the 
 sober wife, the affectionate mother ! Faded beauty, 
 humbled self-consequence, disappointed ambition, loss of 
 fortune, — this is the rough physic provided by Provi- 
 dence to meliorate the temper, to correct the offensive 
 petulancies of youth, and bring out all the energies of 
 the finished character. Afflictions soften the proud; 
 difficulties push forward the ingenious; successful in- 
 dustry gives consequence and credit, and develops a 
 thousand latent good qualities. There is no malady of 
 the mind so inveterate, which this education of events 
 is not calculated to cure, if life were long enough; and 
 shall we not hope that He in whose hand are all the 
 remedial processes of nature will renew the discipline 
 in another state, and finish the imperfect man ? 
 
 States are educated as individuals, — by circum- 
 stances : the prophet may cry aloud and spare not ; 
 the philosopher may descant on morals ; eloquence may 
 exhaust itself in invective against the vices of the age ; 
 these vices will certainly follow certain states of poverty 
 or riches, ignorance or high civilization. But what 
 these gentle alteratives fail of doing may be accom- 
 plished by an unsuccessful war, a loss of trade, or any 
 
2G0 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 of those great calamities by which it pleases Providence 
 to speak to a nation in snch language as will be 
 heard. If, as a nation, we would be cured of pride, it 
 must be by mortification ; if of luxury, by a national 
 bankruptcy perhaps ; if of injustice, or the spirit of 
 domination, by a loss of national consequence. In 
 comparison of these strong remedies, a fast or a sermon 
 are prescriptions of very little efficacy. 
 
ON PREJUDICE. 261 
 
 ON PEEJUDICE. 
 
 IT is to speculative people, fond of novel doctrines, 
 and who, by accustoming themselves to make . the 
 most fundamental truths the subject of discussion, 
 have divested their minds of that reverence which is 
 generally felt for opinions and practices of long stand- 
 ing, that the world is ever to look for its improvement 
 or. reformation. But it is also these speculatists who 
 introduce into it absurdities and errors more gross 
 than any which have been established by that common 
 consent of numerous individuals, which opinions long 
 acted upon must have required for their basis. For 
 systems of the latter class must at least possess one 
 property, — that of being practicable ; and there is 
 likewise a presumption that they are, or at least 
 originally were, useful; whereas the opinions of the 
 speculatist may turn out to be utterly incongruous and 
 eccentric. The speculatist may invent machines which 
 it is impossible to put in action, or which, when put in 
 action, may possess the tremendous power of tearing 
 up society by the roots. Like the chemist, he is not 
 sure in the moment of projection whether he shall 
 blow up his own dwelling and that of his neighbor, 
 
262 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 or whether he shall be rewarded with a discovery 
 which will secure the health and prolong the existence 
 of future generations. It becomes us, therefore, to 
 examine with peculiar care those maxims which, under 
 the appearance of following a closer train of reasoning, 
 militate against the usual practices or genuine feelings 
 of mankind. No subject has been more canvassed than 
 education. With regard to that important object, 
 there is a maxim avowed by many sensible people, 
 which seems to me to deserve particular investigation. 
 " Give your child," it is said, " no prejudices : let reason 
 be the only foundation of his opinions; where he 
 cannot reason, let him suspend his belief. Let your 
 great care be, that as he grows up he has nothing to 
 unlearn ; and never make use of authority in matters 
 of opinion, for authority is no test of truth." The 
 maxim sounds well, and natters perhaps the secret 
 pride of man, in supposing him more the creature of 
 reason than he really is ; but I suspect on examination 
 we shall find it exceedingly fallacious. We must first 
 consider what a prejudice is. A prejudice is a senti- 
 ment in favor or disfavor of any person, practice, or 
 opinion previous to and independent of examining 
 their merits by reason and investigation. Prejudice is 
 prejudging ; that is, judging previously to evidence. It 
 is therefore sufficiently apparent that no philosophical 
 belief can be founded on -mere prejudice; because it is 
 
ON PREJUDICE. 263 
 
 the business of philosophy to go deep into the nature and 
 properties of things ; nor can it be allowable for those to 
 indulge prejudice who aspire to lead the public opinion; 
 those to whom the high office is appointed of sifting 
 truth from error, of canvassing the claims of different 
 systems, of exploding old and introducing new tenets. 
 These must investigate with a kind of audacious -bold- 
 ness every subject that comes before them ; these, neither 
 impressed with awe for all that mankind have been 
 taught to reverence, nor swayed by affection for what- 
 ever the sympathies of our nature incline us to love, must 
 hold the balance with a severe and steady hand while 
 they are weighing the doubtful scale of probabilities, 
 and with a stoical apathy of mind yield their assent to 
 nothing but a preponderancy of evidence. But is this 
 an office for a child ? Is it an office for more than one 
 or two men in a century ? And is it desirable that a 
 child should grow up without opinions to regulate his 
 conduct, 'till he is able to form them fairly by the 
 exercise of his own abilities ? Such an exercise re- 
 quires at least the sober period of matured reason: 
 reason not only sharpened by argumentative discussion, 
 but informed by experience. The most sprightly child 
 can only possess the former; for, let it be remembered 
 that, though the reasoning powers put forth pretty early 
 in life, the faculty of using them to effect does not come 
 till much later. The first efforts of a child in reasoning 
 
264 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 resemble those quick and desultory motions by which 
 he gains the play of his limbs ; they show agility and 
 grace, they are pleasing to look at, and necessary for 
 the gradual acquirement of his bodily powers; but 
 his joints must be knit into more firmness, and his 
 movements regulated with more precision, before he is 
 capable of useful labor and manly exertion. A reason- 
 ing child is not yet a reasonable being. There is great 
 propriety in the legal phraseology which expresses 
 maturity, not by having arrived at the possession of 
 reason, but of that power, the late result of informa- 
 tion, thought, and experience, — discretion, which alone 
 teaches, with regard to reason, its powers, its limits, 
 and its use. This the child of the most sprightly parts 
 cannot have; and therefore his attempts at reasoning, 
 whatever acuteness they may show, and how much 
 soever they may please a parent with the early promise 
 of future excellence, are of no account whatever in the 
 sober search after truth. Besides, taking it for granted 
 (which, however, is utterly impossible) that a youth 
 could be brought up to the age of fifteen or sixteen 
 without prejudice in favor of any opinions whatever, 
 and that he is then set to examine for himself some 
 important proposition, — how is he to set about it? 
 Who is to recommend books to him ? Who is to give 
 him the previous information necessary to comprehend 
 the question ? Who is to tell him whether or no it is 
 
 
ON PREJUDICE. 265 
 
 important ? Whoever does these will infallibly lay a 
 bias upon his mind according to the ideas he himself 
 has received upon the subject. Let us suppose the 
 point in debate was the preference between the Eoman 
 Catholic and Protestant modes of religion. Can a youth 
 in a Protestant country, born of Protestant parents, 
 with access, probably, to hardly a single controversial 
 book on the Eoman Catholic side of the question, — 
 can such a one study the subject without prejudice ? 
 His knowledge of history, if he has such knowledge, 
 must, according to the books he has read, have already 
 given him a prejudice on the one side or the other ; so 
 must the occasional conversation he has been witness 
 to, the appellations he has heard used, the tone of 
 voice with which he has heard the words monk or priest 
 pronounced, and a thousand other evanescent circum- 
 stances. It is likewise to be observed, that every 
 question of any weight and importance has numerous 
 dependencies and points of connection with other 
 subjects, which make it impossible to enter upon the 
 consideration of it without a great variety of previous 
 knowledge. There is no object of investigation per- 
 fectly insulated ; we must not conceive therefore of a 
 man's sitting down to it with a mind perfectly new and 
 untutored: he must have passed more or less through a 
 course of studies ; and, according to the color of those 
 studies, his mind will have received a tincture, — that 
 
 VOL. II. 12 
 
266 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 is, a prejudice. — But it is, in truth, the most absurd of 
 all suppositions, that a human being can be educated, 
 or even nourished and brought up, without imbibing 
 numberless prejudices from everything which passes 
 around him. A child cannot learn the signification of 
 words, without receiving ideas along with them ; he 
 cannot be impressed with affection to his parents and 
 those about him, without conceiving a predilection for 
 their tastes, opinions, and practices. He forms num- 
 berless associations of pain or pleasure, and every 
 association begets a prejudice ; he sees objects from a 
 particular spot, and his views of things are contracted 
 or extended according to his position in society : as no 
 two individuals can have the same horizon, so neither 
 can any two have the same associations ; and different 
 associations will produce different opinions, as neces- 
 sarily as, by the laws of perspective, different distances 
 will produce different appearances of visible objects. 
 Let us confess a truth, humiliating perhaps to human 
 pride : a very small part only of the opinions of the 
 coolest philosopher are the result of fair reasoning; 
 the rest are formed by his education, his temperament, 
 by the age in which he lives, by trains of thought 
 directed to a particular track through some accidental 
 association, — in short, by prejudice. But why, after 
 all, should we wish to bring up children without preju- 
 dices ? A child has -occasion to act loner before he 
 
OX PREJUDICE. 267 
 
 can reason. Shall we leave him destitute of all the 
 principles that should regulate Ins conduct, till he can 
 discover them by the strength of his own genius ? If 
 it were possible that one whole generation could be 
 brought up without prejudices, the world must return 
 to the infancy of knowledge, and all the beautiful fabric 
 which has been built up by successive generations 
 must be begun again from the very foundation. Your 
 child has a claim to the advantage of your experience, 
 which it would be cruel and unjust to deprive liim of. 
 Will any father say to his son, " My dear child, you 
 are entering upon a world full of intricate and per- 
 plexed paths, in which many miss their way, to their 
 final misery and ruin. Amidst many false systems, 
 and much vain science, there is also some true knowl- 
 edge ; there is a right path : I believe I know it, for I 
 have the advantage of years and experience, but I will 
 instil no prejudices into your mind ; I shall therefore 
 leave you to find it out as you can ; whether your 
 abilities are great or small, you must take the chance 
 of them. There are various systems in morals ; I have 
 examined and found some of a good, others of a bad 
 tendency. There is such a thing as religion; many 
 people think it the most important concern of life : 
 perhaps I am one of them : perhaps I have chosen 
 from amidst the various systems of belief — many of 
 which are extremely absurd, and some even pernicious 
 
268 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 — that which I cherish as the guide of my life, my 
 comfort in all my sorrows, and the foundation of my 
 dearest hopes : but far be it from me to influence you 
 hi any manner to receive it ; when you are grown up, 
 you must read all the books upon these subjects which 
 you can lay your hands on, for neither in the choice 
 of these would I presume to prejudice your mind ; 
 converse with all who pretend to any opinions upon 
 the subject; and whatever happens to be the result, 
 you must abide by it. In the mean time, concerning 
 these important objects you must keep your mind in 
 a perfect equilibrium. It is true you want these prin- 
 ciples more now than you can do at any other period 
 of your life ; but I had rather you never had them at 
 all, than that you should not come fairly by them." 
 Should we commend the wisdom or the kindness of 
 such a parent ? The parent will perhaps plead, in his 
 behalf, that it is by no means his intention to leave 
 the mind of his child in the uncultivated state I have 
 supposed. As soon as his understanding begins to 
 open, he means to discuss with him those propositions 
 on which he wishes him to form an opinion. He will 
 make him read the best books on the subject, and by 
 free conversation, and explaining the arguments on 
 both sides, he does not doubt but the youth will soon 
 be enabled to judge satisfactorily for himself. I have 
 no objection to make against this mode of proceeding : 
 
ON PREJUDICE. 269 
 
 as a mode of instruction, it is certainly a very good 
 one; but he must know little of human nature, who 
 thinks that after this process the youth will be really 
 in a capacity of judging for himself, or that he is less 
 under the dominion of prejudice than if he had received 
 the same truths from the mere authority of his parents; 
 for most assuredly the arguments on either side will 
 not have been set before him witb equal strength or 
 with equal warmth. The persuasive; tone, the glowing 
 language, the triumphant retort, wi!X all be reserved 
 for the side on which the parent has formed his own 
 conclusions. It cannot be otherwise; he cannot be 
 convinced himself of what he thinks a truth, without 
 wishing to convey that conviction, nor without think- 
 ing all that can be urged on the other side weak and 
 futile. He cannot in a matter of importance neutralize 
 his feelings : perfect impartiality can be the result only 
 of indifference. He does not perhaps seem to dictate, 
 but he wishes gently to guide his pupil ; and that wish 
 is seldom disappointed. The child adopts the opinion 
 of his parent, and seems to himself to have adopted it 
 from the decisions of his own judgment ; but all these 
 reasonings must be gone over again, and these opinions 
 undergo a fiery ordeal, if ever he conies really to think 
 and determine for himself. 
 
 The fact is, that no man, whatever his system may 
 be, refrains from instilling prejudices into his child in 
 
270 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 any matter he has much at heart. Take a disciple of 
 Rousseau, who contends that it would be very perni- 
 cious to give his son any ideas of a Deity till he is of an 
 age to read Clarke or Leibnitz, and ask him if he waits 
 so long to impress on his mind the sentiments of 
 patriotism, — the civic affection. no ! you wiU find 
 his little heart is early taught to beat at the very name 
 of liberty, and th .', long before he is capable of form- 
 ing a single politi al idea, he has entered with warmth 
 into all the partjj sentiments and connections of his 
 parents. He learns to love and hate, to venerate or 
 despise, by rote ; and he soon acquires decided opinions, 
 of the real ground of which he can know absolutely 
 nothing. Are not ideas of female honor and decorum 
 impressed first as prejudices ; and would any parent wish 
 they should be so much as canvassed till the most 
 settled habits of propriety have rendered it safe to do 
 it ? In teaching first by prejudice that which is after- 
 wards to be proved, we do but follow [Nature. Instincts 
 are the prejudices she gives us : we follow them im- 
 plicitly, and they lead us right ; but it is not till long 
 afterwards that reason comes and justifies them. Why 
 should we scruple to lead a child to right opinions in 
 the same way by which Nature leads him to right 
 practices ! 
 
 Still it will be urged that man is a rational being, 
 and therefore reason is the only true ground of belief, 
 
ON PREJUDICE. 271 
 
 and authority is not reason. This point requires a 
 little discussion. That he who receives a truth upon 
 authority has not a reasonable belief is in one sense true, 
 since he has not drawn it from the result of his own 
 inquiries ; but in another it is certainly false, since the 
 authority itself may be to him the best of all reasons 
 for believing it. There are few men who, from the 
 exercise of the best powers of their minds, could derive 
 so good a reason for believing a mathematical truth as 
 the authority of Sir Isaac Newton. There are two 
 principles deeply implanted in the mind of man, with- 
 out which he could never attain knowledge, — curiosity 
 and credulity; the former to lead him to make dis- 
 coveries himself, the latter to dispose him to receive 
 knowledge from others. The credulity of a child to 
 those who cherish him is in early life unbounded. 
 This is one of the most useful instincts he has, and 
 is, in fact, a precious advantage put into the hands 
 of the parent for storing his mind with ideas of all 
 kinds. Without this principle of assent he could never 
 gain even the rudiments of knowledge. He receives 
 it, it is true, in the shape of prejudice ; but the 
 prejudice itself is founded upon sound reasoning, and 
 conclusive though imperfect experiment. He finds 
 himself weak, helpless, and ignorant; he sees in his 
 parent a being of knowledge and powers more than 
 his utmost capacity can fathom, — almost a god to him. 
 
272 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAL'LD. 
 
 He has often done him good, therefore he believes he 
 loves him ; he finds him capable of giving him infor- 
 mation npon all the subjects he has applied to him 
 about ; his knowledge seems unbounded, and his in- 
 formation has led him right whenever he has had 
 occasion to try it by actual experiment : the child does 
 not draw out his little reasonings into a logical form, 
 but this is to him a ground of belief, that his parent 
 knows everything, and is infallible. Though the propo- 
 sition is not exactly true, it is sufficiently so for him 
 to act upon : and when he believes in his parent with 
 implicit faith, he believes upon grounds as truly rational 
 as when, in after life, he follows the deductions of his 
 own reason. 
 
 But you will say, I wish my son may have nothing to 
 unlearn, and therefore I would have him wait to form 
 an opinion till he is able to do it on solid grounds. And 
 why do you suppose he will have less to unlearn if he 
 follows his own reason than if he followed yours ? If 
 he thinks, if he inquires, he will no doubt have a great 
 deal to unlearn, whichever course you take with him ; 
 but it is better to have some things to unlearn than to 
 have nothing learned. Do you hold your own opinions 
 so loosely, so hesitatingly, as not to think them safer 
 to abide by than the first results of his stammering 
 reason? Are there no truths to learn so indubitable 
 as to be without fear of their not -approving themselves 
 
ON PREJUDICE. 273 
 
 to his mature and well-directed judgment ? Are there 
 none you esteem so useful as to feel anxious that he be 
 put in possession of them ? We are solicitous not only 
 to put our children in a capacity of acquiring their 
 daily bread, but to bequeath to them riches which they 
 may receive as an inheritance. Have you no mental 
 wealth you wish to transmit, no stock of ideas he may 
 begin with, instead of drawing them all from the labor of 
 his own brain ? If, moreover, your son should not adopt 
 your prejudices, he will certainly adopt those of other 
 people ; or, if on subjects of high interest he could be 
 kept totally indifferent, the consequence would be, that 
 he would conceive either that such matters were not 
 worth the trouble of inquiry, or that nothing satisfac- 
 tory was to be learned about them : for there are nega- 
 tive prejudices -as well as positive. 
 
 Let parents, therefore, not scruple to use the power 
 God and Nature have put into their hands for the 
 advantage of their offspring. Let them not fear to 
 impress them with prejudices for whatever is fair and 
 honorable in action, — whatever is useful and important 
 in systematic truth. Let such prejudices be wrought 
 into the very texture of the soul. Such truths let 
 them appear to know by intuition. Let the child 
 never remember the period when he did not know 
 them. Instead of sending him to that cold and hesi- 
 tating belief which is founded on the painful and 
 
 12* E 
 
274 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 uncertain consequences of late investigation, let his 
 conviction of all the truths you deem important be 
 mixed up with every warm affection of his nature, and 
 identified with his most cherished recollections ; the 
 time will come soon enough when his confidence in 
 you will have received a check. The growth of his own 
 reason and the development of his powers will lead 
 him with a sudden impetus to examine everything, to 
 canvass everything, to suspect everything. If he finds, 
 as he certainly will find, the results of his reasoning 
 different in some respects from those you have given 
 him, far from being now disposed to receive your asser- 
 tions as proofs, he will rather feel disinclined to any 
 opinion you profess, and struggle to free himself from 
 the net you have woven about hini 
 
 The calm repose of his mind is broken, the placid 
 lake is become turbid, and reflects distorted and broken 
 images of thins^ ; but be not you alarmed at the new 
 workings of his thoughts. — it is the angel of reason 
 which descends and troubles the waters. To endeavor 
 to influence by authority would be as useless now as it 
 was salutary before. Lie by in silence, and wait the 
 result. Do not expect the mind of your son is to 
 resemble yours, as your figure is reflected by the image 
 in the glass ; he was formed, like you, to use his own 
 judgment, and he claims the high privilege of his 
 nature. His reason is mature, his mind must now 
 
OX PREJUDICE. 275 
 
 form itself. Happy must you esteem yourself, if amidst 
 all lesser differences of opinion, and the wreck of many 
 of your favorite ideas, he still preserves those radical 
 and primary truths which are essential to his hap- 
 piness, and which different trains of thought and 
 opposite modes of investigation will very often equally 
 lead to. 
 
 Let it be well remembered that we have only been 
 recommending those prejudices which go before reason, 
 not those which are contrary to it. To endeavor to 
 make children, or others over whom we have influence, 
 receive systems which we do not believe, merely be- 
 cause it is convenient to ourselves that they should 
 Relieve them, though a very fashionable practice, makes 
 no part of the discipline we plead for. These are not 
 prejudices, but impositions. We may also grant that 
 nothing should be received as a prejudice which can 
 be easily made the subject of experiment. A child 
 may be allowed to find out for himself that boiling 
 water will scald his fingers and mustard bite his 
 tongue ; but he must be prejudiced against ratsbane, 
 because the experiment would be too costly. In like 
 manner it may do him good to have experienced that 
 little instances of inattention or perverseness draw, 
 upon him the displeasure of his parent; but that 
 profligacy is attended with loss of character is a truth 
 one would rather wish him to take upon trust. 
 
276 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 There is no occasion to inculcate by prejudices those 
 truths which it is of no importance for us to know till 
 our powers are able to investigate them. Thus the 
 metaphysical questions of space and time, necessity 
 and free-will, and a thousand others, may safely be left 
 for that age which delights in such discussions. They 
 have no connection with conduct ; and none have any 
 business with them at all but those who are able by 
 such studies to exercise and sharpen their mental 
 powers : but it is not so with those truths on which 
 our well-being depends ; these must be taught to all, 
 not only before they can reason upon them, but in- 
 dependently of the consideration whether they will 
 ever be able to reason upon them as long as they live. 
 What has hitherto been said relates only to instilling 
 prejudices into others ; how far a man is to allow them 
 in himself, or, as a celebrated writer expresses it, to 
 cherish them, is a different question, on which perhaps 
 I may some time offer my thoughts. In the mean time 
 I cannot help concluding, that to reject the influence 
 of prejudice in education is itself one of the most 
 unreasonable • of prejudices. 
 
ON FEMALE STUDIES. 277 
 
 ON FEMALE STUDIES. 
 LETTER I. 
 
 MY DEAR YOUNG FRIEND, — If I had not 
 been afraid you would feel some little reluc- 
 tance in addressing me first, I should have asked you 
 to begin the correspondence between us; for I am at 
 present ignorant of your particular pursuits. I cannot 
 guess whether you are climbing the hill of science, or 
 wandering among the flowers of fancy ; whether you 
 are stretching your powers to embrace the planetary 
 system, or examining with a curious eye the delicate 
 veining of a green leaf and the minute ramifications 
 of a sea- weed ; or whether you are toiling through the 
 intricate and thorny mazes of grammar. "Whichever 
 of these is at present your employment, your general 
 aim, no doubt, is the improvement of your mind ; and 
 we will therefore spend some time in considering what 
 kind and degree of literary attainments sit gracefully 
 upon the female character. 
 
 Every woman should consider herself as sustaining 
 the general character of a rational being, as well as the 
 more confined one belonging to the female sex ; and 
 therefore the motives for acquiring general knowledge 
 
278 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 and cultivating the taste are nearly the same to both 
 sexes. The line of separation between the studies of 
 a young man and a young woman appears to me to be 
 chiefly fixed by this, — that a woman is excused from 
 all professional Knowledge. Professional knowledge 
 means all that is necessary to fit a man for a peculiar 
 profession or business. Thus men study in order to 
 qualify themselves for the law, for physic, for various 
 departments in political life, for instructing others from 
 the pulpit or the professor's chair. These all require 
 a great deal of severe study and technical knowledge ; 
 much of which is nowise valuable in itself, but as a 
 means to that particular profession. Now, as a woman 
 can never be called to any of these professions, it is 
 evident you have nothing to do with such studies. 
 A voman is not expected to understand the myste- 
 ries of politics, because she is not called to govern; 
 she is not required to know anatomy, because she is 
 not to perform surgical operations; she need not em- 
 barrass herself with theological disputes, because she 
 will neither be called upon to make nor to explain 
 creeds. 
 
 Men have various departments in active life ; women 
 have but one, and all women have the same, differently 
 modified indeed by their rank in life and other inci- 
 dental circumstances. It is to be a wife, a mother, a 
 mistress of a family. The knowledge belonging to 
 
ON FEMALE STUDIES. 279 
 
 these duties is your professional knowledge, the want 
 of which nothing will excuse. Literary knowledge, 
 therefore, in men, is often an indispensable duty ; in 
 women, it can be only a desirable accomplishment. In 
 women it is more immediately applied to the purposes 
 of adorning and improving the mind, of refining the sen- 
 timents, and supplying proper stores for conversation. 
 For general knowledge women have, in some respects, 
 more advantages than men. Their avocations often 
 allow them more leisure ; their sedentary way of life 
 disposes them to the domestic, quiet amusement of 
 reading ; the share they take in the education of their 
 children throws them in the way of books. The uni- 
 form tenor and confined circle of their lives makes 
 them eager to diversify the scene by descriptions which 
 open to them a new world ; and they are eager to gain 
 an idea of scenes on the busy stage of life from which 
 they are shut out by their sex. It is likewise particu- 
 larly desirable for women to be able to give spirit and 
 variety to conversation by topics drawn from the stores 
 of literature, as the broader mirth and more boisterous 
 gayety of the other sex are to them prohibited. As 
 their parties must be innocent, care should be taken 
 that they do not stagnate into insipidity. I will ven- 
 ture to add that the purity and simplicity of heart 
 which a woman ought never, in her freest commerce 
 with the world, to wear off, her very seclusion from 
 
280 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the jarring interests and coarser amusements of society, 
 fit her in a peculiar manner for the worlds of fancy 
 and sentiment, and dispose her to the quickest relish 
 of what is pathetic, sublime, or tender. To you, there- 
 fore, the beauties of poetry, of moral painting, and all, 
 in general, that is comprised under the term of polite 
 literature, lie particularly open, and you cannot neg- 
 lect them without neglecting a very copious source of 
 enjoyment. 
 
 Languages are on some accounts particularly adapted 
 to female study, as they may be learned at home without 
 experiments or apparatus, and without interfering with 
 the habits of domestic life ; as they form the style, and 
 as they are the immediate inlet to works of taste. But 
 the learned languages, the Greek especially, require a 
 great deal more time than a young woman can con- 
 veniently spare. To the Latin - there is not an equal 
 objection ; and if a young person has leisure, has an 
 opportunity of learning it at home by being connected 
 with literary people, and is placed in a circle of society 
 sufficiently liberal to allow her such an accomplishment, 
 I do not see, if she has a strong inclination, why she 
 should not make herself mistress of so rich a store of 
 original entertainment : it will not in the present state 
 of things excite either a smile or a stare in fashionable 
 company. To those who do not intend to learn the 
 language, I would strongly recommend the learning so 
 
 
ON FEMALE STUDIES. 281 
 
 much of the grammar of it as will explain the name 
 and nature of cases, genders, inflection of verbs, etc. ; 
 of which, having only the imperfect rudiments in our 
 own language, a mere English scholar can with dif- 
 ficulty form a clear idea. This is the more necessary, 
 as all our grammars, being written by men whose early 
 studies had given them a partiality for the learned lan- 
 guages, are formed more upon those than upon the real 
 genius of our own tongue. 
 
 I was going now to mention French, but perceive I 
 have written a letter long enough to frighten a young 
 correspondent, and for the present I bid you adieu. 
 
 LETTER IT. 
 
 French you are not only permitted to learn, but you 
 are laid under the same necessity of acquiring it as 
 your brother is of acquiring Latin. Custom has made 
 the one as much expected from an accomplished woman, 
 as the other from a man who has had a liberal educa- 
 tion. The learning French, or indeed any language 
 completely, includes reading, writing, and speaking it. 
 But here I must take the liberty to offer my ideas, 
 which differ something from those generally enter- 
 tained, and you will give them what weight you think 
 they deserve. It seems to me that the efforts of young 
 
282 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 ladies in learning French are generally directed to what 
 is unattainable ; and if attained, not very useful, — the 
 speaking it. It is utterly impossible, without such ad- 
 vantages as few enjoy, to speak a foreign language with 
 fluency and a proper accent ; and if even by being in 
 a French family some degree of both is attained, it is 
 soon lost by mixing with the world at large. As to 
 the French which girls are obliged to speak at boarding- 
 schools, it does very well to speak in England, but at 
 Paris it would probably be less understood than English 
 itself. 
 
 I do not mean by this to say that the speaking of 
 French is not a very elegant accomplishment ; and to 
 those who mean to spend some time in France, or who, 
 being in very high life, often see foreigners of distinc- 
 tion, it may be necessary ; but in common life it is very 
 little so : and for English people to meet together to 
 talk a foreign language is truly absurd. There is a sar- 
 casm against this practice as old as Chaucer's time : — 
 
 " . . . . Frenche she spake fill fa}Te and fetisely, 
 After the schole of Stratford atte Bowe, 
 For Frenche of Paris was to her unknowe." 
 
 But with regard to reading French, the many charm- 
 ing publications in that language, particularly in polite 
 literature, of which you can have no adequate idea 
 by translation, render it a very desirable acquisition. 
 
ON FEMALE STUDIES. 283 
 
 "Writing it is not more useful in itself than speaking, 
 except a person has foreign letters to write ; but it is 
 necessary for understanding the language grammati- 
 cally and fixing the rules in -the mind. A young per- 
 son who reads French with ease and is so well grounded 
 as to write it grammatically, and has what I should 
 call a good English pronunciation of it, will, by a short 
 residence in France, gain fluency and the accent ; 
 whereas one not grounded would soon forget all she 
 had learned, though she had acquired some fluency in 
 speaking. For speaking, therefore, love and cultivate 
 your own : know all its elegancies, its force, its happy 
 turns of expression, and possess yourself of all its 
 riches. In foreign languages you have only to learn ; 
 but with regard to your own you have probably to 
 unlearn, and to avoid vulgarisms and provincial bar- 
 barisms. 
 
 If, after you have learned French, you should wish 
 to add Italian, the acquisition will not be difficult. It 
 is valuable on account of its poetry — in which it far 
 excels the French — and its music. The other modern 
 languages you will hardly attempt, except led to them 
 by some peculiar bent. 
 
 History affords a wide field of entertaining and use- 
 ful reading. The chief thing to be attended to in 
 studying it is to gain a clear, well-arranged idea of 
 facts in chronological order, and illustrated by a knowl- 
 
284 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 edge of the places where such facts happened. Xever 
 read without tables and maps : make abstracts of what 
 you read. Before you embarrass yourself in the detail 
 of this, endeavor to fix well in your mind the arrange- 
 ment of some leading facts which may serve as land- 
 marks to which to refer the rest. Connect the history 
 of different countries together. In the study of history 
 the different genius of a woman, I imagine, will show 
 itself. The detail of battles, the art of sieges, will not 
 interest her so much as manners and sentiment ; this 
 is the food she assimilates to herself. 
 
 The great laws of the universe, the nature and prop- 
 erties of those objects which surround us, it is unpar- 
 donable not to know : it is more unpardonable to know, 
 and not to feel the mind struck with lively gratitude. 
 Under this head are comprehended natural history, 
 astronomy, botany, experimental philosophy, chemistry, 
 physics. In these you will rather take what belongs 
 to sentiment and to utility than abstract calculations 
 or difficult problems. You must often be content to 
 know a thing is so, without understanding the proof. 
 It belongs to a Xewton to prove his sublime problems, 
 but we may all be made acquainted with the result. 
 You cannot investigate ; you may remember. This 
 will teach you not to despise common things; will 
 give you an interest in everything you see. If you are 
 feeding your poultry, or tending your bees, or extract- 
 
ON FEMALE STUDIES. 285 
 
 ing the juice of herbs, with an intelligent mind, you 
 are gaining real knowledge ; it will open to you an 
 inexhaustible fund of wonder and delight, and effectu- 
 ally prevent you from depending for your entertain- 
 ment on the poor novelties of fashion and expense. 
 
 But of all reading, what most ought to engage your 
 attention are works of sentiment and morals. Morals 
 is that study in which alone both sexes have an equal 
 interest ; and in sentiment yours has even the advan- 
 tage. The works of this kind often appear under the 
 seducing form of novel and romance : here, great care 
 and the advice of your older friends is requisite in the 
 selection. Whatever is true, however uncouth in the 
 manner or dry in the subject, has a value from being 
 true ; but fiction in order to recommend itself must give 
 us la telle Nature. You will find fewer plays fit for your 
 perusal thau novels, and fewer comedies than tragedies. 
 
 What particular share any one of the studies I have 
 mentioned may engage of your attention will be deter- 
 mined by your peculiar turn and bent of mind. But 
 I shall conclude with observing that a woman ought 
 to have that general tincture of them all which marks 
 the cultivated mind. She ought to have enough of 
 them to engage gracefully in general conversation. In 
 no subject is she required to be deep, — of none ought 
 she to be ignorant. If she knows not enough to speak 
 well, she should know enough to keep her from speak- 
 
286 
 
 WOKKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 ing at all ; enough to feel her ground and prevent her 
 from exposing her ignorance ; enough to hear with 
 intelligence, to ask questions with propriety, and to 
 receive information where she is not qualified to give 
 it. A woman who to a cultivated mind joins that 
 quickness of intelligence and delicacy of taste which 
 such a woman often possesses in a superior degree, 
 with that nice sense of propriety which results from 
 the whole, will have a kind of tact by which she will 
 be able on all occasions to discern between pretenders 
 to science and men of real merit. On subjects upon 
 which she cannot talk herself, she will know whether 
 a man talks with knowledge of his subject. She will 
 not judge of systems, but by their systems she will be 
 able to judge of men. She will distinguish the modest, 
 the dogmatical, the affected, the over-refined, and give 
 her esteem and confidence accordingly. She w r ill know 
 with whom to confide the education of her children, 
 and how to judge of their progress and the methods 
 used to improve them. From books, from conversation, 
 from learned instructors, she will gather the flower of 
 every science ; and her mind, in assimilating every- 
 thing to itself, will adorn it with new graces. She will 
 give the tone to the conversation even when she chooses 
 to bear but an inconsiderable part in it. The modesty 
 which prevents her from an unnecessary display .of 
 what she knows, will cause it to be supposed that her 
 
ON FEMALE STUDIES. 287 
 
 knowledge is deeper than in reality it is : as when the 
 landscape is seen through the veil of a mist, the bounds 
 of the horizon are hid. As she will never obtrude her 
 knowledge, none will ever be sensible of any deficiency 
 in it, and her silence will seem to proceed from discre- 
 tion rather than a want of information. She will seem 
 to know everything by leading every one to speak of 
 what he knows ; and when she is with those to whom 
 she can give no real information, she will yet delight 
 them by the original turns of thought and sprightly 
 elegance which will attend her manner of speaking on 
 any subject. Such is the character to whom professed 
 scholars will delight to give information, from whom 
 others will equally delight to receive it : — the character 
 I wish you to become, and to form which your applica- 
 tion must be directed. 
 
288 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 THE authors known by the name of the Greek and 
 Eoman Classics have laid the foundation of all 
 that is excellent in modern literature ; and are so fre- 
 quently referred to both in books and conversation, 
 that a person of a cultivated mind cannot easily be 
 content without obtaining some knowledge of them, 
 even though he should not be able to read them in 
 their original tongues. A clear and short account of 
 these authors in a chronological series, together with 
 a sketch of the character of their several productions, 
 for the use of those who have either none or a very 
 superficial knowledge of the languages they are written 
 in, is, as far as I know, a desideratum which it is much 
 to be wished that some elegant scholar should supply : 
 in the mean time a few general remarks upon them 
 may be not unacceptable. 
 
 In the larger sense of the word, an author is called 
 a Classic when his work has stood the test of time 
 long enough to become a permanent part of the lit- 
 erature of his country. Of the number of writings 
 which in their day have attained a portion of fame, 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 289 
 
 very few in any age have survived to claim this honor- 
 able distinction. Every circumstance which gave tem- 
 porary celebrity must be forgotten; party must have 
 subsided ; the voice of friends and of enemies must 
 be silent; and the writer himself must have long 
 mouldered in the dust, before the gates of immortality 
 are opened to him. It is in vain that he attempts to 
 natter or to soothe his contemporaries, they are not 
 called to the decision ; his merits are to be determined 
 by a race he has never seen ; the judges are not yet 
 born who are to pronounce on the claims of Darwin 
 and of Cowper. The severe impartiality of Posterity 
 stands aloof from every consideration but that of ex- 
 cellence, and from her verdict there is no appeal. 
 
 It is true, indeed, that amidst the revolutions of ages, 
 particularly before the invention of printing, accidental 
 circumstances must often have had great influence in 
 the preservation of particular writings ; and we know 
 and lament that many are lost which the learned world 
 would give treasures of gold to recover. But it cannot 
 easily happen that a work should be preserved without 
 superior merit; and indeed we know from the testi- 
 mony of antiquity, that the works which have come 
 down to us, and which we read and admire, are in gen- 
 eral the very works which by the Greeks and Eomans 
 themselves were esteemed most excellent. 
 
 It is impossible to contemplate without a sentiment 
 
 VOL. II. 13 S 
 
290 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 of reverence and enthusiasm these venerable writings 
 which have survived the wreck of empires ; and, what 
 is more, of languages which have received the awful 
 stamp of immortality, and are crowned with the ap- 
 plause of so many successive ages. It is wonderful 
 that words should live so much longer than marble tem- 
 ples; — words, winch at first are only uttered breath; 
 and, when afterwards enshrined and fixed in a visible 
 form by the admirable invention of writing, committed 
 to such frail and perishable materials : yet the light 
 paper bark floats down the stream of time, and lives 
 through the storms which have sunk so many stronger- 
 built vessels. Homer is read, though the grass now 
 grows vslxcrc Troy town stood: and nations once despised 
 as barbarous appreciate the merit. of Cicero's orations 
 on the banks of the Thames, when the long honors of 
 the Consulate are vanished, and the language of Eome 
 is no longer spoken on the shores of the Tiber. 
 
 Still green with bays each ancient altar stands, 
 
 Above the reach of sacrilegious hands ; 
 
 Secure from flames, from envy's fiercer rage, 
 
 Destructive war and all-involving age. 
 
 See from each clime the learn'd their incense bring, 
 
 Hear in all tougues consenting Pseans ring ! 
 
 It is owing to the preservation of a few books of the 
 kind we are speaking of, that at the revival of letters 
 the world had not to go back to the very beginnings of 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 291 
 
 science. When the storm of barbaric rage had passed 
 over and spent itself, they were drawn from the mould 
 of ruins and dust of convents, and were of essential 
 service in forming our taste and giving a direction 
 to the recovered energies of the human mind. Oral 
 instruction can benefit but one age and one set of 
 hearers ; but these silent teachers address all ages and 
 all nations. They may sleep for a while and be 
 neglected; but whenever the desire of information 
 springs up in the human breast, there they are with 
 their mild wisdom ready to instruct and please us. 
 The Philosopher opens again his school ; his maxims 
 have lost nothing of their truth : the harmony of the 
 Poet's numbers, though locked up for a time, becomes 
 again vocal, and we find that what was nature and 
 passion two thousand years ago is nature and passion 
 still. 
 
 Books are a kind of perpetual censors on men and 
 manners; they judge without partiality, and reprove 
 without fear or affection. There are times when the 
 flame of virtue and liberty seems almost to be extin- 
 guished amongst the existing generation ; but their 
 animated pages are always at hand to rekindle it. The 
 despot trembles on his throne, and the bold bad man 
 turns pale in his closet at the sentence pronounced 
 against him ages before he was born. 
 
 In addition to their intrinsic value there is much 
 
292 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 incidental entertainment in consulting authors who 
 flourished at so remote a period. Every little circum- 
 stance becomes curious as we discover allusions to 
 customs now obsolete, or draw indications of the 
 temper of the times from the various slight hints and 
 casual pieces of information which may be gathered 
 up by the ingenious critic. Sometimes we have the 
 pleasure of being admitted into the cabinet of a great 
 man, and leaning as it were over his shoulder while 
 he is pouring hiinself out in the freedom of a confidential 
 intercourse which was never meant to meet the eye 
 even of his contemporaries. At another time we are 
 delighted to witness the conscious triumph of a genius 
 who, with a generous confidence in his powers, prophe- 
 sies his own immortality, and to feel, as we read, that his 
 proud boast has not been too presumptuous. Another 
 advantage of reading the ancients is, that we trace the 
 stream of ideas to their spring. It is always best to 
 go to the fountain-head. We can never have a just 
 idea of the comparative merit of the moderns, without 
 knowing how much they have derived from imitation. 
 It is amusing to follow an idea from century to cen- 
 tury, and observe the gradual accession of thought and 
 sentiment ; to see the jewels of the ancients new set, 
 and the wit of Horace sparkling with additional lustre 
 in the lines of Pope. 
 
 The real sources of history can only be known by 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 
 
 293 
 
 some acquaintance with the original authors. This 
 indeed will often be found to betray the deficiency of 
 our documents, and the difficulty of reconciling jarring 
 accounts. It will sometimes unclothe and exhibit in 
 its original bareness what the art of the moderns has 
 dressed up and rounded into form. It will show the 
 unsightly chasms and breaks which the modern com- 
 piler passes over with a light foot, and perhaps make 
 us sceptical with regard to many particulars of which 
 we formerly thought we had authentic information. 
 But it is always good to know the real measure of our 
 knowledge. That knowledge would be greater, if the 
 treasures of antiquity had come to us undiminished; 
 but this is not the case. Besides the loss of many 
 mentioned with honor by their contemporaries, few 
 authors are come down to us entire ; and of some 
 exquisite productions only fragments are extant. The 
 full stream of narration is sometimes suddenly checked 
 at the most interesting period, and the sense of a 
 brilliant passage is clouded by the obscurity of a single 
 word. The literary productions are come to us in a 
 similar state with the fine statues of antiquity: of 
 which some have lost an arm, others a leg, some a 
 little finger only; scarce any have escaped some 
 degree of mutilation ; and sometimes a trunk is dug 
 up so shorn of its limbs that the antiquaries are 
 puzzled to make out to what god or hero it originally 
 
294 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 belonged. To the frequent loss of part of an author 
 must be added the difficulty of deciphering what re- 
 mains. 
 
 Ancient manuscripts are by no means, easy to read. 
 You are not to imagine, when you see a fair edition of 
 Virgil or Horace, divided into verses and accurately 
 pointed, that you see it in anything like its original state. 
 The oldest manuscripts are written wholly in capi- 
 tals, and without any separation of letters into words. 
 Passing through many hands, they have suffered from 
 the mistakes or carelessness of transcribers ; by which 
 so great an obscurity is thrown on many passages that 
 very often he who makes the happiest guess is the best 
 commentator. But this very obscurity has usefully 
 exercised the powers of the human mind. It became 
 a great object, at the revival of letters, to compare dif- 
 ferent readings ; to elucidate a text by parallel passages ; 
 to supply by probable conjecture what was necessary 
 to make an author speak sense ; and by every possible 
 assistance of learning and sound criticism, together 
 with typographical advantages, to restore the beauty 
 and splendor of the classic page. Verbal criticism was 
 at that time of great and real use ; and those who are 
 apt to undervalue it are little aware how much labor 
 was requisite to reduce the confused or mutilated work 
 of a thousand years back to form and order. 
 
 This task was well fitted for an age recently emerged 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 295 
 
 out of barbarism. The enthusiastic admiration with 
 which men were struck on viewing the masterpieces 
 of human genius, and even the superstitious veneration 
 with which they regarded everything belonging to them, 
 tended to form their taste by a quicker process than 
 if they had been left to make the most of their own 
 abilities. By degrees the moderns felt their own pow- 
 ers ; they learned to imitate, and perhaps to excel, 
 what before they idolized. But a considerable period 
 had passed before any of the modern languages were 
 thought worthy of being the vehicle of the discoveries 
 of science or even of the effusions of fancy. Christian- 
 ity did not, as might have been expected, bring into 
 discredit the pagan philosophy. Aristotle reigned in 
 the schools, where he was regarded with a veneration 
 fully equal to what was expressed for the sainted 
 fathers of the Church ; and as to the mythology of the 
 ancients, it is so beautiful that all our earlier poetry 
 has been modelled upon it. Even yet the predilection 
 for the Latin language is apparent in our inscriptions, 
 in the public exercises of our schools and universities, 
 and the general bent of the studies of youth. In short, 
 all our knowledge and all our taste has been built upon 
 the foundation of the ancients ; and without knowing 
 what they have done, we cannot estimate rightly the 
 merit of our own authors. 
 
 It may naturally be asked why the Greek and 
 
296 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Roman writers alone are called by the name of the 
 3ics. It is true the Hebrew might be esteemed so, 
 if we did not receive them upon a higher ground of 
 merit. As to the Persian and Arabic, with other 
 languages of countries once highly cultivated, their 
 authors are not taken into the account, partly because 
 they are understood by so few, and partly because their 
 idioms and modes of expression, if not of feeling, are so 
 remote from ours that we can scarcely enter into their 
 merits. Their writings are comprehended under the 
 name of Oriental literature. It has been more culti- 
 vated of late, particularly by Sir William Jones ; and 
 our East India possessions will continue to draw our 
 attention that way; but curiosity is gratified, rather 
 than taste. We are pleased, indeed, with occasional 
 beauties, sometimes a pure maxim of morality and 
 sometimes a glowing figure of speech ; but they do 
 not enter into the substance of the mind, which ever 
 must be fed and nourished by the classic literature of 
 Greece and Rome. 
 
 I shall subjoin a few specimens of the mythological 
 stories of the ancients. 
 
 ATALANTA. 
 
 Atalanta was a beautiful young woman, exceedingly 
 swift of foot. She had many lovers ; but she resolved 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 297 
 
 not to marry till she could meet with one who should 
 conquer her iu running. A great many young men 
 proposed themselves, and lost their lives ; for the 
 conditions were, that, if they were overcome in the 
 race, they should be put to death. At length she was 
 challenged by Hippomenes, a brave and handsome 
 youth. " Do you know," said Atalanta, " that nobody 
 has yet been found who excels me in swiftness, 
 and that you must be put to death if you do not 
 win the race ? I should be sorry to have any more 
 young men put to death." "I am not afraid," said 
 Hippomenes ; " I think I shall win the race and win 
 you too." 
 
 So the ground was marked out and the day ap- 
 pointed, and a great number of spectators gathered 
 together ; and Atalanta stood with her garments tucked 
 up, and Hippomenes by her, waiting impatiently for 
 the signal. At length it was given ; and immediately 
 they both started at the same instant, and ran with 
 their utmost speed across the plain. But Atalanta flew 
 like the wind, and soon outstripped the young man. 
 Then Hippomenes drew from his vest a golden apple, 
 which had been given him by Venus from the gardens 
 of the Hesperides, and threw it from him with all his 
 force. The virgin saw it glittering as it rolled across 
 the plain, and ran out of the course to pick it up. 
 While she was doing so Hippomenes passed her, and 
 
 13* 
 
298 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the spectators shouted for joy. However, Atalanta 
 redoubled her speed, soon overtook Hippouienes, and 
 again got before him. Upon this Hippouienes produced 
 another golden apple, and threw it as before. It rolled 
 a great way out of the course, and the virgin was very 
 far behind by picking it up. She had great difficulty 
 this time to recover her lost ground, and the spectators 
 shouted, " Hippouienes will win ! Hippomenes will 
 win ! " But Atalanta was so light, so nimble, and ex- 
 erted herself so much, that at length she passed him 
 as before, and flew as if she had wings towards the 
 goal. And now she had but a little way to run ; and 
 the people said, " Poor Hippomenes ! he will lose, 
 after all, and be put to death like the rest ; see, see 
 how she gains ground of him ! how near the goal she 
 is 1 Atalanta will win the race." Then Hippomenes 
 took another golden apple, — it was the last he had, — 
 and prayed to Yenus to give him success, and threw 
 it behind him. Atalanta saw it, and considered a 
 moment whether she should venture to delay herself 
 again by picking it up. She knew she ran the risk 
 of losing the race, but she could not withstand the 
 beautiful glittering of the apple as it rolled along ; and 
 she said to herself, "I shall easily overtake Hippomenes, 
 as I did before." But she was mistaken ; for they had 
 now so little a way to run, that, though she skimmed 
 along the plain like a bird, and exerted all her strength, 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 299 
 
 she was too late. Hippomenes reached the goal before 
 her; she was obliged to own herself conquered, and 
 to marry him according to the agreement. 
 
 AEION. 
 
 Ariox was a poet of Lesbos, who sung his own verses 
 to his harp. He had been a good while at the court 
 of Periander, tyrant of Corinth, and had acquired great 
 riches, with which he was desirous to return to his 
 native country. He therefore made an agreement with 
 a captain of a ship to carry him to Mitylene in Lesbos, 
 and they set sail. But the captain and crew, tempted 
 by the wealth which he had on board, determined to 
 seize his gold and throw him into the sea. When poor 
 Arion heard their cruel intention he submitted to his 
 fate, for he knew he could not resist, and only begged 
 they would allow him to give them one tune upon Iris 
 harp before he died. This they complied with; and 
 Arion, standing on the deck, drew from his harp such 
 melodious strains, accompanied with such moving 
 verses, that anybody but these cruel sailors would 
 have been touched with them. When he had finished 
 they threw him into the sea, where they supposed he 
 was swallowed up : but that was not the case, for a 
 dolphin, which had been drawn towards the ship by 
 
300 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the sweetness of Arion's voice, swam to him, took him 
 gently upon his back, conveyed him safely over the 
 waves, and landed him at Temera, whence he returned 
 to Periander. Periander was very much surprised to 
 see him come again in such a forlorn and destitute 
 condition, and asked him the reas n. Arion told his 
 story. Periander bade him conceal himself till the 
 sailors should return from their voyage, and he would 
 do him justice. When the ship returned from its 
 voyage, Periander ordered the sailors to be brought 
 before him, and asked them what they had done with 
 Arion. They said he had died during the voyage, and 
 that they had buried him. Then Periander ordered 
 Arion to appear before them in the clothes he wore 
 when they cast him into the sea. At this plain proof 
 of their guilt they were quite confounded, and Perian- 
 der put them all to death. It is said further, that the 
 dolphin was taken up into the heavens and turned into 
 a constellation. It is a small constellation, of moderate 
 brightness, and has four stars in the form of a rhombus ; 
 you will find it south of the Swan, and a little west 
 of the bright star Alcair. 
 
 VENUS AND ADOXIS. 
 
 The goddess Venus loved Adonis, a mortal Beauti- 
 ful Venus loved the beautiful Adonis. She often said 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 301 
 
 to him, " Adonis ! be content to lie crowned with 
 flowers by the fresh fountains, and to feed upon honey 
 and nectar, and to be lulled to sleep by the warbling 
 of birds ; and do not expose your life by hunting the 
 tawny lion, or the tusky boar, or % any savage beast. 
 Take care of that life which is so dear to Venus I" 
 But Adonis would not listen to her. He loved to rise 
 early in the morning, while the dew was upon the grass, 
 and to beat the thickets with his well-trained hounds, 
 whose ears swept the ground. "With his darts he 
 pierced the nimble fawns and the kids with budding 
 horns, and brought home the spoil upon his shoulders. 
 But one day he wounded a fierce bristly boar; the 
 arrow stuck in his side, and made the animal mad 
 with pain : he rushed upon Adonis, and gored his thigh 
 with his sharp tusks. Beautiful Adonis fell to the 
 ground like a lily that is rooted up by a sudden storm : 
 his blood flowed in crimson streams down his fair side ; 
 and his eyelids closed, and the shades of death hovered 
 over his pale brow. 
 
 In the mean time the evening came on, and Venus 
 had prepared a garland of fresh leaves and flowers to 
 bind around the glowing temples of Adonis when he 
 should come hot and tired from the chase, and a couch 
 of rose-leaves to rest his weary limbs; and she said, 
 " Why does not Adonis come ? Eeturn Adonis ! let 
 me hear the sound of your feet ! let me hear the voice 
 
302 WORKS OF MRS. BAEBATJLD. 
 
 of your dogs ! let them lick my hands, and make me 
 understand that their master is approaching ! " But 
 Adonis did not return ; and the dark night came, and 
 the rosy morning appeared again, and still he did not 
 appear. Then Venus sought him in the plains, and 
 through the thickets, and amidst the rough brakes ; 
 and her veil was torn with the thorns, and her feet 
 bruised and bleeding with the sharp pebbles, for she 
 ran hither and thither like a distracted person. And 
 at length upon the mountain she found him whom she 
 loved so dearly ; but she found him cold and dead, 
 with his faithful dogs beside him. 
 
 Then Venus rent her beautiful tresses, and beat her 
 breast, and pierced the air with her loud lamentations ; 
 and the little Cupids that accompany her broke their 
 ivory bows for grief, and scattered upon the ground the 
 arrows of their golden quivers : and they said, " "We 
 mourn Adonis ; Venus mourns for beautiful Adonis ; 
 the Loves mourn along with her. Beautiful Adonis. 
 lies dead upon the ground, his side gored with the 
 tooth of a boar, — his white thigh with a white tooth. 
 Venus kisses the cold lips of Adonis ; but Adonis does 
 not know that he is kissed, and she cannot revive him 
 with her warm breath." 
 
 Then Venus said, " You shall not quite die, my 
 Adonis ! I will change you into a flower." And she 
 shed nectar on the ground, which mixed with the 
 
ON THE CLASSICS. 303 
 
 blood, and presently a crimson flower sprang np in 
 the room of Adonis; and also the river was tinged 
 with his blood and became red. 
 
 And every year, on the day that Adonis died, the 
 nymphs mourned and lamented for him, and ran up 
 and down shrieking, and crying " Beautiful Adonis is 
 dead!" 
 
304 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 SELAMA; 
 
 AN IMITATION OF OSSIAN. 
 
 WHAT soft voice of sorrow is in the breeze ? 
 what lovely sunbeam of beauty trembling on 
 the rock ? Its bright hair is bathed in showers ; and 
 it looks, faint and dim, through its mist on the rushy 
 plain. Why art thou alone, maid of the mournful 
 look ? The cold, dropping rain is on the rocks of 
 Torlena, the blast of the desert lifts thy yellow locks. 
 Let thy steps be in the hall of shells, by the blue 
 winding stream of Clutha : let the harp tremble beneath 
 thy fingers ; and the sons of heroes listen to the music 
 of songs. 
 
 Shall my steps be in the hall of shells, and the aged 
 low in the dust ? The father of Selama is low behind 
 this rock, on his bed of withered leaves ; the thistle's 
 down is strewed over him by the wind, and mixes 
 with his gray hair. Thou art fallen, chief of Etha ! 
 without thy fame ; and there is none to revenge thy 
 death. But thy daughter will sit, pale, beside thee, till 
 she sinks, a faded flower, upon thy lifeless form. Leave 
 the maid of Clutha, son of the stranger ! in the red eye 
 of her tears. 
 
SELAMA. 305 
 
 How fell the car-borne Connal, blue-eyed mourner 
 of the rock ? Mine arm is not weakened in battle ; 
 nor my sword without its fame. 
 
 Connal was a fire in his youth, that lightened 
 through fields of renown : but the flame weakly glim- 
 mered through gray ashes of age. His course was like 
 a star moving through the heavens : it walketh in 
 brightness, but leaveth no track behind ; its silver path 
 cannot be found in the sky. The strength of Etha is 
 rolled away like a tale of other years; and -his eyes 
 have failed. Feeble and dark, he sits in his hail, and 
 hears the distant tread of a stranger's steps ; the 
 haughty steps of Tonthormo, from the roar of Duvran- 
 no's echoing stream. He stood in the hall like a pillar 
 of darkness, on whose top is the red beam of fire : wide 
 rolled his eyes beneath the gloomy arch of his bent 
 brow ; as flames in two caves of a rock, overhung with 
 the black pine of the desert. They had rolled on 
 Selama, and he asked the daughter of Connal. Ton- 
 thormo ! breaker of shields ! thou art a meteor of death 
 in war, whose fiery hair streams on the clouds, and the 
 nations are -withered beneath its path. Dwell, Ton- 
 thormo ! amidst thy hundred hills, and listen to thy 
 torrent's roar ; but the soft sigh of the virgins is with 
 the chief of Crono ; Hidallan is the dream of Selama, 
 the dweller of her secret thoughts. A rushing storm 
 in war, a breeze that sighs over the fallen foe, pleasant 
 
 T 
 
306 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 are thy words of peace, and thy songs at the mossy 
 brook. Thy smiles are like the moonbeams trembling 
 on the waves. Thy voice is the gale of summer that 
 whispers among the reeds of the lake, and awakens the 
 harp of Moilena with all its lightly trembling strings. 
 that thy calm light was around me ! my soul should 
 not fear the gloomy chief of Duvranno. He came with 
 his stately steps. — My shield is before thee, maid of 
 my love '. a wall of shelter from the lightning of 
 swords. They fought. Tonthormo bends, in all his 
 pride, before the arm of youth. But a voice was in 
 the breast of Hidallan, shall I slay the lover of Selama ? 
 Selama dwells in thy dark bosom, shall my steel enter 
 there ? Live, thou storm of war ! He gave again his 
 sword. But, careless as he strode away, rage arose in 
 the troubled thoughts of the vanquished. He marked 
 his time, and sidelong pierced the heart of the gener- 
 ous son of Semo. His fair hair is spread on tlie dust, 
 his eyes are bent on the trembling beam of Clutha. 
 Farewell, light of my soul ! They are closed in dark- 
 ness. Feeble wast thou then, my father ! and in vain 
 didst thou call for help. Thy gray locks are scattered, 
 as a wreath of snow on the top of a withered trunk; 
 which the boy brushes away with his staff; and care- 
 less singeth as lie walks. "Who shall defend thee, my 
 daughter ! said the broken voice of Etna's chief. Fair 
 flower of the desert ! the tempest shall rush over thee ; 
 
SELAMA. 307 
 
 and thou shalt be low beneath the foot of the savage 
 son of prey. But I will wither, my father ! on thy 
 tomb. Weak and alone I dwell amidst my tears, there 
 is no young warrior to lift the spear, no brother of 
 love ! that mine arm were strong ! I would rush 
 amidst the battle. Selama has no friend! 
 
 But Selama has a friend, said the kindling soul of 
 Eeuthamir. I will fight thy battles, lovely daughter 
 of kings ; and the sun of Duvranno shall set in blood. 
 But when I return in peace, and the spirits of thy foes 
 are on my sword, meet me with thy smiles of love, 
 maid of Clutha ! with thy slow-rolling eyes. Let the 
 soft sound of thy steps be heard in my halls, that the 
 mother of Eeuthamir may rejoice. Whence, she will 
 say, is this beam of the distant land? Thou shalt 
 dwell in her bosom. 
 
 My thoughts are with him who is low in the dust, 
 son of Corrnac ! But lift the spear, thou friend of the 
 unhappy ! the light of my soul may return. 
 
 He strode in his rattling arms. Tall, in a gloomy 
 forest, stood the surly strength of Duvranno. Gleam- 
 ing behind the dark trees was his broad shield; like 
 the moon when it rises in blood, and the dusky clouds 
 sail low and heavy athwart its path. Thoughts, like 
 the troubled ocean, rushed over his soul, and he struck, 
 with his spear, the sounding pine. Starting, he mixed 
 in battle with the chief of woody Morna. Long was 
 
308 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the strife of arms ; and the giant sons of the forest 
 trembled at their strokes. At length Tonthormo fell — 
 the sword of Reuthamir waved, a blue flame, around 
 him. He bites the ground in rage. His blood is 
 poured, a dark red stream, into Oithona's trembling 
 waves. Joy brightened in the soul of Peuthamir; 
 when a young warrior came, with his forward spear. 
 He moved in the light of beauty ; but his words were 
 haughty and fierce. Is Tonthormo fallen in blood, the 
 friend of my early years ? Die, thou dark-souled chief ! 
 for never shall Selama be thine, the maid of his love. 
 Lovely shone her eyes, througli tears, in the hall of her 
 grief, when I stood by the chief of Duvranno, in the 
 rising strife of Clutha. 
 
 Retire, thou swelling voice of pride ! thy spear is 
 light as the taper reed. Pierce the roes of the desert, 
 and call the hunter to the feast of songs, but speak not 
 of the daughter of Connal, son of the feeble arm! 
 Selama is the love of heroes. 
 
 Try thy strength with the feeble arm, said the rising 
 pride of youth. Thou shalt vanish like a cloud of mist 
 before the sun, when he looks abroad in the power of 
 his brightness, and the storms are rolled away from be- 
 fore his face. 
 
 But thou thyself didst fall before Peuthamir, in all 
 thy boasting words. As a tall ash of the mountain, 
 when the tempest takes its green head and lays it level 
 on the plain. 
 
SELAMA. 309 
 
 Come from thy secret cave, Selama ! thy foes are 
 silent and dark. Thou dove that hidest in the clefts 
 of the rocks ! the storm is over and past. Come from 
 thy rock, Selama ! and give thy white hand to the 
 chief who never fled from the face of glory, in all its 
 terrible brightness. 
 
 She gave her hand, but it was trembling and cold, 
 for the spear was deep in her side. Eed, beneath her 
 mail, the current of crimson wandered down her white 
 breast, as the track of blood on Cromla's mountains of 
 snow, when the wounded deer slowly crosses the heath, 
 and the hunter's cries are in the breeze. Blest be the 
 spear of Eeuthamir ! said the faint voice of the lovely, 
 I feel it cold in my heart. Lay me by the son of 
 Semo. Why should I know another love ? Eaise the 
 tomb of the aged, his thin form shall rejoice, as he sails 
 on a low-hung cloud, and guides the wintry storm. 
 Open your airy halls, spirits of my love. 
 
 And have I quenched the light which was pleasant 
 to my soul ? said the chief of Morna. My steps moved 
 in darkness, why were the words of strife in thy tale ? 
 Sorrow, like a cloud, comes over my soul, and shades 
 the joy of mighty deeds. Soft be your rest in the nar- 
 row house, children of grief ! The breeze in the Ions: 
 whistling grass shall not awaken you. The tempest 
 shall rush over you, and the bulrush bow its head upon 
 your tomb, but silence shall dwell in your habitation ; 
 
310 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 long repose, and the peace of years to come. The voice 
 of the bard shall raise your remembrance in the distant 
 land, and mingle your tale of woe with the murmur of 
 other streams. Often shall the harp send forth a 
 mournful sound, and the tear dwell in the soft eyes 
 of the daughters of Morna. 
 
 Such were the words of Eeuthamir, while he raised 
 the tombs of the fallen. Sad were his steps towards 
 the towers of his fathers, as, musing, he crossed the 
 dark heath of Lena, and struck, at times, the thistle's 
 beard. 
 
LETTER ON WATERING-PLACES. 
 
 311 
 
 LETTEE ON WATERIXG-PLACES. 
 
 SIK, — I am a country gentleman, and enjoy an es- 
 tate in Northamptonshire, which formerly enabled 
 its possessors to assume some degree of consequence in 
 the country ; but which for several generations has 
 been growing less, only because it has not grown big- 
 ger. I mean, that though I have not yet been obliged 
 to mortgage my land or fell my timber, its relative 
 value is every day diminishing by the prodigious influx 
 of wealth, real and artificial, which for some time past 
 has been pouring into this kingdom. Hitherto, how- 
 ever, I have found my income equal to my wants. It 
 has enabled me to inhabit a good house in town for 
 four months of the year, and to reside amongst my ten- 
 ants and neighbors for the remaining eight with credit 
 and hospitality. I am indeed myself so fond of the 
 country, and so averse in my nature to everything of 
 huny and bustle, that if I consulted only my own taste 
 I should never feel a wish to leave the shelter of my 
 own oaks in the dreariest season of the year ; but I 
 looked upon our annual visit to London as a proper 
 compliance with the gayer disposition of my wife and 
 the natural curiosity of the younger part of the family ; 
 
312 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 besides, to say the truth, it had its advantages in avoid- 
 ing a round of dinners and card-parties, which we must 
 otherwise have engaged in for the winter season, or 
 have been branded with the appellation of unsociable. 
 Our journey gave me an opportunity of furnishing my 
 study with some new books and prints, and my wife of 
 gratifying her neighbors with some ornamental trifles 
 before their value was sunk by becoming common, or 
 of producing at her table or in her furniture some now- 
 invented refinement of fashionable elegance. Our hall 
 was the first that was lighted by an Argand lamp ; and 
 I still remember how we were gratified by the astonish- 
 ment of our guests when my wife with an audible 
 voice called to the footman for the tongs to help to the 
 asparagus with. We found it pleasant, too, to be ena- 
 bled to talk of capital artists and favorite actors ; and 
 I made the better figure in my political debates from 
 having heard the most popular speakers in the House. 
 
 Once, too, to recruit my wife's spirits after a tedious 
 confinement from a lying-in, we passed a season at 
 Bath. In this manner, therefore, things went on very 
 well in the main, till of late my family have discovered 
 that we lead a very dull kind of life ; and that it is 
 impossible to exist with comfort, or indeed to enjoy a 
 tolerable share of health, without spending a good part 
 of every summer at a watering-place. I held out as 
 long as I could. One may be allowed to resist the 
 
LETTER ON WATERING-PLACES. 313 
 
 plans of dissipation, but the plea of health cannot de- 
 cently be withstood. 
 
 It was soon discovered that my eldest daughter 
 wanted bracing ; and my wife had a bilious complaint, 
 against which our family physician declared that sea- 
 bathing would be particularly serviceable. Therefore, 
 though it was my own private opinion that my daugh- 
 ter's nerves might have been as well braced by morn- 
 ing rides upon the Northamptonshire hills as by even- 
 ing dances in the public rooms, and that my wife's bile 
 would have been greatly lessened by compliance with 
 her husband, I acquiesced ; and preparations were 
 made for our journey. These indeed were but slight, 
 for the chief gratification proposed in this scheme was 
 an entire freedom from care and form. "We should 
 find everything requisite in our lodgings ; it was of no 
 consequence whether the rooms we should occupy for a 
 few months in the summer were elegant or not; the 
 simplicity of a country life would be the more enjoyed 
 by the little shifts we should be put to ; and all neces- 
 saries would be provided in our lodgings. It was not, 
 therefore, till after we had taken them that we dis- 
 covered how far ready-furnished lodgings were from 
 affording every article in the catalogue of necessaries. 
 We did not indeed give them a very scrupulous ex- 
 amination ; for the place was so full, that when we 
 arrived, — late at night, and tired with our journey, — 
 
 VOL. II. 14 
 
314 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 all the beds in the inn were taken up, and an easy- 
 chair and a carpet were all the accommodations we 
 could obtain for our repose. The next morning, there- 
 fore, we eagerly engaged the first lodgings we found 
 vacant, and have ever since been disputing about the 
 terms, which from the hurry were not sufficiently 
 ascertained ; and it is not even yet settled whether the 
 little blue garret, which serves us as a powdering room, 
 is ours of right or by favor. The want of all sorts of 
 conveniences is a constant excuse for the want of all 
 order and neatness, which is so visible in our apart- 
 ment ; and we are continually lamenting that we are 
 obliged to buy things of winch we have such plenty at 
 home. 
 
 It is my misfortune that I can do nothing without 
 all my little conveniences about me, and in order to 
 write a common letter I must have my study-table to 
 lean my elbows on in sedentary luxury ; you will judge, 
 therefore, how little I am able to employ my leisure, 
 when I tell you that the only room they have been 
 able to allot for my use is so filled with my daughters' 
 hat-boxes, bandboxes, wig-boxes, etc., that I can scarce- 
 ly move about in it, and am at this moment writing 
 upon a spare trunk for want of a table. I am there- 
 fore driven to saunter about with the rest of the party ; 
 but instead of the fine clumps of trees and waving 
 fields of corn I have been accustomed to have before 
 
LETTER ON WATERING-PLACES. 315 
 
 my eyes, I see nothing but a naked beach almost with- 
 out a tree, exposed by turns to the cutting eastern 
 blast and the glare of a July sun, and covered with a 
 sand equally painful to the eyes and to the feet. The 
 ocean is indeed an object of unspeakable grandeur ; but 
 when it has been contemplated in a storm and in a 
 calm, when we have seen the sun rise out of its bosom 
 and the moon silver its extended surface, its variety is 
 exhausted, and the eye begins to require the softer and 
 more interesting scenes of cultivated nature. My fam- 
 ily have indeed been persuaded several times to enjoy 
 the sea still more by engaging in a little sailing-party ; 
 but as, unfortunately, Northamptonshire has not afforded 
 them any opportunity of becoming seasoned sailors, 
 these parties of pleasure are always attended with the 
 most dreadful sickness. This, likewise, I am told, is 
 very good for the constitution ; it may be so for aught 
 I know ; but I confess I am apt to imagine that taking 
 an emetic at home would be equally salutary, and T am 
 sure it would be more decent. Nor can I help imagin- 
 ing that my youngest daughter's lover has been less 
 assiduous since he has contemplated her in the indeli- 
 cate situation of a ship-cabin. I have endeavored to 
 amuse myself with the company, but without much 
 success. It consists of a very few great people, who 
 make a set by themselves, and think they are entitled 
 by the freedom of a watering-place to indulge them- 
 
316 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 selves in all manner oi polissonneries ; and the rest is a 
 motley group of sharpers, merchants' clerks, kept mis- 
 tresses, idle men, and nervous women. I have been 
 accustomed to be nice in my choice of acquaintance, 
 especially for my family ; but the greater part of our 
 connections here are such as we should be ashamed to 
 acknowledge anywhere else ; and the few we have seen 
 above ourselves will equally disclaim us when we meet 
 in town next winter. As to the settled inhabitants of 
 the place, all who do not get by us view us with dis- 
 like, because we raise the price of provisions ; and 
 those who do — which in one way or other compre- 
 hends all the lower class — have lost every trace of 
 rural simplicity, and are versed in all arts of luw 
 cunning and chicane. The spirit of greediness and ra- 
 pacity is nowhere so conspicuous as in lodging-houses. 
 At our seat in the country our domestic concerns went 
 on as by clock-work ; a quarter of an hour in a week 
 settled the bills, and few tradesmen wished, and none 
 dared, to practise any imposition where all were 
 known, and the consequence of their different behavior 
 must have been their being marked for life for encour- 
 agement or for distrust. But here the continual fluc- 
 tuation of company takes away all regard to character ; 
 the most respectable and ancient families have no 
 influence any further than as they scatter their ready 
 cash, and neither gratitude nor respect are felt where 
 
LETTER OX WATERING -PLACES. 317 
 
 there is no bond of mutual attachment besides the 
 necessities of the present day. I should be happy if 
 we had only to contend with this spirit during our 
 present excursion ; but the effect it has upon servants 
 is most pernicious. Our family used to be remarkable 
 for having its domestics grow gray in its service, but 
 this expedition has already corrupted them; two we 
 have this evening parted with, and the rest have 
 learned so much of the tricks of their station that we 
 shall be obliged to discharge them as soon as we return 
 home. In the country I had been accustomed to do 
 good to the poor ; there are charities here too : we 
 have joined in a subscription for a crazy poetess, a raf- 
 fle for the support of a sharper who passes under the 
 title of a German count, and a benefit-play for a gentle- 
 man on board the hulks. Unfortunately, to balance 
 these various expenses, this place, which happens to be 
 a great resort of smugglers, affords daily opportunities 
 of making bargains. We drink spoiled teas under the 
 idea of their being cheap ; and the little room we have 
 is made less by the reception of cargoes of India taffe- 
 ties, shawl-muslins, and real chintzes. All my author- 
 ity here would be exerted in vain ; for (I do not know 
 whether you know it or no) the buying of a bargain is 
 a temptation which is not in the nature of any woman 
 to resist. I am in hopes, however, the business may 
 receive some little check from an incident which hap- 
 
318 WORKS OF MRS, BARBAULD. 
 
 pened a little time since : an acquaintance of ours, 
 returning from Margate, had his carriage seized by the 
 custom-house officers, on account of a piece of silk 
 which one of his female cousins, without his knowl- 
 edge, had stowed in it ; and it was only released by its 
 being proved that what she had bought with so much 
 satisfaction as contraband was in reality the home-bred 
 manufacture of Spitalfields. 
 
 My family used to be remarkable for regularity in 
 their attendance on public worship ; but that, too, here 
 is numbered amongst the amusements of the place. 
 Lady Huntingdon has a chapel, which sometimes at- 
 tracts us ; and when nothing promises us any particular 
 entertainment, a tea-drinking at the Rooms, or a con- 
 cert of what is called sacred music, is sufficient to draw 
 us from a church where no one will remark either our 
 absence or our presence. Thus we daily become more 
 lax in our conduct, for want of the salutary restraint 
 imposed upon us by the consciousness of being looked 
 up to as an example by others. 
 
 In this manner, sir, lias the season passed away. I 
 spend a great deal of money, and make no figure ; I am 
 in the country, and see nothing of country simplicity 
 or country occupations ; I am in an obscure village, 
 and yet cannot stir out without more observers than 
 if I were walking in St. James's Park ; I am cooped up 
 in less room than my own dog-kennel, while my spa- 
 

 LETTER ON WATERING-PLACES. 319 
 
 cious halls are injured by standing empty ; and I am 
 paying for tasteless -unripe fruit, while my own choice 
 wall-fruit is rotting by bushels under the trees. In 
 recompense for all this we have the satisfaction of 
 knowing that we occupy the very rooms which my 
 
 Lord had just quitted ; of picking up anecdotes, 
 
 true or false, of people in high life ; and of seizing the 
 ridicule of every character as they pass by us in the 
 moving show-glass of the place, — a pastime which 
 often affords us a good deal of mirth, but which, I 
 confess, I can never join in without reflecting that 
 what is our amusement is theirs likewise. As to the 
 great ostensible object of our excursion, health, I 
 am afraid we cannot boast of much improvement. We 
 have had a wet and cold summer; and these houses, 
 which are either old tenements vamped up, or new 
 ones slightly run up for the accommodation of bathers 
 during the season, have more contrivances for letting 
 in the cooling breezes than for keeping them out, a 
 circumstance which I should presume sagacious physi- 
 cians do not always attend to when they order patients 
 from their own warm, compact, substantial houses to 
 take the air in country lodgings ; of which the best 
 apartments, during the winter, have only been inhab- 
 ited by the rats, and where the poverty of the landlord 
 prevents him from laying out more in repairs than will 
 serve to give them a showy and attractive appearance. 
 
320 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Be that as it may ; the rooms we at present inhabit are 
 so pervious to the breeze, that in- spite of all the in- 
 genious expedients of listing the doors, pasting paper 
 on the inside of cupboards, laying sand-bags, puttying 
 crevices, and condemning closet doors, it has given 
 me a severe touch of my old rheumatism, and all my 
 family are in one way or other affected with it: my 
 eldest daughter, too, has got cold with her bathing, 
 though the sea-water never gives anybody cold 1 
 
 In answer to these complaints, I am told by the 
 good company here that I have stayed too long in the 
 same air, and that now I ought to take a trip to the 
 Continent, and spend the winter at Nice, which would 
 complete the business. I am entirely of their opinion, 
 that it would complete the business, and have therefore 
 taken the liberty of laying my case before you; and 
 
 am, sir, 
 
 Yours, etc., 
 
 Henry Homelove. 
 
DIALOGUE. 321 
 
 DIALOGUE 
 
 BETWEEN MADAME COSMOGUN1A AND A PHILOSOPHICAL EN- 
 QUIRER OF THE EIGHTEENTH CENTURY, JANUARY 1, 1793. 
 
 E. I rejoice, my good madam, to see yon. You bear 
 your years extremely well. You really look as fresh 
 and blooming this morning as if you were but just out 
 of your leading-strings ; and yet you have — I forget 
 how many centuries upon your shoulders. 
 
 C. Do not you know, son, that people of my stand- 
 ing are by no means fond of being too nicely questioned 
 about their years ? Besides, my age is a point by no 
 means agreed upon. 
 
 E. I thought it was set down in the church regis- 
 ter? 
 
 C. That is true ; but everybody does not go by your 
 register. The people who live eastward of us, and have 
 sold tea time out of mind, by the Great Wall, say I am 
 older by a vast deal; and that long before the time 
 when your people pretend I was born, I had near as 
 much wisdom and learning as I have now. 
 
 E. I do not know how that matter might be ; one 
 thing I am certain of, that you did not know your 
 u* u 
 
 
322 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 letters then ; and everybody knows that these tea-dealers, 
 who are very vain, and want to go higher than any- 
 body else for the antiquity of their family, are noted 
 for lying. 
 
 C. On the other hand, old Isaac, the great chronicler, 
 who was so famous for casting a figure, used to say 
 that the register itself had been altered, and that he 
 could prove I was much younger than you have usually 
 reckoned me to be. It may be so ; — for my part, I 
 cannot be supposed to remember so far back. I could 
 not write in my early youth, and it was a long time 
 before I had a pocket-almanac to set down all occur- 
 rences in, and the ages of my children, as I do now. 
 
 E. \Yell ; your exact age is not so material ; — but 
 there is one point which I confess I wish much to 
 ascertain. I have often heard it asserted that as you 
 increase in years you grow wiser and better, and that 
 you are at this moment more candid, more liberal, a 
 better manager of your affairs, and, in short, more 
 amiable in every respect, than ever you were in the 
 whole course of your life; and others — you will ex- 
 cuse me, madam — pretend that you are almost in 
 your dotage ; that you grow more intolerable every 
 year you live ; and that whereas in your childhood 
 you were a sprightly, innocent young creature, that 
 rose with the lark, lay down with the lamb, and 
 thought or said no harm of any one, you are become 
 
DIALOGUE. 323 
 
 suspicious, selfish, interested, fond of nothing but in- 
 dulging your appetites, and continually setting your 
 own children together by the ears for straws. Now I 
 should like to know where the truth lies ? 
 
 C. As to that, I am, perhaps, too nearly concerned 
 to answer you properly. I will therefore only observe 
 that I do not remember the time when I have not 
 heard exactly the same contradictory assertions. 
 
 E. I believe the best way to determine the question 
 will be by facts. Pray be so good as to tell me how 
 you have employed yourself in the different periods 
 of your life ; from the earliest time you can remember, 
 for instance. 
 
 C. I have a very confused remembrance of living in 
 a pleasant garden full of fruit, and of being turned out 
 because I had not minded the injunctions that were 
 laid upon me. After that I became so very naughty 
 that I got a severe ducking, and was in great danger 
 of being drowned. 
 
 E. A hopeful beginning, I must allow ! Pray what 
 was the first piece of work you recollect being engaged 
 in? 
 
 C. I remember setting myself to build a prodigious 
 high house of cards, which I childishly thought I could 
 raise up to the very skies. I piled them up very high, 
 and at last left off in the middle, and had my tongue 
 slit for being so self-conceited. Afterwards I baked 
 
324 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 dirt in the sun, and resolved to make something very 
 magnificent, I hardly knew what ; so I built a great 
 many mounds in the form of sugar- loaves, very broad 
 at bottom and pointed at top : they took me a great 
 many years to make, and were lit for no earthly purpose 
 when they were done. They are still to be seen, if you 
 choose to take the trouble of going so far. Travellers 
 call them my folly. 
 
 E. Pray what studies took your attention when you 
 first began to learn ? 
 
 C. At first I amused myself, as all children do, with 
 pictures, and drew, or rather attempted to draw, figures 
 of lions and serpents, and men with the heads of ani- 
 mals, and women with fishes' tails ; to all which I 
 affixed a meaning, often whimsical enough. Many of 
 these my first scratches are still to be seen upon old 
 walls and stones, and have greatly exercised the in- 
 genuity of the curious to find out what I could possibly 
 mean by them. Afterwards, when I had learned to read, 
 I was wonderfully entertained with stories of giants, 
 griffins, and mermaids; and men and women turned 
 into trees, and horses that spoke, and of an old man 
 that used to eat up his children, till his wife deceived 
 him by giving him a stone to eat instead of one of 
 them ; and of a conjurer that tied up the wind in bags, 
 and — 
 
 E. Hold, hold, my good madam ! you have given me 
 
DIALOGUE. 325 
 
 a very sufficient proof of that propensity to the mar- 
 vellous which I have always remarked in you. I sup- 
 pose, however, you soon grew too old for such nursery 
 stories as these. 
 
 C. On the contrary, I amused myself with putting 
 them into verse, and had them sung to me on holidays ; 
 and, at this very day, I make a point of teaching them 
 to all my children in whose education I take any 
 pains. 
 
 E. I think I sliould rather whip them for employing 
 their time so idly ; I hope at least these pretty stories 
 kept you out of mischief? 
 
 C. I cannot say they did; I never was without a 
 scratched face, or a bloody nose, at any period I can 
 remember. 
 
 U. Very promising dispositions, truly ! 
 
 C. My amusements were not all so mischievous. I 
 was very fond of star-gazing, and telling fortunes, and 
 trying a thousand tricks for good luck, many of which 
 have made such an impression on my mind, that I 
 remember them even to this day. 
 
 E. I hope, however, your reading was not all of the 
 kind you have mentioned ? 
 
 C. No. It was at some very famous races, which 
 were held every four years for my diversion, and which 
 I always made a point to be at, that a man once came 
 upon the race-ground, and read a history-book aloud to 
 
326 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the whole company : there were, to be sure, a number 
 of stories in it not greatly better than those I have 
 been telling you ; however, from that time I began to 
 take to more serious learning, and likewise to reckon 
 and date all my accounts by these races, which, as I 
 told you, I was very fond of. 
 
 E. I think you afterwards went to school, and learnt 
 philosophy and mathematics ? 
 
 C. I did so. I had a great many famous masters. 
 
 U. Were you a teachable scholar ? 
 
 C. One of my masters used always to weep when he 
 saw me ; another used always to burst into a fit of 
 laughter. I leave you to guess what they thought 
 of me. 
 
 E. Pray what did you do when you were in middle 
 age ? — that is usually esteemed the most valuable part 
 of life. 
 
 C. I somehow got shut up in a dark cell, where I 
 took a long nap. 
 
 E. And after you waked — 
 
 C. I fell a disputing with all my might. 
 
 E. What were the subjects that interested you so 
 much ? 
 
 C. Several 
 
 E. Pray let us have a specimen ? 
 
 C. Whether the light of Tabor was created or uncre- 
 ated ; whether one be a number ; whether men should 
 
DIALOGUE. 327 
 
 cross themselves with two fingers or with three; 
 whether the creation was finished in six days because 
 it is the most perfect number, or whether six is the 
 most perfect number because the creation was fin- 
 ished in six days ; whether two and one make three, or 
 only one. 
 
 E. And pray what may be your opinion of the last 
 proposition, particularly ? 
 
 C. I have by no means made up my mind about it ; 
 in another century, perhaps, I may be able to decide 
 upon the point. 
 
 E. These debates of yours had one advantage, how- 
 ever ; you could not possibly put yourself in a passion 
 on such kind of subjects. 
 
 C. There you are very much mistaken. I was con- 
 stantly in a passion upon one or the other of them; 
 and if my opponent did not agree with me, my con- 
 stant practice was to knock him down, even if it were 
 in the church. I have the happiness of being able to 
 interest myself in the most indifferent questions, as 
 soon as I am contradicted upon it. I can make a very 
 good dispute out of the question whether the prefer- 
 ence be due to blue or green in the color of a jockey's 
 cap; and would desire no better cause of a quarrel 
 than whether a person's name should be spelt with C 
 or with K. 
 
 E. These constant disputes must have had a very 
 
328 WORKS OF MRS. BARBACLD. 
 
 bad effect on your younger children. How do you 
 hope ever to have a quiet house ? 
 
 C. And yet, I do assure you, there is no one point 
 that I have labored more than that important one of 
 family harmony. 
 
 E. Indeed. 
 
 C. Yes ; for the sake of that order and unanimity 
 which has always been dear to me, I have constantly 
 insisted that all my children should sneeze and blow 
 their nose at the same time and in the same manner. 
 
 E. May I presume to ask the reason of this in- 
 junction ? 
 
 C. Is it possible you do not see the extreme danger, 
 as well as indecorum, of suffering every one to blow 
 his nose his own way ? Could you trust any one with 
 the keys of vour offices, who sneezed to the ricrht when 
 other people sneezed to the left, or to the left when 
 they sneezed to the right ? 
 
 E. I confess I am rather dull in discerning the 
 inconvenience that would ensue : — but pray have you 
 been able to accomplish this desirable uniformity \ 
 
 C. I acknowledge I have not; and indeed I have 
 met with so much obstinate resistance to this my wise 
 regulation, that, to tell you the truth, I am almost on 
 the point of giving it up. You would hardly believe 
 the perverseness my children have shown on the occa- 
 sion ; blowing their noses, locked up in their rooms, or 
 
DIALOGUE. 329 
 
 in dark corners abont the house, in every possible way ; 
 so that, in short, on pretence of colds, tender noses, or 
 want of pocket-handkerchiefs, or one plea or another, I 
 have been obliged to tolerate the uncomplying, very 
 much against my will. However, I contrived to show 
 my disapprobation, at least, of such scandalous irregu- 
 larities, by never saying God bless you, if a person 
 sneezes in the family contrary to established rule. 
 
 E. I am glad, at least, you are in this respect got a 
 little nearer to common-sense. As you seem to have 
 been of so imperious a disposition, I hope you were not 
 trusted with any mischievous weapons ? 
 
 C. At first I used to fight with clubs and stones; 
 afterwards with other weapons ; but at length I con- 
 trived to get at gunpowder, and then I did glorious 
 mischief. 
 
 E. Pray had you never anybody who taught you 
 better ? 
 
 C. Yes ; ■ several wise men, from time to time, at- 
 tempted to mend my manners, and reform me, as they 
 called it. 
 
 E. And how did you behave to them ? 
 
 C. Some I hunted about ; some I poisoned ; some I 
 contrived to have thrown into prison ; some I made 
 bonfires of ; others I only laughed at. It was but the 
 other day that one of them wanted to give me some 
 hints for the better regulation of my family; upon 
 
330 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 which I pulled his house down : I was often, however, 
 the better for the lesson, though the teacher had seldom 
 the pleasure of seeing it. 
 
 E. I have heard it said you are very partial to your 
 children; that you pamper some and starve others. 
 Pray who are your favorites ? 
 
 C. Generally, those who do the most mischief. 
 
 E. Had you not once a great favorite called Louis, 
 whom you used to style the immortal man ? 
 
 C. I had so. I was continually repeating his name : 
 I set up a great number of statues to him, and ordered 
 that every one should pull off his hat to them as he 
 went by. 
 
 E. And what is become of them now ? 
 
 C. The other day, in a fit of spleen, I kicked them 
 all down again. 
 
 E. I think I have read that you were once much 
 under the influence of an old man with a high-crowned 
 hat, and a bunch of keys by his side ? 
 
 C. It is true. He used to frighten me by setting 
 his arms akimbo and swearing most terribly; besides 
 which he was always threatening to put me in a dark 
 hole, if I did not do as he would have me. He has 
 conjured many pence out of my pocket, I assure you ; 
 and he used to make me believe the strangest stories ! 
 But I have now pretty nearly done with him ; he dares 
 not speak so big as he used to do : hardly a shoeblack 
 
DIALOGUE. 331 
 
 will pull off his hat to him now ; it is even as much as 
 he can do to keep his own tight upon his head ; nay, I 
 have been assured that the next high wind will cer- 
 tainly blow it off. 
 
 E. You must doubtless have made great advances in 
 the art of reasoning, from the various lights and experi- 
 ments of modern times : pray what was the last philo- 
 sophical study that engaged your attention ? 
 
 C. One of the last was a system of quackery called 
 Animal Magnetism. 
 
 E. And what in theology ? 
 
 C. A system of quackery called Swedenborgianism. 
 
 E. And pray what are you doing at this moment ? 
 
 C. I am going to turn over quite a new leaf. I am 
 singing £a Ira. 
 
 E. I do not know whether you are going to turn 
 over a new leaf or no; but I am sure, from this ac- 
 count, it is high time you should. All I can say is, 
 that if I cannot mend you, I will endeavor to take care 
 you do not spoil me ; and one thing more, that I wish 
 you would lay your commands on Miss Burney to 
 write a new novel, and make you laugh. 
 
332 
 
 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 DIALOGUE IX THE SHADES. 
 
 Clio. There is no help for it, — they must go. The 
 river Lethe is here at hand ; I shall tear them off and 
 throw them into the stream. 
 
 Mercury. Illustrious daughter of Mnemosyne, Clio ! 
 the most respected of the Muses, — you seem dis- 
 turbed. What is it that brings us the honor of a visit 
 from you in these infernal regions ? 
 
 Clio. You are a god of expedients, Mercury ; I want 
 to consult you. I am oppressed with the continually 
 increasing demands upon me. I have had more busi- 
 ness for these last twenty years than I have often had 
 for two centuries ; and if I had, as old Homer says, " a 
 throat of brass and adamantine lungs," I could never 
 get through it. And what did he want this throat of 
 brass for ? for a paltry list of ships, canoes rather, 
 which would be laughed at in the Admiralty Office of 
 London. But I must inform you, Mercury, that my 
 roll is so full, and I have so many applications which 
 cannot in decency be refused, that I see no other way 
 than striking off some hundreds of names in order to 
 ■make room ; and I am come to inform the shades of 
 my determination. 
 

 DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 333 
 
 Mercury. I believe, Clio, you will do right ; and as 
 one end of your roll is a little mouldy, no dovibt you 
 will begin with that ; but the ghosts will raise a great 
 clamor. 
 
 Clio. I expect no less ; but necessity has no law. 
 All the parchment in Pergamus is used up, — my roll 
 is long enough to reach from earth to heaven; it is 
 grown quite cumbrous ; it takes a life, as mortals 
 reckon lives, to unroll it. 
 
 Mercury. Yet consider, Clio, how many of these 
 have passed a restless life, and encountered all manner 
 of dangers, and bled and died, only to be placed upon 
 your list, — and now to be struck off ! 
 
 Clio. And committed all manner of crimes, you 
 might have added ; but go they must. Besides, they 
 have been sufficiently recompensed. Have they not 
 been praised and sung and admired for some thousands 
 of years ? Let them give place to others. What ! have 
 they no conscience ? no modesty ? Would Xerxes, 
 think you, have reason to complain, when his parad- 
 ing expeditions have already procured him above two 
 thousand years of fame, though a Solyman or a Zingis 
 Khan should fill up his place ? 
 
 Mercury. Surely you are not going to blot out Xerxes 
 from your list of names ? 
 
 Clio. I do not say that I am ; but that I keep him 
 is more for the sake of his antagonists than his own. 
 
334 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 And yet their places might be well supplied by the 
 Swiss lieroes of Morgarten, or the brave though unsuc- 
 cessful patriot Aloys Keding. — But pray what noise is 
 that at the gate ? 
 
 Mercury. A number of the shades, who have received 
 an intimation of your purpose, and are come to remon- 
 strate against it. 
 
 Clio. In the name of all the gods whom have we 
 here ? Hercules, Theseus, Jason, GEdipus, Bacchus, 
 Cadmus with a bag of dragons' teeth, and a whole 
 tribe of strange, shadowy figures ! I shall expect to 
 see the Centaurs and Lapithae, or Perseus on his flying 
 courser. Away with them ; they belong to my sisters, 
 not to me ; Melpomene will receive them gladly. 
 
 Mercury. You forget, Clio, that Bacchus conquered 
 India. 
 
 Clio. And had horns like Moses, as Yossius is 
 pleased to say. ~No, Mercury, I will have nothing to 
 do with these ; if ever I received them, it was when I 
 was young and credulous. As I have said, let my sis- 
 ters take them ; or let them be celebrated in tales for 
 children. 
 
 Mercury. That will not do, Clio. Children in this 
 age read none but wise books ; stories of giants and 
 dragons are all written for grown-up children now. 
 
 Clio. Be that as it may, I shall clear my hands of 
 them and of a great many more, T do assure you. 
 
DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 335 
 
 Mercury. I hope " the tale of Troy divine — " 
 
 Clio. Divine let it be, but my share in it is very 
 small ; I recollect furnishing the catalogue. Mercury, 
 I will tell you the truth. When I was young, my 
 mother (as arrant a gossip as ever breathed) related to 
 me a great number of stories ; and as in those days 
 people could not read or write, I had no better author- 
 ity for what I recorded ; but after letters were found 
 out, and now since the noble invention of printing, — 
 why, do you think, Mercury, any one would dare to tell 
 lies in print ? 
 
 Mercury. Sometimes, perhaps. I have seen a splen- 
 did victory in the gazette of one country dwindle into 
 an honorable retreat in that of another. 
 
 Clio. In newspapers, very possibly ; but with regard 
 to myself, when I have time to consider and lay things 
 together, I assure you you may depend upon me. 
 Whom have we in that group which I see indistinctly 
 in a sort of twilight ? 
 
 Mercury. Very renowned personages : Mnus, Sesos- 
 tris, Semiramis, Cheops who built the largest pyramid. 
 
 Clio. If Cheops built the largest pyramid, people are 
 welcome to inquire about him at the spot, — room 
 must be made. As to Semiramis, tell her her place 
 shall be filled up by an empress and a conqueror from 
 the shores of the wintry Baltic. 
 
 Mercury. The renowned Cyrus is approaching with a 
 
336 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 look of confidence, for lie is introduced by a favorite of 
 yours, the elegant Xenophon. 
 
 Clio. Is that Cyrus ? Pray desire him to take off 
 that dress which Xenophon has given him. Truly I 
 took him for a Greek philosopher ; I fancy Queen To- 
 myris would scarcely recognize him. 
 
 Mercury. Aspasia hopes, for the honor of her sex, 
 that she shall continue to occupy a place among those 
 you celebrate. 
 
 Clio. Tell the mistress of Pericles we can spare her 
 without inconvenience. Many ladies are to be found 
 in modern times who possess her eloquence and her 
 talents, with the modesty of a vestal; and should a 
 more perfect likeness be required, modern times may 
 furnish that also. 
 
 Mercury. Here are two figures who approach you 
 with a very dignified air. 
 
 Solon and Lycurgus. "We present ourselves, divine 
 Clio, with confidence. "We have no fear that you 
 should strike from your roll the lawgivers of Athens 
 and Sparta. 
 
 Clio. Most assuredly not. Yet I must inform you 
 that a name higher than either of yours, and a consti- 
 tution more perfect, is to be found in a vast continent, 
 of the very existence of which you had not the least 
 suspicion. 
 
 Mercury. I see approaching a person of a noble and 
 
DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 337 
 
 spirited air, if he did not hold his head a little on one 
 side as if his neck were awry. 
 
 Alexander. Clio, I need not introduce myself; I am, 
 as yon well know, the son of Jupiter Ammon, and my 
 arms have reached even to the remote shore of the Indus. 
 
 Clio. Pray burn your genealogy; and for the rest, 
 suffer me to inform you that the river Indus and the 
 whole peninsula which you scarcely discovered, with 
 sixty millions of inhabitants, is at this moment subject 
 to the dominion of a few merchants in a remote island 
 of the Northern Ocean, the very name of which never 
 reached your ears. 
 
 Mercury. Here is Empedocles, who threw himself 
 into Etna merely to be placed upon your roll ; and 
 Calanus, who mounted his funeral pile before Alexan- 
 der from the same motive. 
 
 Clio. They have been remembered long enough, in 
 all reason ; their places may be supplied by the two 
 next madmen who shall throw themselves under the 
 wheels of the chariot of Juggernaut, — fanatics are the 
 growth of every age. 
 
 Mercury. Here is a ghost preparing to address you 
 with a very self-sufficient air ; his robe is embroidered 
 with flower-de-luces. 
 
 Louis XIV. I am persuaded, Clio, you will recog- 
 nize the immortal man. I have always been a friend 
 and patron of the Muses ; my actions are well known ; 
 
 VOL. II. 15 v 
 
338 - WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 all Europe has resounded with my name, — the terror 
 of other countries, the glory of my own ; I am well 
 assured you are not going to strike me off. 
 
 Clio. To strike you off ? certainly not ; but to place 
 you many degrees lower in the list; to reduce you 
 from a sun, your favorite emblem, to a star in the 
 galaxy. My sisters have certainly been partial to you : 
 you bought their favor with — how many livres a year ? 
 not much more than a London bookseller will give for 
 a quarto poem. But me you cannot bribe. 
 
 Louis. But, Clio, you have yourself recorded my 
 exploits ; — the passage of the Rhine, Xamur, Flanders, 
 Franche Comte. 
 
 Clio. Louis, if you could but guess the extent of 
 the present French Empire ; — but no, it could never 
 enter into your imagination. 
 
 Louis. I rejoice at what you say ; I rejoice that my 
 posterity have followed my steps, and improved upon 
 my glory. 
 
 Clio. Your posterity have had nothing to do with it. 
 
 Louis. Remember, too, the urbanity of my character, 
 how hospitably I received the unfortunate James of 
 England, — England, the natural enemy of France. 
 
 Clio. Your hospitality has been well returned. Your 
 descendants, driven from their thrones, are at this 
 moment supported by the bounty of the nation and 
 king of England. 
 
DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 339 
 
 Louis. Clio, what is it that you tell me ! let me 
 hide my diminished head in the deepest umbrage of 
 the grove ; let me seek out my dear Main tenon, and 
 tell my beads with her till I forget that I have been 
 either praised or feared. 
 
 Clio. Comfort yourself, however ; your name, like 
 the red letter which marks the holiday, though insig- 
 nificant in itself, shall still enjoy the honor of desig- 
 nating the age of taste and literature. 
 
 Mercury. Here is a whole crowd coming, Clio, I can 
 scarcely keep them off with my wand : they have all 
 got notice of your intentions, and the infernal regions 
 are quite in an uproar, — what is to be done ? 
 
 Clio. I cannot tell ; the numbers distract me : to 
 examine their pretensions one by one is impossible ; I 
 must strike off half of them at a venture : the rest 
 must make room, — they must crowd, they must fall 
 into the background; and where I used to write a 
 name all in capitals, with letters of gold illuminated, 
 I must put it in small 'pica. I do assure you, Mercury, 
 I cannot stand the fatigue I undergo much longer. I 
 am not provided, as you very well know, with either 
 chariot or wings, and I am expected to be in all parts 
 of the globe at once. In the good old times my busi- 
 ness lay almost entirely between the Hellespont and 
 the Pillars of Hercules, with sometimes an excursion 
 to the mouths (then seven) of the Nile or the banks of 
 
3-iO WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the Euphrates. But now I am required to be in a 
 hundred places at once ; I am called from Jena to Aus- 
 terlitz, from Cape Trafalgar to Aboukir, and from the 
 Thames to the Ganges and Burampooter ; besides a 
 whole continent, a world by itself, fresh and vigorous, 
 which I foresee will find me abundance of employment. 
 
 Mercury. Truly I believe so ; I am afraid the old 
 leaven is working in the new world. 
 
 Clio. I am puzzled at this moment how to give the 
 account, which always is expected of me, of the august 
 sovereigns of Europe. 
 
 Mercury. How so ? 
 
 Clio. I do not know where to find them ; they are 
 most of them upon their travels. 
 
 Mercury. You must have been very much employed 
 in the French Eevolution. 
 
 Clio. Continually ; the actors in the scene succeeded 
 one another with such rapidity that the hero of to-day 
 was forgotten on the morrow. Xecker, Mirabeau, Du- 
 mourier, La Fayette, appeared successively like pictures 
 in a magic lantern, — shown for a moment and then 
 withdrawn : and now the space is filled by one tremen- 
 dous gigantic figure, that throws his broad shadow over 
 half the globe. 
 
 Mercury. The ambition of Napoleon has indeed pro- 
 cured you much employment. 
 
 Clio. Employment! There is not a goddess so -liar-- 
 
DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 341 
 
 assed as I am ; my sisters lead quite idle lives in 
 comparison. Melpomene has in a manner slept through 
 the last half-century, except when now and then she 
 dictated to a certain favorite nymph. Urania, indeed, 
 has employed herself with Herschel in counting the 
 stars ; but her task is less than mine. Here am I 
 expected to calculate how many hundred thousands of 
 rational beings cut one another's throats at Austerlitz, 
 and to take the tale of two hundred and thirteen thou- 
 sand human bodies and ninety-five thousand horses, 
 that lie stiff, frozen, and unburied on the banks of the 
 Berecina ; — and do you think, Mercury, this can be a 
 pleasant employment ? 
 
 Mercury. I have had a great increase of employment 
 myself lately, on account of the multitude of shades I 
 have been obliged to convey ; and poor old Charon is 
 almost laid up with the rheumatism : we used to have a 
 holiday comparatively during the winter months ; but 
 of late, winter and summer I have observed are much 
 alike to heroes. 
 
 Clio. I wish to Jupiter I could resign my office ! 
 Son of Maia, I declare to you I am sick of the horrors 
 I record; I am sick of mankind. For above these 
 three thousand years have I been warning them and 
 reading lessons to them, and they will not mend: 
 Robespierre was as cruel as Sylla, and Napoleon has 
 no more moderation than Pyrrhus. The human frame, 
 
342 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 of curious texture, delicately formed, feeling, and irri- 
 table by the least annoyance, with face erect and ani- 
 mated with Promethean fire, they wound, they lacerate, 
 they mutilate with most perverted ingenuity. I will 
 go and record the actions of the tigers of Africa ; in 
 them such fierceness is natural. Nay, the human race 
 will be exterminated if this work of destruction goes 
 on much longer. 
 
 Mercury. With regard to that matter, Clio, I can set 
 your heart at rest. A great philosopher has lately 
 discovered that the world is in imminent danger of 
 being overpeopled, and that if twenty or forty thou- 
 sand men could not be persuaded every now and then 
 to stand and be shot at, we should be forced to eat one 
 another. This discovery has had a wonderful effect in 
 quieting tender consciences. The calculation is very 
 simple, any school-boy will explain it to you. 
 
 Clio. what a number of fertile plains and green 
 savannas, and tracts covered with trees of beautiful 
 foliage, have never yet been pressed by human foot- 
 steps ! My friend Swift's project of eating children 
 was not so cruel as these bloody and lavish sacrifices 
 to Mars, the most savage of all the gods. 
 
 Mercury. You forget yourself, Clio; Mars is not 
 worshipped now in Christian Europe. 
 
 Clio. By Jupiter, but he is ! Have I not seen the 
 bloody and torn banners, with martial music and mili- 
 
DIALOGUE IN THE SHADES. 343 
 
 tary procession, brought into the temple, — and whose 
 temple thinkest thou ? and to whom have thanks been 
 given on both sides, amidst smoking towns and wasted 
 fields, after the destruction of man and devastation of 
 the fair face of nature ! And Mercury, god of wealth 
 and frauds, you have your temple too, though your 
 name is not inscribed there. 
 
 Mercury. I am afraid men will always love wealth. 
 
 Clio. if I had to record only such pure names as 
 Washington or a Howard ! 
 
 Mercury. It would be very gratifying certainly ; but 
 then, Clio, you would have very little to do, and might 
 almost as well burn your roll 
 
344 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE AXD HER DAUGHTER: 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 KNOWLEDGE, the daughter of Jupiter, descended 
 from the skies to visit man. She found him 
 naked and helpless, living on the spontaneous fruits 
 of the earth, and little superior to the ox that grazed 
 beside him. She clothed and fed him ; she built him 
 palaces ; she showed him the hidden riches of the 
 earth, and pointed with her finger the course of the 
 stars as they rose and set in the horizon. Man became 
 rich with her gifts and accomplished from her con- 
 versation. In process of time Knowledge became 
 acquainted with the schools of the philosophers ; and 
 being much taken with their theories and their conver- 
 sation, she married one of them. They had many 
 beautiful and healthy children; but among the rest 
 was a daughter of a different complexion from all the 
 rest, whose name was Doubt. She grew up under 
 many disadvantages ; she had a great hesitation in her 
 speech; a cast in her eye, which, however, was keen 
 and piercing ; and was subject to nervous tremblings. 
 Her mother saw her with dislike : but her father, who 
 
KNOWLEDGE AND HER DAUGHTER. 345 
 
 was of the sect of the Pyrrhonists, cherished and 
 taught her logic, in which she made a great progress. 
 The Muse of History was much troubled with her in- 
 trusions : she would tear out whole leaves, and blot over 
 many pages of her favorite works. With the divines 
 her depredations were still worse : she was forbidden 
 to enter a church; notwithstanding which she would 
 slip in under the surplice, and spend her time in mak- 
 ing mouths at the priest. If she got at a library, she 
 destroyed or blotted over the most valuable manu- 
 scripts. A most undutiful child ; she was never better 
 pleased than when she could unexpectedly trip up her 
 mother's heels, or expose a rent or an unseemly patch 
 in her flowing and ample garment. With mathemati- 
 cians she never meddled ; but in all other systems of 
 knowledge she intruded herself, and her breath diffused 
 a mist over the page which often left it scarcely legi- 
 ble. Her mother at length said to her, " Thou art my 
 child, and I know it is decreed that while I tread this 
 earth thou must accompany my footsteps ; but thou art 
 mortal, I am immortal; and there will come a time 
 when I shall be freed from thy intrusion, and shall 
 pursue my glorious track from star to star, and from 
 system to system, without impediment and without 
 check." 
 
 15* 
 
346 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 TRUE MAGICIANS. 
 
 TO MISS C. 
 
 MY DEAR SARAH, — I have often reflected, 
 since I left you, on the wonderful powers 
 of magic exhibited by you and your sister. The 
 dim obscurity of that grotto hollowed out by your 
 hands under the laurel hedge, where you used to 
 mix the ingredients of your incantations, struck us 
 with awe and terror; and the broom which you so 
 often brandished in your hands made you look very 
 like witches indeed. I must confess, however, that 
 some doubts have now and then arisen in my mind, 
 whether or no you were truly initiated in the secrets 
 of your art; and these suspicions gathered strength 
 after you had suffered us and yourself to be so 
 drenched as we all were on that rainy Tuesday ; which 
 to say the least was a very odd circumstance, consider- 
 ing you had the command of the weather. — As I was 
 pondering these matters alone in the chaise between 
 Epsom and London, I fell asleep and had the following 
 dream. 
 
 I thought I had been travelling through an unknown 
 country, and came at last to a thick wood cut out into 
 
TRUE MAGICIANS. 347 
 
 several groves and avenues, the gloom of which in- 
 spired thoughtfulness, and a certain mysterious dread 
 of unknown powers came upon me. I entered, how- 
 ever, one of the avenues, and found it terminated in 
 a magnificent portal, through which I could discern 
 confusedly, among thick foliage, cloistered arches and 
 Grecian porticos, and people walking and conversing 
 amongst the trees. Over the portal was the following 
 inscription : " Here dwell the true magicians. Nature 
 is our servant. Man is our pupil. We change, we con- 
 quer, we create." 
 
 As I was hesitating whether or no I should presume 
 to enter, a pilgrim who was sitting under the shade 
 offered to be my guide, assuring me that these magi- 
 cians would do me no harm, and that, so far from 
 having any objection to be observed in their operations, 
 they were pleased with any opportunity of exhibiting 
 them to . the curious. In, therefore, I went, and 
 addressed the first of the magicians I met with, who 
 asked me whether I liked panoramas. On replying 
 that I thought them very entertaining, she took me to 
 a little eminence and bade me look round. I did so, 
 and beheld the representation of the beautiful vale of 
 Dorking, with Norbury Park and Box Hill to the north, 
 Reigate to the east, and Leith tower with the Surry 
 hills to the south. After I had admired for some time 
 the beauty and accuracy of the painting, a vast curtain 
 
348 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 seemed to "be drawn gradually up, and my view ex- 
 tended on all sides. On one hand I traced the wind- 
 ings of the Thames up to Oxford, and stretched my eye 
 westward over Salisbury Plain, and across the Bristol 
 Channel into the romantic country of South Wales; 
 northward the view extended to Lincoln cathedral, and 
 York minster towering over the rest of the churches. 
 Across the Sussex downs I had a clear view of the 
 British Channel, and the opposite coast of France with 
 its- ports blockaded by our fleets. As the horizon of 
 the panorama still extended, I spied the towers of 
 Notre Dame and the Tuileries, and my eye wandered 
 at large over " the vine-covered hills and gay regions 
 of France," quite down to the source of the Loire. At 
 the same time the great Atlantic Ocean opened to my 
 view ; and on the other hand I saw the Lake of Geneva, 
 and the dark ridge of Mount Jura, and discovered the 
 summits of the Alps covered with snow ; and beyond, 
 the orange-groves of Italy, the majestic dome of St. 
 Peter's, and the smoking crater of Vesuvius. As the 
 curtain still rose, I stretched my view over the Medi- 
 terranean, the scene of ancient glory, the Archipelago 
 studded with islands, the shores of the Bosphorus, and 
 the gilded minarets and cypress-groves of Constanti- 
 nople. Throwing back a look to the less attractive 
 north, I saw pictured the rugged, broken coast of Nor- 
 way, the cheerless moors of Lapland, and the intermi- 
 
TRUE MAGICIANS. 349 
 
 nable desolation of the plains of Siberia. Turning my 
 eye again southward, the landscape extended to the 
 plains of Barbary, covered with date-trees ; and I dis- 
 cerned the points of pyramids appearing above the 
 horizon, and saw the Delta and the seven-mouthed 
 Nile. In short, the curtain still rose, and the view 
 extended further and further till the panorama took in 
 the whole globe. I cannot express to you the pleasure 
 I felt as I saw mountains, seas, and islands spread out 
 before me. Sometimes my eye wandered over the vast 
 plains of Tartary, sometimes it expatiated in the savan- 
 nas of America, I saw men with dark skins, white 
 cotton turbans wreathed about their heads, and long 
 flowing robes of silk ; others almost naked under a ver- 
 tical sun. I saw whales sporting in the northern seas, 
 and elephants trampling amidst fields of maize and 
 forests of palm-trees. I seemed to have put a girdle 
 about the earth, and was gratified with an infinite vari- 
 ety of objects which I thought I never could be weary 
 of contemplating. At length, turning towards the ma- 
 gician who had entertained me with such an agreeable 
 exhibition, and asking her name, she informed me it 
 was Geography. 
 
 My attention was next arrested by a sorceress, who, 
 I was told, possessed the power of calling up from the 
 dead whomsoever she pleased, man or woman, in their 
 proper habits and figures, and obliging them to con- 
 
350 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 verse and answer questions. She held a roll of parch- 
 ment in her hand, and had an air of great dignity. I 
 confess that I felt a little afraid; but having been 
 somewhat encouraged by the former exhibition, I ven- 
 tured to ask her to give me a specimen of her power, 
 in case there was nothing unlawful in it. ""Whom," 
 said she, " do you wish to behold ? " After considering 
 some time, I desired to see Cicero the Eoman orator. 
 She made some talismanic figures on the sand, and 
 presently he arose to my view, his neck and head bare, 
 the rest of his body in a flowing toga, which he gath- 
 ered round him with one hand, and stretching out the 
 other very gracefully he recited to me one of his ora- 
 tions against Catiline. He also read to me, which was 
 more than I could in reason have expected, several of 
 his familiar letters to his most intimate friends. I 
 next desired that Julius Ca?sar might be called up : on 
 which he appeared, his hair nicely arranged, and the 
 fore-part of his head, which was bald, covered with 
 wreaths of laurel ; and he very obligingly gave me a 
 particular account of his expedition into Gaul. I 
 wished to see the youth of Maeedon, but was a little 
 disappointed in his figure, for he was low in stature 
 and held his head awry ; but I saw him manage Bu- 
 cephalus with admirable courage and address, and was 
 afterwards introduced with him into the tent of Darius, 
 where I was greatly pleased with the generosity and 
 
! 
 
 TRUE MAGICIANS. 351 
 
 politeness of his behavior. I afterwards expressed 
 some curiosity to see a battle, if I might do it with 
 safety, and was gratified with the sea-fight of Actium. 
 I saw, after the first onset, the galleys of Cleopatra 
 turning their prows and flying from the battle, and 
 Antony, to his eternal shame, quitting the engagement 
 and making sail after her. I then wished to call up 
 all the kings of England, and they appeared in order 
 one after the other, with their crowns and the insignia 
 of their dignity, and walked over the stage for my 
 amusement, much like the descendants of Banquo in 
 Macbeth. Their queens accompanied them, trailing 
 their robes upon the ground, and the bishops with their 
 mitres, and judges, and generals, and eminent persons 
 of every class. I asked many questions as they passed, 
 and received a great deal of information relative to the 
 laws, manners, and transactions of past times. I did 
 not, however, always meet with direct answ r ers to my 
 questions. For instance, when I called up Homer, and 
 after some other conversation asked him where he was 
 born, he only said, " Guess ! " And when I asked 
 Louis the Fourteenth who was the man in the iron 
 mask, he frowned and would not tell me. I took a 
 great deal of pleasure in calling up the shades of dis- 
 tinguished people in different ages and countries, mak- 
 ing them stand close by one another, and comparing 
 their manners and costume. Thus I measured Catha- 
 
352 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 rine of Russia against Semiramis, and Aristotle against 
 Lord Bacon. I could have spent whole years in con- 
 versation with so many celebrated persons, and prom- 
 ised myself that I would often frequent this obliging 
 magician. Her name, I found, was in heaven Clio, on 
 earth History. 
 
 I saw another who was making a charm for two 
 friends, one of whom was going to the East Indies ; 
 they were bitterly lamenting that when they were 
 parted at so great a distance from each other they 
 could no longer communicate their thoughts, but must 
 be cut off from each other's society. Presenting them 
 with a talisman inscribed with four-and-twenty black 
 marks, " Take this," she said ; " I have breathed a voice 
 upon it : by means of this talisman you shall still con- 
 verse, and hear one another as distinctly when half the 
 globe is between you as if you were talking together in 
 the same room." The two friends thanked her for such 
 an invaluable present, and retired. Her name was 
 Abracadabra. 
 
 I was next invited to see a whispering gallery of a 
 most curious and uncommon structure. To make the 
 experiment of its powers, a young poet of a very mod- 
 est appearance, who was stealing along in a retired 
 walk, was desired to repeat a verse in it. He applied 
 his lips to the wall, aucl whispered in a low voice, 
 " Rura mihi et rigui placeant in vallibus amnes." The 
 
TRUE MAGICIANS. 353 
 
 sound ran along the walls for some time in a kind of 
 low whisper; but every minute it grew louder and 
 louder, till at length it was echoed and re-echoed from 
 every part of the gallery, and seemed to be pronounced 
 by a multitude of voices at once, in different languages, 
 till the whole dome was filled with the sound. There 
 was a strong smell of incense. The gallery was con- 
 structed by Fame. 
 
 The good pilgrim next conducted me to a cave where 
 several sorceresses, very black and grim, were amusing 
 themselves with making lightning, thunder, and earth- 
 quakes. I saw two vials of cold liquor mixed together, 
 and flames burst forth from them. I saw some insig- 
 nificant-looking black grains, which would throw pal- 
 aces and castles into the air. I saw — and it made my 
 hair stand on end — a headless man who lifted up his 
 arm and grasped a sword. I saw men flying through 
 the air without wings, over the tops of towns and cas- 
 tles, and come down unhurt. The cavern was very 
 black, and the smoke and fires and mephitic blasts and 
 sulphureous vapors that issued from it gave the whole 
 a very tremendous appearance. I did not stay long, 
 but as I retired I saw Chemistry written on the walls 
 in letters of flame, with several other names which I 
 do not now remember. 
 
 My companion w T hispered me that some of these 
 were suspected of communication with the evil genii, 
 
354 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 and that the demon of AYar had been seen to resort to 
 the cave. " But now," said the pilgrim, " I will lead 
 you to enchanters who deserve all your veneration, and 
 are even more beneficent than those you have already 
 seen." He then led me to a cavern that opened upon 
 the sea-shore ; it blew a terrible storm, the waves ran 
 mountain high, the wind roared, and vessels were 
 driven against each other with a terrible shock. A 
 female figure advanced and threw a little oil upon the 
 waves ; they immediately subsided, the winds were 
 still, the storm was laid, and the vessels pursued their 
 course in safety. " By what magic is this performed -? " 
 exclaimed I. u The magician is Meekness" replied my 
 conductor; "she can smooth the roughest sea and 
 allay the wildest storm." 
 
 My view was next directed to a poor wretch who lay 
 groaning in a most piteous manner, and crushed to the 
 earth with a mountain on his breast ; he uttered pier- 
 cing shrieks, and seemed totally unable to rise or help 
 himself. One of these good magicians, whose name I 
 found was Patience, advanced, and struck the mountain 
 with a wand ; on which, to my great surprise, it dimin- 
 ished to a size not more than the load of an ordinary 
 porter, which the man threw over his shoulders with 
 something very like a smile, and marched off with a 
 firm step and very composed air. 
 
 I must not pass over a charmer of a very pleasing 
 
 
TRUE MAGICIANS. 355 
 
 appearance and lively aspect. She possessed the power 
 (a very useful one in a country so subject to fogs and 
 rains as this is) of gilding a landscape with sunshine 
 whenever she breathed upon it. Her name was Cheer- 
 fulness. Indeed, you may remember that your papa 
 brought her down with him on that very rainy day 
 when we could not go out at all, and he played on his 
 flute to you, and you all danced. 
 
 I was next struck, on ascending an eminence, with a 
 most dreary landscape. All the flat country was one 
 stagnant marsh. Amidst the rushy grass lay the fiend 
 Ague, listless and shivering. On the bare and bleak 
 hills sat Famine, with a few shells of acorns before her, 
 of which she had eaten the fruit. The woods were tan- 
 gled and pathless ; the howl of wolves was heard. A 
 few smoky huts, or caves, not much better than the 
 dens of wild beasts, were all the habitations of men 
 that presented themselves. " Miserable country ! " I 
 exclaimed ; " step-child of Nature ! " " This," said my 
 conductor, " is Britain as our ancestors possessed it." 
 " And by what magic," I replied, " has it been con- 
 verted into the pleasant land we now inhabit ? " 
 " You shall see," said he. " It has been the work of 
 one of our most powerful magicians. Her name is In- 
 dustry!' At the word she advanced and waved her 
 wand over the scene. Gradually the waters ran off 
 into separate channels, and left rich meadows covered 
 
356 „ WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 with innumerable flocks and herds. The woods disap- 
 peared, except what waved gracefully on the tops of 
 the hills, or filled up the unsightly hollows. When- 
 ever she moved her wand, roads, bridges, and canals 
 laid open and improved the face of the country. A 
 numerous population, spread abroad in the fields, were 
 gathering in the harvest. Smoke from warm cottages 
 ascended through the trees, pleasant towns and villages 
 marked the several points of distance. Last, the 
 Thames was filled with forests of masts, and proud 
 London appeared with all its display of wealth and 
 grandeur. 
 
 I do not know whether it was the pleasure I received 
 from this exhilarating scene, or the carriage having just 
 got upon the pavement, /which awakened me ; but I 
 determined to write out my dream, and advise you to 
 cultivate your acquaintance wuth all the true Arts of 
 Magic. 
 
THE PINE AND THE OLIVE. 357 
 
 THE PDs T E AND THE OLIVE. 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 A STOIC, swelling with the proud consciousness 
 of his own worth, took a solitary walk ; and 
 straying amongst the groves of Academus, he sat down 
 between an Olive and a Pine tree. His attention was 
 soon excited by a murmur which he heard among the 
 leaves. The whispers increased; and listening atten- 
 tively, he plainly heard the Pine say to the Olive as 
 follows : " Poor tree ! I pity thee. Thou now spread- 
 est thy green leaves and exultest in all the pride of 
 youth and spring ; but how soon will thy beauty be 
 tarnished ! The fruit which thou exhaustest thyself 
 to bear shall hardly be shaken from thy boughs before 
 thou shalt grow dry and withered; thy green veins, 
 now so full of juice, shall be frozen ; naked and bare 
 thou wilt stand exposed to all the storms of winter, 
 whilst my firmer leaf shall resist the change of the sea- 
 sons. Unchangeable is my motto ; and through the 
 various vicissitudes of the year I shall continue equally 
 green and vigorous as I am at present." 
 
 The Olive, with a graceful wave of her boughs, 
 
358 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 replied : " It is true thou wilt always continue as thou 
 art at present. Thy leaves will keep that sullen and 
 gloomy green in which they are now arrayed, and the 
 stiff regularity of thy branches will not yield to those 
 storms which will bow down many of the feebler ten- 
 ants of the grove. Yet I wish not to be like thee. I 
 rejoice when Nature rejoices ; and when I am desolate, 
 Nature mourns with me. I fully enjoy pleasure in its 
 season, and I am contented to be subject to the influ- 
 ences of those seasons and that economy of Nature by 
 which I flourish. When the spring approaches I feel 
 the kindly warmth ; my branches swell with young 
 buds, and my leaves unfold ; crowds of singing birds 
 which never visit thy noxious shade sport on my 
 boughs ; my fruit is offered to the gods, and rejoices 
 men ; and when the decay of nature approaches, I 
 shed my leaves over the funeral of the falling year, and 
 am well contented not to stand a single exemption to 
 the mournful desolation I see everywhere around me." 
 
 The Pine was unable to frame a reply ; and the phi- 
 losopher turned away his steps rebuked and humbled. 
 
ON KIDDLES. 359 
 
 ON RIDDLES. 
 
 MY DEAR YOUNG FRIENDS,— I presume 
 you are now all come home for the holidays, 
 and that the brothers and sisters and cousins, papas 
 and mammas, uncles and aunts, are all met cheerfully 
 round a Christmas fire, enjoying the company of their 
 friends and relations, and eating plum-pudding and 
 mince-pie. These are very good things ; but one 
 cannot always be eating plum-pudding and mince-pie : 
 the days are short, and the weather bad, so that you 
 cannot be much abroad ; and I think you must want 
 something to amuse you. Besides, if you have been 
 employed as you ought to be at school, and if you are 
 quick and clever, as I hope you are, you will want some 
 employment for that part of you which thinks, as well 
 as that part of you which eats ; and you will like 
 better to solve a riddle than to crack a nut or a walnut. 
 Finding out riddles is the same kind of exercise to the 
 mind which running and leaping and wrestling in sport 
 are to the body. They are of no use in themselves, — 
 they are not work, but play; but they prepare the 
 body, and make it alert and active for anything it may 
 be called to perform in labor or war. So does the finding 
 
300 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 out of riddles, if they are good especially, give quickness 
 of thought, and a facility of turning about a problem 
 every way, and viewing it in every possible light. 
 When Archimedes, coming out of the bath, cried in 
 transport u Ewreka! n (I have found it!) he had been 
 exercising his mind precisely in the same manner as 
 you will do when- you are searching about for the solu- 
 tion of a riddle. 
 
 And pray, when you are got together, do not let any 
 little Miss or Master say, with an affected air, " 0, do 
 not ask me ; I am so stupid I never can guess." They 
 do not mean you should think them stupid and dull ; 
 they mean to imply that these things are too trifling 
 to engage their attention. If they are employed better, 
 it is very well ; but if not, say, " I am very sorry in- 
 deed you are so dull, but we that are clever and quick 
 will exercise our wits upon these ; and as our arms 
 grow stronger by exercise, so will our wits." 
 
 Biddies are of high antiquity, and were the employ- 
 ment of grave men formerly. The first riddle that we 
 have on record was proposed by Samson at a wedding 
 feast to the young men of the Philistines, who were 
 invited upon the occasion. The feast lasted seven 
 days ; and if they found it out within the seven days, 
 Samson was to give them thirty suits of clothes and 
 thirty sheets ; and if they could not guess it, they 
 were to forfeit the same to -him. The riddle was : "Out 
 
ON RIDDLES. 361 
 
 of the eater came forth meat, and out of the strong 
 came forth sweetness." He had killed a lion, and left 
 its carcass ; on returning soon after, he found a swarm 
 of bees had made use of the skeleton as a hive, and it 
 was full of honeycomb. Struck with the oddness of 
 the circumstance, he made a riddle of it. They puz- 
 zled about it the whole seven days, and would not 
 have found it out at last if his wife had not told 
 them. 
 
 The Sphinx was a great riddle-maker. According 
 to the fable, she was half a woman and half a lion. 
 She lived near Thebes, and to everybody that came 
 she proposed a riddle ; and if they did not find it out, 
 she devoured them. At length CEdipus came, and she 
 asked him, " What is that animal which walks on four 
 legs in the morning, two at noon, and three at night ? " 
 CEdipus answered, " Man : — in childhood, which is the 
 morning of life, he crawls on his hands and feet ; in 
 middle age, which is noon, he walks erect on two ; in 
 old age he leans on a crutch, which serves for a sup- 
 plementary third foot." 
 
 The famous wise men of Greece did not disdain to 
 send puzzles to each other. They are also fond of 
 riddles in the East. There is a pretty one in some 
 of their tales. " What is that tree which has twelve 
 branches, and each branch thirty leaves, which are all 
 black on one side and white on the other ? " The tree 
 
 VOL. II. 16 
 
362 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 is the year ; the branches, the months ; the leaves, black 
 on one side and white on the other, signify day and 
 night. Our Anglo-Saxon ancestors also had riddles, 
 some of which are still preserved in a very ancient 
 manuscript. 
 
 A riddle is a description of a thing without the 
 name ; but as it is meant to puzzle, it appears to 
 belong to something else than what it really does, and 
 often seems contradictory ; but when you have guessed 
 it, it appears quite clear. It is a bad riddle if you are 
 at all in doubt, when you have found it out, whether 
 you are right or no. A riddle is not verbal, as charades, 
 conundrums, and rebuses are : it may be translated 
 into any language, which the others cannot. Addison 
 would put them all in the class of false wit : but Swift, 
 who was as great a genius, amused himself with mak- 
 ing all sorts of puzzles ; and therefore I think you need 
 not be ashamed of reading them. It would be pretty 
 entertainment for you to make a collection of the better 
 ones, — for many are so dull that they are not worth 
 spending time about. I will conclude by sending you 
 a few which will be new to you. 
 
 I. 
 I often murmur, yet I never weep ; 
 I always lie in bed, yet never sleep ; 
 My mouth is wide, and larger than my head, 
 
OX RIDDLES. 363 
 
 And much disgorges though it ne'er is fed ; 
 I have no legs or feet, yet swiftly run, 
 And the more falls I get, move faster on. 
 
 II. 
 Ye youths and ye virgins, come list to my tale, 
 With youth and with beauty my voice will prevail. 
 My smile is enchanting, and golden my hair, 
 And on earth I am fairest of all that is fair ; 
 But my name it perhaps may assist you to tell, 
 That I 'm banished alike both from heaven and hell 
 There 's a charm in my voice, 't is than music more sweet, 
 And my tale oft repeated, untired I repeat. 
 I flatter, I soothe, I speak kindly to all, 
 And wherever you go, I am still within call. 
 Though I thousands have blest, 't is a strange thing to say, 
 That not one of the thousands e'er wishes my stay, 
 But when most I enchant him, impatient the more, 
 The minutes seem hours till my visit is o'er. 
 In the chase of my love I am ever employed, 
 Still, still he 's pursued, and yet never enjoyed ; 
 O'er hills and o'er valleys unwearied I fly, 
 But should I o'ertake him, that instant I die ; ■ 
 Yet I spring up again, and again I pursue, 
 The object still distant, the passion still new. 
 Now guess, — and to raise your astonishment most, 
 "While you seek me you have me, when found I am lost. 
 
364 WORKS OF MBa BARBAULD. 
 
 in. 
 I never talk but in my sleep ; 
 I never cry, but sometimes weep ; 
 My doors are open day and night ; 
 Old age I help to better sight ; 
 I, like camelion, feed on air, 
 And dust to me is dainty fare. 
 
 IV. 
 
 "We are spirits all in white, 
 
 On a field as black as night ; 
 
 There we dance and sport and play, 
 
 Changing every changing day : 
 
 Yet with us is wisdom found, 
 
 As we move in mystic round. 
 
 Mortals, wouldst thou know the grains 
 
 That Ceres heaps on Libya's plains, 
 
 Or leaves that yellow Autumn strews, 
 
 Or the stars that Herschel views, 
 
 Or find how many drops would drain 
 
 The wide-scooped bosom of the main, 
 
 Or measure central depths below, — 
 
 Ask of us, and thou shalt know. 
 
 "With fairy feet Ave compass round 
 
 The pyramid's capacious bound, 
 
 Or step by step ambitious climb 
 
 The cloud-capt mountain's height sublime. 
 
OX RIDDLES. 365 
 
 Kiches though we do not use, 
 'T is ours to gain, and ours to lose. 
 From Araby the Blest we came, 
 In every land our tongue 's the same ; 
 And if our number you require, 
 Go count the bright Aonian quire. 
 Wouldst thou cast a spell to find 
 The track of light, the speed of wind, 
 Or when the snail with creeping pace 
 Shall the swelling globe embrace ; 
 Mortal, ours the powerful spell ; — 
 Ask of us, for we can tell. 
 
 v. 
 
 An unfortunate maid, 
 
 I by love was betrayed, 
 And wasted and pined by my grief; 
 
 To deep solitudes then, 
 
 Of rock, mountain, and glen, 
 From the world I retired for relief. 
 
 Yet there by the sound 
 
 Of my voice I am found, 
 Though no footstep betrays where I tread ; 
 
 The poet and lover, 
 
 My haunts to discover, 
 Still leave at the dawn their soft bed. 
 
366 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 If the poet sublime 
 
 Address me in rime, 
 In rime I support conversation ; 
 
 To the lover's fond moan 
 
 I return groan for groan, 
 And by sympathy give consolation. 
 
 Though I 'm apt, 't is averred, 
 
 To love the last word, 
 Nor can I pretend 't is a fiction ; 
 
 I shall ne'er be so rude 
 
 On your talk to intrude 
 With anything like contradiction. 
 
 The fair damsels of old 
 By their mothers were told, 
 
 That maids should be seen and not heard ; 
 The reverse is my case, 
 For you 'U ne'er see my face, 
 
 To my voice all my charms are transferred. 
 
 From rosy bowers we issue forth, 
 From east to west, from south to north, 
 Unseen, unfelt, by night, by day, 
 Abroad we take our airy way : 
 "We foster love and kindle strife, 
 
ON KIDDLES. 367 
 
 The bitter and the sweet of life ; 
 Piercing and sharp, we wound like steel ; 
 Now, smooth as oil, those wounds we heal : 
 Not strings of pearl are valued more, 
 Or gems enchased in golden ore ; 
 Yet thousands of us every day, 
 Worthless and vile, are thrown away. 
 Ye wise, secure w T ith bars of brass 
 The double doors through which we pass ; 
 For, once escaped, back to our cell 
 No human art can us compel. 
 
368 WOKKS OF MBS. BAEBAULD. 
 
 ENIGMA. 
 
 TO THE LADIES. 
 
 HARD is my stem and dry, no root is found 
 To draw nutritious juices from the ground ; 
 Yet of your ivory fingers' magic touch 
 The quickening power and strange effect is such, 
 My shrivelled trunk a sudden shade extends, 
 And from rude storms your tender frame defends ; 
 A hundred times a day my head is seen 
 Crowned with a floating canopy of green ; 
 A hundred times, as struck with sudden blight, 
 The spreading verdure withers to the sight. - 
 Not Jonah's gourd by power unseen was made 
 So soon to flourish, and so soon to fade. 
 Unlike the Spring's gay race, I flourish most 
 When groves and gardens all their blooms have lost ; 
 Lift my green head against the rattling hail, 
 And brave the driving snows and freezing gale ; 
 And faithful lovers oft, when storms impend, 
 Beneath my friendly shade together bend, 
 There join their heads within the green recess, 
 And in the close-wore covert nearer press. 
 But lately am I known to Britain's isle, 
 Enough — You 've guessed — I see it by your smile. 
 
THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 3G9 
 
 THE KING W HIS CASTLE. 
 
 MY DEAE LUCY, — Have you made out who 
 the Four Sisters are ? If you have, I will tell 
 you another story. It is about a monarch who lives in 
 a sumptuous castle, raised high above the ground and 
 built with exquisite art. He takes a great deal of 
 state upon him, and, like Eastern monarchs, transacts 
 everything by means of his ministers ; for he never 
 appears himself, and indeed lives in so retired a man- 
 ner that, though it has often excited the curiosity of 
 his subjects, his residence is hidden from them with as 
 much jealous care as that of Pygmalion was from the 
 Tynans ; and it has never been discovered with any 
 certainty which of the chambers of the castle he actu- 
 ally inhabits, though by means of his numerous spies 
 he is acquainted with what passes in every one of 
 them. 
 
 But I must proceed to give you some account of his 
 chief ministers; and I will begin with two who are 
 mutes. Their office is to bring him quick and faithful 
 intelligence of all that is going forward ; this they per- 
 form in a very ingenious manner. You have heard of 
 the Mexicans, who, not having the art of writing, sup- 
 16* x 
 
370 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 plied the deficiency by painting everything they have 
 a mind to communicate ; so that when the Spaniards 
 came amongst them they sent regular accounts to the 
 king of their landing and all their proceedings, in very 
 intelligible language, without writing a single word. 
 Now this is just the method of these two mutes ; they 
 are continually employed in making pictures of every- 
 thing that passes, which they do with wonderful quick- 
 ness and accuracy, all in miniature, but in exact pro- 
 portion, and colored after life. These pictures they 
 bring every moment to a great gate of the palace, 
 where the king receives them. 
 
 The next I shall mention are two drummers. These 
 have each a great drum, on which they beat soft or 
 loud, quick or slow, according to the occasion. They 
 often entertain the king with music ; besides which 
 they are arrived at such wonderful perfection upon 
 their instrument, and make the strokes with such pre- 
 cision, that by the different beats accompanied by 
 proper pauses and intervals they can express anything 
 they wish to tell ; and the king relies upon them as 
 much as upon his mutes. There is a sort of covered 
 way, made in the form of a labyrinth, from the station 
 of the drummers to the inner rooms of the palace. 
 
 There is a pair of officers — for you must know the 
 offices go mightily by pairs — whose department it is 
 to keep all nuisances from the palace. They are 
 
THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 371 
 
 lodged for that purpose under a shed or penthouse 
 built with that view before the front of the palace. 
 They likewise gather and present to the monarch sweet 
 odors, essences, and perfumes, with which he regales 
 himself. They likewise inspect the dishes that are 
 served up at his table ; and if any of them are not fit 
 to be eaten, they give notice for their removal; and 
 sometimes, if anything offensive is about to enter the 
 palace, they order the agents to shut two little doors 
 which are in their keeping, and by that means prevent 
 its entrance. 
 
 The agents are two very active officers of long reach 
 and quick execution. The executive part of govern- 
 ment is chiefly intrusted to them ; they obey the king's 
 commands with a readiness and vigor truly admirable ; 
 they defend the castle from all assaults, and are vigi- 
 lant in keeping at a distance every annoyance. Their 
 office is branched out into ten subordinate ones, but 
 in cases which require great exertion they act together. 
 
 I must not omit the beef-eaters. These stand in 
 rows at the great front gate of the palace, much as they 
 do at St. James's, only that they are dressed in white. 
 Their office is to prepare the viands for the king, who 
 is so very lazy and so much accustomed to have every- 
 thing done for him, that, like the king of Bantam and 
 some other Eastern monarchs, he requires his meat to 
 be chewed before it is presented to him. 
 
372 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Close by the beef- eaters lives the king's orator, a fat, 
 portly gentleman, of something of a Dutch make, but 
 remarkably voluble and nimble in his motions notwith- 
 standing. He delivers the king's orders and explains 
 his will This gentleman is a good deal of an epicure, 
 which I suppose is the reason he has his station so 
 near to the beef-eaters. He is a perfect connoisseur in 
 good eating, and assumes a right of tasting all the 
 dishes ; and the king pays the greatest regard to his 
 opinion. Justice obliges me to confess that this orator 
 is one of the most flippant and ungovernable of the 
 king's subjects. 
 
 Among the inferior officers are the porters, two stout, 
 lusty fellows who carry the king about from place to 
 place (for I am sure you are by this time too well 
 acquainted with his disposition to suppose he performs 
 that office for himself) ; but as most great men's offi- 
 cers have their deputies, so these lazy porters are very 
 apt to get their business done by deputy, and to have 
 people to carry them about. 
 
 I should never have done if I were to mention all 
 the particulars of the domestic establishment and inter- 
 nal economy of the castle, which is all arranged with 
 wonderful art and order ; how the outgoings are pro- 
 portioned to the income, and what a fellow-feeling 
 there is between all the members of the family from 
 the greatest to the meanest. The king, from his high 
 
THE KING IN HIS CASTLE. 373 
 
 birth, on which he values himself much, — being of a 
 race and lineage quite different from any of his sub- 
 jects, — and from his superior capacity, claims the 
 most absolute obedience ; though, as is frequently the 
 case with kings, he is in fact most commonly governed 
 by his ministers, who lead him where they please 
 without his being sensible of it. As you, my dear 
 Lucy, have had more conversation with this king than 
 most of your age have been honored with, I dare say 
 you will be at no loss in pointing him out. I therefore 
 add no more, but that I am 
 
 Yours, etc. 
 
374 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 THE MISSES.* 
 
 ADDRESSED TO A CARELESS GIRL. 
 
 WE were talking last night, my dear Anne, of a 
 family of misses whose acquaintance is gener- 
 ally avoided by people of sense. They are most of 
 them old maids ; which is not very surprising, consid- 
 ering that the qualities they possess are not the most 
 desirable for a helpmate. They are a pretty numerous 
 clan, and I shall endeavor to give you such a descrip- 
 tion of them as may enable you to decline their visits ; 
 especially as, though many of them are extremely 
 unlike in feature and temper, and indeed very distantly 
 related, yet they have a wonderful knack at introdu- 
 cing each other, so that if you open your doors to one 
 of them, you are very likely in process of time to be 
 troubled with the whole tribe. 
 
 The first I shall mention — and indeed she deserves 
 to be mentioned first, for she always was fond of being 
 a ringleader of her company — is Miss Chief. This 
 young lady was brought up, until she was fourteen, in 
 a large rambling mansion in the country, where she 
 was allowed to romp all day with the servants and idle 
 
 * Juvenile Forget-me-not of 1830. 
 
THE MISSES. 375 
 
 boys of the neighborhood. There she employed herself 
 in the summer in milking into her bonnet, tying the 
 grass together across the path to throw people down, 
 and in the winter making slides before the door for the 
 same purpose ; and the accidents these ' gave rise to 
 always procured her the enjoyment of a hearty laugh. 
 She was a great lover of fun, and at Christmas time 
 distinguished herself by various tricks, such as putting 
 furze balls into the beds, drawing off the clothes in the 
 middle of the night, and pulling people's seats from 
 under them. At length as a lady who was coming to 
 visit the family, mounted on rather a skittish horse, 
 rode up to the door, Miss Chief ran up and unfurled 
 an umbrella full in the horse's face, which occasioned 
 him to throw his rider, who broke her arm. After this 
 exploit miss was sent off to a boarding-school; here 
 she was no small favorite with the girls, whom she led 
 into all manner of scrapes, and no small plague to the 
 poor governess, whose tables were hacked, and beds 
 cut, and curtains set on fire continually. It is true 
 miss soon laid aside her romping airs and assumed a 
 very demure appearance ; but she was always playing 
 one sly trick or another, and had learned to tell lies in 
 order to lay it upon the innocent. At length she was 
 discovered in writing anonymous letters by which 
 whole families in the town had been set at variance ; 
 and she was then dismissed the school with ignominy. 
 
376 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 She has since lived a very busy life in the world ; sel- 
 dom is there a great crowd of which she does not make 
 one, and she has even frequently been taken ud for 
 riots and other disorderly proceedings very unbecoming 
 to her sex. 
 
 The next I shall introduce to your acquaintance is a 
 city lady, Miss Management ; a very stirring, notable 
 woman, always in a bustle and always behindhand. 
 In the parlor she saves candle-ends ; in the kitchen 
 everything is waste and extravagance. She hires her 
 servants at half wages and changes them at every quar- 
 ter. She is a great buyer of cheap bargains ; but as 
 she cannot always use them, they grow worm and 
 moth eaten on her hands. "When she pays a long score 
 to her butcher, she wrangles for the odd pence, and for- 
 gets to add up the pounds. Though it is her great 
 study to save, she is continually outrunning her income ; 
 winch is partly owing to her trusting a cousin of hers, 
 Miss Calculation, with the settling of her accounts, — 
 who, it is very well known, could never be persuaded 
 to learn perfectly her multiplication-table, or state 
 rightly a sum in the rule of three. 
 
 Miss Lay and Miss Place are sisters, great slatterns. 
 When Miss Place gets up in the morning she cannot 
 find her combs, because she has put them in her writ- 
 ing-box. Miss Lay would willingly go to work, but 
 her housewife is in the drawer of the kitchen dresser, 
 
THE MISSES. 377 
 
 her bag hanging on a tree in the garden, and her thim- 
 ble anywhere but in her pocket. If Miss Lay is going 
 a journey, the keys of her trunk are sure to be lost. 
 If Miss Place wants a volume out of her bookcase, she 
 is certain not to find it along with the rest of the set. 
 If you peep into Miss Place's dressing-room, you find 
 drawers filled with foul linen, and her best cap hanging 
 upon the carpet-broom. If you call Miss Lay to take 
 a lesson in drawing, she is so long in gathering together 
 her pencils, her chalk, her india-rubber, and her draw- 
 ing-paper, that her master's hour is expired before she 
 has well got her materials together. 
 
 Miss Understanding. This lady comes of a respect- 
 able family, and has a half-sister distinguished for her 
 good sense and solidity ; but she herself, though not a 
 little fond of reasoning, always takes the perverse side 
 of the question. She is often seen with another of her 
 intimates, Miss Representation, who is a great tale- 
 bearer, and goes about from house to house telling peo- 
 ple what such a one and such a one said of them 
 behind their backs. Miss Eepresentation is a notable 
 story-teller, and can so change, enlarge, and dress up 
 an anecdote, that the person to whom it happened shall 
 not know it again. How many friendships have been 
 broken by these two, or turned into bitter enmities ! 
 The latter lady does a great deal of varnish-work 
 which wonderfully sets off her paintings, — for she pre- 
 
378 WORKS OF MRS. BARDAULD. 
 
 tends to use the pencil ; but her productions are such 
 miserable daubings, that it is the varnish alone which 
 makes them pass to the most common eye. Though 
 she has all sorts, black varnish is what she uses most. 
 As I wish you very much to be on your guard against 
 this lady whenever you meet her in company, I must 
 tell you she is to be distinguished by an ugly leer ; it is 
 quite out of her power to look straight at any object. 
 
 Miss Trust, a sour old creature, wrinkled and shaking 
 with palsy. She is continually peejjing and prying 
 about, in the expectation of finding something wrong. 
 She watches her servants through the kevhole, and has 
 lost all her friends by little shynesses that have arisen 
 no one knows how. She is worn away to skin and 
 bone, and her voice never rises above a whisper. 
 
 Miss Rule. This lady is of a very lofty spirit, and, 
 had she been married, would certainly have governed 
 her husband ; as it is, she interferes very much in the 
 management of families, and, as she is very highly con- 
 nected, she has as much influence in the fashionable 
 world as amongst the lower classes. She even inter- 
 feres in political concerns ; and I have heard it whis- 
 pered that there is scarcely a cabinet in Europe where 
 she has not some share in the direction of affairs. 
 
 Miss Hap and Miss Chance. These are twin sisters, 
 so like as scarcely to be distinguished from each other. 
 Their whole conversation turns on little disasters j one 
 
THE MISSES. 379 
 
 tells you how her lap-dog spoiled a new Wilton carpet, 
 the other how her new muslin petticoat was torn by a 
 gentleman's setting his foot upon it. They are both 
 left-handed, and so exceedingly awkward and ungainly, 
 that, if you trust either of them with but a cup and 
 saucer, you are sure to have them broken. These ladies 
 used frequently to keep days for visiting ; and as people 
 were not very fond of meeting them, many used to 
 shut themselves up and see no company on those days, 
 for fear of stumbling on either of them. Some people 
 even now will hardly open their doors on Friday for 
 fear of letting them in. 
 
 Miss Take. This lady is an old, doting woman, who 
 is purblind and has lost her memory. She invites her 
 acquaintances on wrong days, calls them by wrong 
 names, and always intends to do just the contrary 
 thing to what she does. 
 
 Miss Fortune. This lady has the most forbidding 
 look of any of the clan, and people are sufficiently dis- 
 posed to avoid her as much as it is in their power to 
 do ; yet some pretend that, notwithstanding the stern- 
 ness of her countenance on the first address, her physi- 
 ognomy softens as you grow more familiar with her, 
 and though she has it not in her power to be an agree- 
 able acquaintance, she has sometimes proved a valuable 
 friend. There are lessons which none can teach so 
 well as herself ; and the wisest philosophers have not 
 
380 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 scrupled to acknowledge themselves better for her com- 
 pany. I may add that, notwithstanding her want of 
 external beauty, one of the best poets of our language 
 fell in love with her, and wrote a beautiful ode to her 
 praise. 
 
THE FOUR SISTERS. 381 
 
 THE EOUK SISTEKS.* 
 
 I AM one of four sisters ; and, having some reason 
 to think myself not well used, either by them or 
 by the world, I beg leave to lay before yon a sketch of 
 our history and characters. You will not wonder that 
 there should be frequent bickerings amongst us, when 
 I tell you, that, in our infancy, we were continually 
 fighting ; and, so great was the noise and din and con- 
 fusion, in our constant struggles to get uppermost, that 
 it was impossible for anybody to live amongst us in 
 such a scene of tumult and disorder. These brawls, 
 however, by a powerful interposition, were put an end 
 to ; our proper place was assigned to each of us ; and 
 we had strict orders not to encroach on the limits of 
 each other's property, but to join our common offices 
 for the good of the whole family. 
 
 My first sister (I call her the first, because we have 
 generally allowed her the precedence in rank) is, I 
 must acknowledge, of a very active, sprightly disposi- 
 tion; quick and lively, and has more brilliancy than 
 any of us ; but she is hot : everything serves for fuel to 
 her fury, when it is once raised to a certain degree; 
 
 * Evenings at Home. 
 
382 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 and she is so mischievous, whenever she gets the upper 
 hand, that, notwithstanding her aspiring disposition, 
 if I may freely speak my mind, she is calculated to 
 make a good servant, but a very bad mistress. 
 
 I am almost ashamed to mention, that, notwithstand- 
 ing her seeming delicacy, she has a most voracious 
 appetite, and devours everything that comes in her 
 way ; though, like other eager, thin people, she does no 
 credit to her keeping. Many a time has she consumed 
 the product of my barns and storehouses ; but it is all 
 lost upon her. She has even been known to get into 
 an oil-shop or tallow-chandler's, when everybody was 
 asleep, and lick up, with the utmost greediness, what- 
 ever she found there. Indeed, all prudent people are 
 aware of her tricks ; and, though she is admitted into 
 the best families, they take care to watch her very 
 narrowly. I should not forget to mention that my sis- 
 ter was once in a country where she was treated with 
 uncommon respect. She was lodged in a sumptuous 
 building, and had a number of young women of the 
 best families to attend on her, and feed her, and watch 
 over her health ; in short, she was looked upon as 
 something more than a common mortal. But she 
 always behaved with great severity to her maids ; and 
 if any of them were negligent of their duty, or made a 
 slip in their own conduct, nothing would serve her but 
 burying the poor girls alive. I have myself had some 
 

 
 THE FOUR SISTERS. 383 
 
 dark hints and intimations, from the most respectable 
 authority, that she will some time or other make an 
 end of me. You need not wonder, therefore, if I am 
 jealous of her motions. 
 
 The next sister I shall mention to you has so far the 
 appearance of modesty and humility that she generally 
 seeks the lowest place. She is, indeed, of a very yield- 
 ing, easy temper, generally cool, and often wears a 
 sweet, placid smile upon her countenance. But she is 
 easily ruffled ; and when worked up, as she often is, by 
 another sister, whom I shall mention to you by and by, 
 she becomes a perfect fury. Indeed, she is so apt to 
 swell with sudden gusts of passion that she is sus- 
 pected, at times, to be a little lunatic. Between her 
 and my first-mentioned sister there is a more settled 
 antipathy than between the Theban pair; and they 
 never meet without making efforts to destroy one 
 another. With me she is always ready to form the 
 most intimate union, but it is not always to my advan- 
 tage. There goes a story in our family, that, when we 
 were all young, she once attempted to drown me. She 
 actually kept me under a considerable time; and 
 though, at length, I got my head above water, my con- 
 stitution is generally thought to have been essentially 
 affected by it. From that time she has made no such 
 atrocious attempt, but she is continually making en- 
 croachments upon my property; and, even when she 
 
384 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 appears most gentle, she is very insidious, and has such 
 an undermining way with her that her insinuating arts 
 are as much to be dreaded as open violence. I might, 
 indeed, remonstrate ; but it is a known part of her 
 character that nothing makes any lasting impression 
 upon her. 
 
 As to my third sister, I have already mentioned the 
 ill offices she does me, with my last-mentioned one, 
 who is entirely under her influence. She is, besides, 
 of a very uncertain, variable temper; sometimes hot, 
 and sometimes cold, nobody knows where to find her. 
 Her lightness is even proverbial ; and she has notliing 
 to give those who live with her more substantial than 
 the smiles of courtiers. I must add that she keeps in 
 her service three or four rough, blustering bullies, with 
 puffed cheeks, who, when they are let loose, think they 
 have nothing to do but to drive the world before them. 
 She sometimes joins with my first sister, and their vio- 
 lence occasionally throws me into such a trembling, 
 that, though naturally of a firm constitution, I shake 
 as if I was in an ague-fit. 
 
 As to myself, I am of a steady, solid temper; not 
 shining, indeed, but kind and liberal, quite a Lady 
 Bountiful. Every one tastes of my beneficence ; and I 
 am of so grateful a disposition, that I have been known 
 to return a hundred-fold for any present that has been 
 made me. I feed and clothe all my children, and 
 
THE FOUR SISTERS. 385 
 
 afford a welcome home to the wretch who has no other 
 shelter. I bear, with unrepining patience, all manner 
 of ill usage; I am trampled upon, I am torn, and 
 wounded with the most cutting strokes ; I am pillaged 
 of the treasures hidden in my most secret chambers; 
 notwithstanding which I am always ready to return 
 good for evil, and am continually subservient to the 
 pleasure or advantage of others ; yet, so ungrateful is 
 the world, that, because I do not possess all the airi- 
 ness and activity of my sisters, I am stigmatized as 
 dull and heavy. Every sordid, miserly fellow is called, 
 by way of derision, one of my children ; and if a per- 
 son, on entering a room, does but turn his eyes upon 
 me, he is thought stupid and mean, and not fit for good 
 company. I have the satisfaction, however, of finding 
 that people always incline towards me as they grow 
 older; and that those who seemed proudly to disdain 
 any affinity with me are content to sink, at last, into 
 my bosom. You will probably wish to have some 
 account of my person. I am not a regular beauty ; 
 some of my features are rather harsh and prominent, 
 when viewed separately; but my countenance has so 
 much variety of expression, and so many different atti- 
 tudes of elegance, that those who study my face with 
 attention find out continually new charms. 
 
 Though I have been so long a mother, I have still a 
 surprising air of youth and freshness, which is assisted 
 
 VOL. II. 17 T 
 
386 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 by all the advantages of well-chosen ornament, for I 
 dress well, and according to the season. 
 
 This is what I have chiefly to say of myself and my 
 sisters. To a person of your sagacity, it will be unne- 
 cessary for me to sign my name. Indeed, one who be- 
 comes acquainted with any one of the' family cannot 
 be at a loss to discover the rest, notwithstanding the 
 difference in our features and characters. 
 
LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 38' 
 
 LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 
 
 MADAM, — Amidst the mutual compliments and 
 kind wishes which are universally circulated at 
 this season, I hope mine will not be the least accept- 
 able ; and I have thought proper to give you this early 
 assurance of my kind intentions towards you, and the 
 benefits I have in store for you: for, though I am 
 appointed your sovereign, though your fates and for- 
 tune, your life and death, are at my disposal, yet I 
 am fully sensible that I was created for my subjects, 
 not my subjects for me ; and that the end of my very 
 existence is to diffuse blessings on my people. 
 
 My predecessor departed this life last night precisely 
 at twelve o'clock. He died of a universal decay ; 
 nature was exhausted in him, and there was not vital 
 heat sufficient to carry on the functions of life ; his 
 hair was fallen, and discovered his smooth, white, bald 
 head ; his voice was hoarse and broken, and his blood 
 froze in his veins : in short, his time was come. And 
 to say truth he will not be much regretted ; for of 
 late he had been gloomy and vaporish, and the sudden 
 gusts of passion he had long been subject to were 
 
388 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 worked up into such storms it was impossible to live 
 under him with comfort. 
 
 With regard to myself, I am sensible the joy ex- 
 pressed at my accession is sincere, and that no young 
 monarch lias ever been welcomed with warmer demon- 
 strations of affection. Some have ardently longed for 
 my coming, and all view my approach with pleasure 
 and cheerfulness ; yet such is the uncertainty of pop- 
 ular favor, that I well know that those who are most 
 eager and sanguine in expressing their joy will soonest 
 be tired of my company. You yourself, madam, though 
 I know that at present you regard me with kindness, 
 as one from whom you expect more happiness than you 
 have yet enjoyed, will probably after a short time wish 
 as much to part with me, and transfer the same fond 
 hopes and wishes to my successor. But though your 
 impatience may make me a very troublesome compan- 
 ion, it will not in the least hasten my departure ; nor 
 can all the powers of earth oblige me to resign a 
 moment before my time. In order, therefore, that you 
 may form proper expectations concerning me, I shall 
 give you a little sketch of my temper and manners, 
 and I will acknowledge that my aspect at present is 
 somewhat stern and rough ; but there is a latent warmth 
 in my temper which you will perceive as we grow 
 better acquainted, and I shall every day put on a 
 milder and more smiling look : indeed, I have so much 
 
LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 389 
 
 fire, that I may chance sometimes to make the house 
 too hot for you ; but in recompense for this inequality 
 of temper I am kind and bountiful as a giving God : I 
 come full-handed, and my very business is to dispense 
 blessings ; — blessings of the basket and the store ; 
 blessings of the field and of the vineyard; blessings 
 for time and eternity. There is not an inhabitant of 
 the globe who will not experience my bounty; yet 
 such is the ingratitude of mankind, that there is 
 scarcely one whom I shall not leave in some degree 
 discontented. 
 
 Whimsical and various are the petitions which are 
 daily put up to me from all parts ; and very few of the 
 petitioners will be satisfied; because they reject and 
 despise the gifts I offer them with open hand, and set 
 their minds on others which certainly will not fall to 
 their share. Celia has begged me on her knees to find 
 her a lover : I shall do what I can ; I shall bring her 
 the most magnificent shawl that has appeared in 
 Europe. For Dorinda, who has made the same petition, 
 I have two gifts, — wisdom and gray hairs ; the former 
 I know she will reject, nor can I force her to wear it ; 
 but the gray hairs I shall leave on her toilette, whether 
 she will or no. The curate of Sopron expects I shall 
 bring him a living : I shall present him with twins as 
 round and rosy as an apple. Nor can I listen to the 
 entreaty of Dorimant, whose good father being a little 
 
390 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 asthmatic, lie has desired me to push him into his 
 grave as we walk up May hill together: but I shall 
 many him to a handsome, lively girl, who will make a 
 very pretty step-mother to the young gentleman. It is 
 in vain for poor Sylvia to weary me as she does with 
 prayers to restore to her her faithless lover : but I shall 
 give her the choice of two, to replace him. Codrus 
 has asked me if he may bespeak a suit of black : but 
 I can tell him his little wife w r ill outlive me and him 
 too : I have offered the old man a double portion of 
 patience, which he has thrown away very pettishly. 
 Strephon has entreated me to take him to Scotland 
 with his mistress : I shall do it ; and he will hate my 
 very name all his life after. 
 
 The wishes of some are very moderate ; Fanny begs 
 two inches of height, and Cloe that I would take away 
 her awkward plumpness ; Cams a new equipage, and 
 Philida a new ball-dress. A mother brought me her 
 son the other day, made me many compliments, and 
 desired me to teach him everything ; at the same time 
 begging the youth to throw away his marbles, which 
 he had often promised to part with as soon as he saw 
 me : but the boy held them fast, and I shall teach him 
 nothing but to play at taw. Many ladies have come 
 to me with their daughters in their hands, telling me 
 they hope their girls, under me, will learn prudence : 
 but the young ladies have as constantly desired me to 
 
LETTER OF A YOUNG KING. 391 
 
 teach prudence to their grandmothers, whom it would 
 better become, and to bring them new dances and new 
 fashions. In short, I have scarcely seen any one with 
 whom I am likely to agree, but a stout old farmer who 
 rents a small cottage on the green. He was leaning 
 on his spade when I approached him. As his neighbor 
 told him I was coming, he welcomed me with a cheer- 
 ful countenance ; but at the same time bluntly told me 
 he had not expected me so soon, being too busy to pay 
 much attention to my approach. I asked him if I 
 could do anything for him. He said he did not believe 
 me better or worse than those who had preceded me, 
 and therefore should not expect much from me ; that 
 he was happy before he saw me, and should be very 
 well contented after I left him : he was glad to see me, 
 however, and only begged I would not take his wife 
 from him, a thin, withered old woman who was eating a 
 mess of milk at the door. " And I shall be glad too," said 
 he, "if you will fill my cellar with potatoes." As he 
 applied himself to' his spade while he said these words, 
 I shall certainly grant his request. 
 
 I shall now. tell you, that, great and extensive as my 
 power is, I shall possess it but a short time. However 
 the predictions of astrologers are now laughed at, noth- 
 ing is more certain than what I am going to tell you. 
 A scheme of my nativity has been cast by the most 
 eminent astronomers, who have found, on consulting 
 
392 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the stars and the aspect of the heavenly bodies, that 
 Capricornus will be fatal to me ; I know that all the 
 physicians in the world cannot protract my life beyond 
 that fatal period. I do not tell you this to excite your 
 sensibility, — for I would have you meet me without 
 fondness and part with me without regret, — but to 
 quicken you to lay hold on those advantages I am able 
 to procure you ; for it will be your own fault if you are 
 not both wiser and better for my company. I have 
 likewise another request to make to you, — that you 
 will write my epitaph : I may make you happy, but it 
 depends on you to make me famous. If, after I am 
 departed, you can say my reign was distinguished by 
 good actions and wise conversations, and that I have 
 left you happier than I found you, I shall not have 
 lived in vain. My sincere wishes are, that you may 
 long outlive me, but always remember me with pleas- 
 ure. I am, if you use me well, 
 
 Your friend and servant, 
 
 The Xew Year. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 393 
 
 
 ON THE USES OF HISTOEY. 
 LETTER I. 
 
 MY DEAR LYDIA,— I was told the other day 
 that you have not forgotten a promise of mine 
 to correspond with you upon some subjects which 
 might be worth discussing, and relative to your pur- 
 suits. I have often recollected it also ; and as prom- 
 ises ought not only to be recollected but fulfilled, I 
 will without further preface throw together some 
 thoughts on History, — a study that I know you value 
 as it deserves ; and I trust it will not "be disagreeable 
 to you, if you should find some observations which 
 your own mind may have suggested, or which you may 
 recollect to have heard from me in some of those hours 
 which we spent together with mutual pleasure. 
 
 Much has been said of the uses of history. They are 
 no doubt many, yet do not apply equally to all ; but it 
 is quite sufficient to make it a study worth our pains 
 and time, that it satisfies the desire which naturally arises 
 in every intelligent mind to know the transactions of 
 the country, of the globe, in which he lives. Facts, as 
 facts, interest our curiosity and engage our attention. 
 
 17* 
 
394 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Suppose a person placed in a part of the country 
 where he was a total stranger ; he would naturally ask 
 who are the chief people of the place, what family 
 they are of, whether any of their ancestors have been 
 famous, and for what. If he see a ruined abbey, he 
 will inquire what the building was used for ; and if lie 
 be told it is a place where people got up at midnight 
 to sing psalms, and scourged themselves in the day, he 
 will ask how there came to be such people, or why 
 there are none now. If he observes a dilapidated cas- 
 tle which appears to have been battered.by violence, he 
 will ask in what quarrel it suffered, and why they built 
 formerly structures so different from any we see now. 
 If any part of the inhabitants should speak a different 
 language from the rest, or have some singular customs 
 among them, he would suppose they came originally 
 from some remote part of the country; and would 
 inform himself, if he could, of the cause of their pecu- 
 liarities. 
 
 If he were of a curious temper, he would not rest till 
 he had informed himself who every estate in the parish 
 belonged to, what hands they had gone through, how 
 one man got this field by marrying an heiress, and the 
 other lost that meadow by a ruinous lawsuit. As a man 
 of spirit he would feel delighted on hearing the relation 
 of the opposition made by an honest yeoman to an over- 
 bearing rich man. on the subject of an accustomed path- 
 

 ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 395 
 
 way or right of common. If lie should find the town or 
 village divided into parties, he would take some pains to 
 trace the original cause of their dissension, and to find 
 out, if possible, who had the right on his side. Cir- 
 cumstances would often occur to excite his attention. 
 If he saw a bridge, he would ask when and by whom it 
 was built. If in digging in his garden he should find 
 utensils of a singular form and construction, or a pot of 
 money with a stamp and legend quite different from 
 the common coin, he would be led to inquire when 
 they were in use, and to whom they had belonged. 
 His curiosity would extend itself by degrees. If a 
 brook ran through the meadows, he would be pleased 
 to trace it till it swelled into a river, and the river till 
 it lost itself in the sea. He would be asking whose 
 seat he saw upon the edge of a distant forest, and what 
 sort of country lay behind th« range of hills that 
 bounded his utmost view. If an}^ strangers came to 
 visit or reside in the place where he lived, he would be 
 questioning them about the country they came from, 
 their connections and alliances, and the remarkable 
 transactions that had taken place within their memory 
 or that of their parents. The answers to these questions 
 would insensibly grow up into History ; which, as you 
 see, does not originate in abstruse speculation, but 
 grows naturally out of our situation and relative con- 
 nections. It gratifies a curiosity which all feel in some 
 
396 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 degree, but which spreads and enlarges itself with the 
 cultivation of our powers, till at length it embraces the 
 whole globe which we inhabit. To know is as natural 
 to the mind as to see is to the eye; and knowledge 
 is itself an ultimate end. But though this may be 
 esteemed an ultimate and sufficient end, the study of 
 history is important to various purposes. Few pursuits 
 tend more to enlarge the mind. It gives us, and it 
 only can give us, an extended knowledge of human 
 nature ; not human nature as it exists in one age or 
 climate or particular spot of earth, but human nature 
 under all the various circumstances by which it can be 
 affected. It shows us what is radical and what is 
 adventitious. It shows us that man is still man, in 
 Turkey and in Lapland, as a vassal in Eussia, or a mem- 
 ber of a wandering tribe in India, in ancient Athens or 
 modern Eome ; yet that his character is susceptible of 
 violent changes, and becomes moulded into infinite 
 diversities by the influence of government, climate, civ- 
 ilization, wealth, and poverty. By showing us how 
 man has acted, it shows us to a certain degree how he 
 will ever act in given circumstances ; and general rules 
 and maxims are drawn from it for the service of the 
 lawgiver and the statesman. 
 
 Here I must observe, however, with regard to events, 
 that a knowledge of history does not seem to give us 
 any great advantage in foreseeing and preparing for 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 397 
 
 them. The deepest politician, with all his knowledge 
 of the revolutions of past ages, could probably no more 
 have predicted the course and termination of the late 
 French revolution than a common man. The state of 
 our own national debt has baffled calculation, — the 
 course of ages has presented nothing like it. Who 
 could have pronounced that the struggle of the Ameri- 
 cans would be successful, that of the Poles unsuccess- 
 ful ? Human characters, indeed, act always alike ; but 
 events depend upon circumstances as well as charac- 
 ters, and circumstances are infinitely various and 
 changed by the slightest causes. A battle won or lost 
 may decide the fate of an empire ; but a battle may be 
 won or " lost by a shower of snow being blown to the 
 east or the west, b} r a horse (the general's) losing his 
 shoe, by a bullet or an arrow taking a direction a tenth 
 part of an inch one way or the other. — The whole 
 course of the French affairs might have been changed 
 if the king had not stopped to breakfast, or if the post- 
 master of Varennes had not happened to know him. 
 These are particulars which no man can foresee ; and 
 therefore no man can with precision foresee events. 
 
 The rising up of certain characters at particular peri- 
 ods ranks among those unforeseen circumstances that 
 powerfully influence events. Often does a single man, 
 as Epaminondas, illustrate his country, and leave a 
 long track of light after him to future ages ; and who 
 
398 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 can tell how much even America owed to the accident 
 of being served by such a man as Washington ? There 
 are always many probable events. All that history 
 enables the politician to do is to predict that one or 
 other of them will take place. If so and so, it will be 
 this ; if so and so, it will be that ; but which, he can- 
 not tell. There are always combinations of circum- 
 stances which have never met before from the creation 
 of the world, and which mock all power of calculation. 
 But let the circumstances be known, and the characters 
 upon the stage, and history will tell what to expect 
 from them. It will tell him with certainty, for 
 instance, that a treaty extorted by force from distress 
 will be broken when opportunity offers; that if the 
 church and the monarch are united they will oppress, 
 if at variance they will divide, the people ; that a pow- 
 erful nation will make its advantage of the divisions of 
 a weaker which applies for its assistance. 
 
 It is another advantage of history that it stores the 
 mind with facts that apply to most subjects which 
 occur in conversation among enlightened people ; 
 whether morals, commerce, languages, polite literature, 
 be the object of discussion, it is history that must sup- 
 ply her large storehouse of proofs and illustrations. A 
 man or a woman may decline without blame many 
 subjects of literature ; but to be ignorant of history is 
 not permitted to any of a cultivated mind. It may be 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 399 
 
 reckoned among its advantages, that this study natu- 
 rally increases the love of every man to his country. 
 "We can only love what we know ; it is by becoming 
 acquainted with the long line of patriots, heroes, and 
 distinguished men, that we learn to love the country 
 which has produced them. 
 
 But I must conclude this letter, already perhaps too 
 long, though I have not got to the end of my subject ; 
 it will give me soon another opportunity of subscribing 
 
 myself 
 
 Your ever affectionate friend. 
 
 LETTER II. 
 
 I LEFT off, my dear Lydia, with mentioning, among 
 the advantages of an acquaintance with history, that it 
 fosters the sentiments of patriotism. 
 
 What is a man's country ? To the unlettered peas- 
 ant, who has never left his native village, that village is 
 his country, and consequently all of it he can love. 
 The man who mixes in the world, and has a large 
 acquaintance with the characters existing along with 
 himself upon the stage of it, has a wider range. His 
 idea of a country extends to its civil polity, its military 
 triumphs, the eloquence of its courts, and the splendor 
 of its capital. All the great and good characters he is 
 
400 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 acquainted with swell his idea of its importance, and 
 endear to him the society of which he is a member ; 
 but how wonderfully does this idea expand, and how 
 majestic a form does it put on, when History conducts 
 our retrospective view through the past ages ! How 
 much more has the man to love, how much to interest 
 him in his country, in whom her image is identified 
 with the virtues of an Alfred, with the exploits of the 
 Henrys and Edwards, with the fame and fortunes of 
 the Sydneys and Hampdens, the Lockes and Miltons, 
 who have illustrated her annals ! Like a man of noble 
 birth who walks up and down in a long gallery of por- 
 traits, and is able to say, " This my progenitor was 
 admiral in such a fight ; that, my great-uncle, was 
 general in such an engagement ; he on the right hand 
 held the seals in such a reign ; that lady in so singular 
 a costume was a celebrated beauty two hundred years 
 ago ; this little man in the black cap and peaked beard 
 was one of the luminaries of his age, and suffered for 
 his religion " ; — he learns to value himself upon his 
 ancestry, and to feel interested for the honor and pros- 
 perity of the whole line of descendants. Could a 
 Swiss, think you, be so good a patriot, who had never 
 heard the name of William Tell ? or the Hollander 
 who should be unacquainted with the glorious strug- 
 gle which freed his nation from the tyranny of the 
 Duke of Alva ? 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 401 
 
 The Englishman conversant in history has been long 
 acquainted with his country. He knew her in the 
 infancy of her greatness ; has seen her, perhaps, in the 
 wattled huts and slender canoes in which Caesar dis- 
 covered her ; he has watched her rising fortunes, has 
 trembled at her dangers, rejoiced at her deliverances, 
 and shared with honest pride triumphs that were cele- 
 brated ages before he was born ; he has traced her 
 gradual improvement through many a dark and turbu- 
 lent period, many a storm of civil warfare, to the fair 
 reign of her liberty and law, to the fulness of her pros- 
 perity and the amplitude of her fame. 
 
 Or should our patriot have his lot cast in some age 
 and country which has declined from this high station 
 of pre-eminence ; should he observe the gathering 
 glooms of superstition and ignorance ready to close 
 again over the bright horizon ; should Liberty lie pros- 
 trate at the feet of a despot, and the golden stream of 
 commerce, diverted into other channels, leave nothing 
 but beggary and wretchedness around him, — even 
 then, in these ebbing fortunes of his country, History, 
 like a faithful metre, would tell him how high the tide 
 had once risen ; he would not tread unconsciously the 
 ground where the Muses and the Arts had once 
 resided, like the goat that stupidly browses upon the 
 fane of Minerva. Even the name of his country will 
 be dear and venerable to him. He will muse over her 
 
402 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 fallen greatness, sit down under the shade of her never- 
 dying laurels, build his little, cottage amidst the ruins 
 of her towers and temples, and contemplate with ten- 
 derness and respect the decaying age of his once illus- 
 trious parent. 
 
 But if an acquaintance with history thus increases a 
 rational love of our country, it also tends to check 
 those low, illiberal, vulgar prejudices which adhere to 
 the uninformed of every nation. Travelling will also 
 cure them: but to travel is not within the power of 
 every one. There is no use, but a great deal of harm, 
 in fostering a contempt for other nations ; in an arro- 
 gant assumption of superiority, and the clownish sneer 
 of ignorance at everything in laws, government, or 
 manners, which is not fashioned after our partial ideas 
 and familiar usages. A well-informed person will not 
 be apt to exclaim at every event out of the common 
 way, that nothing like it has ever happened since the 
 creation of the world, that such atrocities are totally 
 unheard of in any age or nation ; — sentiments we have 
 all of us so often heard of late on the subject of the 
 French revolution : when in fact we can scarcely open 
 a page of their history without being struck with simi- 
 lar and equal enormities. Indeed, party spirit is very 
 much cooled and checked by an acquaintance with the 
 events of past times. 
 
 When we see the mixed and imperfect virtue of the 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 403 
 
 most distinguished characters; the variety of motives, 
 some pure and some impure, which influence political 
 conduct ; the partial success of the wisest schemes, and 
 the frequent failure of the fairest hopes; — we shall 
 find it more difficult to choose a side, and to keep up 
 an interest towards it in our minds, than to restrain 
 our feelings and language within the bounds of good 
 sense and moderation. This, by the way, makes it par- 
 ticularly proper that ladies who interest themselves in 
 the events of public life should have their minds culti- 
 vated by an acquaintance with history, without which 
 they are apt to let the whole warmth of their natures 
 flow out, upon party matters, in an ardor more honest 
 than wise, more zealous than candid. 
 
 With regard to the moral uses of history, what has 
 just been mentioned may stand for one. It serves also 
 by exercise to strengthen the moral feelings. The 
 traits of generosity, heroism, disinterestedness, magna- 
 nimity, are scattered over it like sparkling gems, and 
 arrest the attention of the. most common reader. It is 
 wonderfully interesting to follow the revolutions of a 
 great state, particularly when they lead to the success- 
 ful termination of some glorious contest. Is it true ? — 
 a child asks, when you tell him a wonderful story that 
 strikes his imagination. The writer of fiction has the 
 unlimited command of events and of characters; yet 
 that single circumstance of truth, that the events re- 
 
404 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 lated really came to pa^s, that the heroes brought upon 
 the stage really existed, counterbalances, with re- 
 spect to interest, all the privileges of the former, and in 
 a mind a little accustomed to exertion will throw the 
 advantage on the side of the historian. 
 
 The more History approaches to Biography the more 
 interest it excites. Where the materials are meagre 
 and scanty, the antiquarian and the chronologer may 
 dwell upon the page ; but it will seldom excite the 
 glow of admiration or draw the delicious tear of sensi- 
 bility. I must acknowledge, however, in order to be 
 candid, that the emotions excited by the actions of our 
 species are not always of so pleasing or so edifying a 
 nature. The miseries and the vices of man form a 
 large part of the picture of human society : the pure 
 mind is disgusted by depravity, the existence of which 
 it could not have imagined to itself; and the feeling 
 heart is cruelly lacerated by the sad repetition of 
 wrongs and oppression, chains and slaughter, sack and 
 massacre, which assail it in every page : — till the mind 
 has gained some strength, so frightful a picture should 
 hardly be presented to it. Chosen periods of history 
 may be selected for youth, as the society of chosen 
 characters precedes in well-regulated education a more 
 indiscriminate acquaintance with the world. In favor 
 of a more extended view, I can only say that truth is 
 truth, — man must be shown as the being he really is, 
 
OX THE USES OF HISTORY. 405 
 
 or no real knowledge is gained. If a young person 
 were to read only the Beauties of History, or, according 
 to Madame Genlis's scheme, stories and characters in 
 which all that was vicious should be left out, he might 
 as well, for any real acquaintance with life he would 
 gain, have been reading all the while Sir Charles Gran- 
 dison or the Princess of Cleves. 
 
 One consoling idea will present itself with no small 
 degree of probability on comparing the annals of past 
 and present times, — that of a tendency to ameliora- 
 tion ; at least it is evidently found in those countries 
 with which we are most connected. But the only 
 balm that can be poured with full effect into the feel- 
 ing mind, which bleeds for the folly and wickedness 
 of man, is the belief that all events are directed and 
 controlled by supreme wisdom and goodness. Without 
 this persuasion, the world becomes a desert, and its 
 devastators the wolves and tigers that prowl over it. 
 
 It is needless to insist on the uses of history to those 
 whose situation in life gives them room to expect that 
 their actions may one day become the objects of it. 
 Besides the immediate necessity to them of the knowl- 
 edge it supplies, it affords the strongest motives for 
 their conduct of hope and fear. The solemn award, 
 the incorruptible tribunal, and the severe, soul-searching 
 inquisition of Posterity, is calculated to strike an awe 
 into their souls. They cannot take refuge in oblivion ; 
 
406 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 it is not permitted them to die : — they may be the 
 objects of gratitude or detestation as long as the world 
 stands. They may natter themselves that they have 
 silenced the voice of truth ; they may forbid news- 
 papers and pamphlets aud conversation; — an unseen 
 hand is all the while tracing out their history, and 
 often their minutest actions, in indelible characters ; 
 and it will soon be held up for the judgment of the 
 world at large. 
 
 Lastly, this permanency of human characters tends 
 to cherish in the mind the hope and belief of an exist- 
 ence after death. If we had no notices from the page 
 of history of those races of men that have lived before 
 us, they would seem to be completely swept away ; 
 and we should no more think of inquiring what human 
 beings filled our places upon the earth a thousand har- 
 vests ago, than we should think about the generations 
 of cattle which at that time grazed the marshes of the 
 Tiber, or the venerable ancestors of the goats that are 
 browsing upon Mount Hymettus ; — no vestige would 
 remain of one any more than of the other, and we 
 might more pardonably fall into the opinion that they 
 both had shared a similar fate. But when we see illus- 
 trious characters continuing to live on in the eye of 
 posterity, their memories still fresh, and their noble 
 actions shining with all the vivid coloring of truth and 
 reality ages after the very dust of their tombs is scat- 
 
OX THE USES OF HISTORY. 407 
 
 tered, high conceptions kindle within us ; and, feeling 
 one immortality, we are led to hope for another. We 
 find it hard to persuade ourselves that the man who, 
 like Antoninus or Socrates, fills the world with the 
 sweet perfume of his virtue, the martyr or the patriot 
 to whom posterity is doing the justice which was 
 denied him by his contemporaries, should all the while 
 himself be blotted out of existence, that he should be 
 benefiting mankind and doing good so long after he is 
 capable of receiving any, that we should be so well 
 acquainted with him, and that he should never know 
 anything of us. That one who is an active agent in 
 the world, instructing, informing it, inspiring friend- 
 ship, making disciples, should be nothing, — this does 
 not seem probable; the records of time suggest to us 
 eternity. — Farewell. 
 
 LETTER III. 
 
 My dear Lydia, — We have considered the uses 
 of History , I would now direct your attention to those 
 collateral branches of science which are necessary for 
 the profitable understanding of it. It is impossible to 
 understand one thing well without understanding to a 
 certain degree many other things ; there is a mutual 
 dependence between all parts of knowledge. This is 
 
 
408 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the reason that a child never fully comprehends what 
 lie is taught : he receives an idea, but not the full idea, 
 perhaps not the principal, of what you want to teach 
 him. But as his mind opens, this idea enlarges and 
 receives accessory ideas, till slowly and by degrees he 
 is master of the whole. This is particularly the case in 
 History. You may recollect, probably, that the mere 
 adventure was all you entered into, in those portions of 
 it which were presented to you at a very early age. 
 You could understand nothing of the springs of action, 
 nothing of the connection of events with the intrigues 
 of cabinets, with religion, with commerce ; nothing of 
 the state of the world at different periods of society 
 and improvement ; and as little could you grasp the 
 measured distances of time and space which are set 
 between them. This you could not do, not because the 
 history was not related with clearness, but because you 
 were destitute of other knowledge. 
 
 The first studies which present themselves as ac- 
 cessories in this light are Geography and Chronology, 
 which have been called the two eyes of History. 
 "When was it done ? where was it done ? are the two 
 first questions you would ask concerning any fact that 
 was related to you. Without these two particulars 
 there can be no precision or clearness. 
 
 Geography is best learned along with history ; for if 
 the first explains history, the latter gives interest to 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 409 
 
 geography, which without it is but a dry list of names. 
 For this reason if a young person begin with ancient 
 history, I should think it advisable, after a slight 
 general acquaintance with the globe, to confine his 
 geography to the period and country of which he is 
 reading ; and it would be a desirable thing to have 
 maps adapted to each remarkable period in the great 
 empires of the world. These should not contain any 
 towns or be divided into any provinces which were not 
 known at that period. A map of Egypt, for instance, 
 calculated for its ancient monarchy, should have Mem- 
 phis marked on it, but not Alexandria, because the two 
 capitals did not exist together. A map- of Judea for 
 the time of Solomon, or any period of its monarchy, 
 should not exhibit the name of Samaria, nor the vil- 
 lages of Bethany and Nazareth: but each countiy 
 should have the towns and divisions, as far as they 
 are known, calculated for the period the map was 
 meant to illustrate. Thus geography, civil geography, 
 would be seen to grow out of history ; and the mere 
 view of the map would suggest the political state of 
 the world at any period. 
 
 It would be a pleasing speculation to see how the 
 arbitrary divisions of kingdoms and provinces vary, 
 and become obsolete, and large towns flourish and fall 
 again into ruins ; while the great natural features, the 
 mountains, rivers, and seas, remain unchanged, by 
 
 VOL. II. 18 
 
410 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 whatever names we please to call them, whatever 
 empire encloses them within its temporary boundaries. 
 "We have, it is true, ancient and modern maps; but 
 the one set includes every period from the Flood to the 
 provinciating the Roman Empire under Trajan, and 
 the other takes in all the rest. About half a dozen 
 sets for the ancient states and empires, and as many 
 for the modern, would be sufficient to exhibit the most 
 important changes, and would be as many as we should 
 be able to give with any clearness. The young student 
 should make it an invariable rule never to read history 
 without a map before him ; to which should be added 
 plans of towns, harbors, etc. These should be con- 
 veniently placed under the eye, separate if possible 
 from the book he is reading, that by frequent glancing 
 upon them the image of the country may be indelibly 
 impressed on his imagination. 
 
 Besides the necessity of maps for understanding 
 history, the memory is wonderfully assisted by the 
 local association which they supply. The battles of 
 Issus and the Granicus will not be confounded by those 
 who have taken the pains to trace the rivers on whose 
 banks they were fought : the exploits of Hannibal are 
 connected with a view of the Alps, and the idea of 
 Leonidas is inseparable from the straits of Thermopylae. 
 The greater accuracy of maps, and still more the facil- 
 ity, from the arts of printing and engraving, of procur- 
 
OX THE USES OF HISTORY. 411 
 
 ing them, is an advantage the moderns have over the 
 ancients. They have been perfected by slow degrees. 
 The Egyptians and Chaldeans studied the science of 
 mensuration ; and the first map — rude enough no 
 doubt — is said to have been made by order of Sesos- 
 tris when he became master of Egypt. Commerce 
 and war have been the two parents of this science. 
 Pharaoh Necho ordered the Phoenicians whom he sent 
 round Africa to make a survey of the coast. Tins 
 they finished in three years. Darius caused the Ethi- 
 opic Sea and the mouth of the Indus to be surveyed. 
 That maps were known in Greece you no doubt recol- 
 lect from the pretty story of Socrates and Alcibiades. 
 Anaximander, a disciple of Thales, is said to have 
 made the first sphere, and first delineated what was 
 then known of the countries of the earth. He flour- 
 ished 547 years before Christ. Herodotus mentions 
 a map of brass or copper which was presented by 
 Aristagoras, tyrant of Miletus, to Cleomenes, king of 
 Sparta, in which he had described the known world 
 with its seas and rivers. Alexander the Great in his 
 expedition into Asia took two geographers with him ; 
 and from their itineraries many things have been 
 copied by succeeding writers. 
 
 From Greece the science of geography passed to 
 Eome. The enlightened policy of the Eomans cul- 
 tivated it as a powerful means of extending and 
 
412 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 securing their dominion. One of the first things they 
 did was to make roads, for which it was necessary to 
 have the country measured. They had a custom when 
 they had conquered a country to have a painted map 
 of it always carried aloft in their triumphs. The great 
 historian Polybius reconnoitered under a commission 
 from Scipio Emilianus the coasts of Africa, Spain, and 
 France, and measured the distances of Hannibal's 
 march over the Alps and Pyrenees. Julius Caesar 
 employed men of science to survey and measure the 
 globe; and his own Commentaries show his attention 
 to this part of knowledge. Strabo, a great geographer 
 whose works are extant, flourished under Augustus • 
 Pomponius Mela in the first century. 
 
 Many of the Roman itineraries which are still ex- 
 tant show the systematic care which they bestow on a 
 science so necessary for the orderly distribution and 
 government of their large dominions. But still it was 
 late before geography was settled upon its true basis, — 
 astronomical observations. The greater part of the 
 early maps were laid down in a very loose, inaccurate 
 manner; and where particular parts were done with 
 the greatest care, yet if the longitude and latitude were 
 wanting, their relative situation to the rest of the earth 
 could not be known. Some attempts had indeed been 
 made by Hipparchus and Possidonius, Greek philos- 
 ophers, to settle the parallels of latitude by the length 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 413 
 
 of the days ; but the foundation they had laid was 
 neglected till the time of Ptolemy, who nourished at 
 Alexandria about 150 years after Christ, under Adrian 
 and Antoninus Pius. This is he from whom the 
 Ptolemaic system took its name. He diligently com- 
 pared and revised the ancient maps and charts, cor- 
 recting their errors and supplying their defects by 
 the reports of travellers and navigators, the measured 
 or reputed distances of maps and itineraries, and 
 astronomical calculations, all digested together ; he 
 reduced geography to a regular system, and laid down 
 the situation of places according to minutes and de- 
 grees of longitude and latitude as we now have them. 
 His maps were in general use till the last three or four 
 centuries, in which time the progress of the moderns 
 in the knowledge of the globe we inhabit has thrown 
 at a great distance all the ancient geographers. 
 
 We are now, some few breaks and chasms excepted, 
 pretty well acquainted with the outline of the globe, 
 and with those parts of it with which we are connected 
 by our commercial or political relations ; but we are 
 still profoundly ignorant of the interior of Africa, and 
 imperfectly acquainted with that of South America 
 and the western part of North America. AYe know 
 little of Thibet and the central parts of Asia, and have 
 as yet only touched upon the great continent of New 
 Holland. 
 
414 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 The best ancient maps are those of D'Anville. It 
 has required great learning and proportionate skill to 
 bring together the scattered notices which are found 
 in various authors, and to fix the position of places 
 which have been long ago destroyed; very often the 
 geographer has no other guide than the relation of the 
 historian that such a place is within six or eight days' 
 journey from another place. In some instances the 
 maps of Ptolemy are lately come into repute again, — 
 as in his delineation of the course of the Niger, which 
 is thought to be favored by modern discoveries. Major 
 Eennel has done much to improve the geography of 
 India. 
 
 There are many valuable maps scattered in voyages 
 and travels, and many of the atlases contain a collec- 
 tion sufficient for all common purposes; but a complete 
 collection of the best maps and charts, with plans of 
 harbors, towns, etc., becomes an object of even princely 
 expense. The French took the lead in this, as in some 
 other branches of science. The late Empress of Russia 
 caused a geographical survey to be taken of her domin- 
 ions, which has much improved our knowledge of the 
 northeastern regions of Europe and Asia. We have 
 now, however, both single maps and atlases which yield 
 to none in accuracy or elegance. 
 
 Yours affectionately. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 415 
 
 LETTER IV. 
 
 Dear Lydia, — Geography addresses itself to the 
 eye, and is easily comprehended ; to give a clear idea 
 of Chronology is somewhat more difficult. It is easy 
 to define it by saying it gives an answer to the ques- 
 tion, When was it done ? but the meaning of the when 
 is not quite so obvious. A date is a very artificial 
 thing, and the world had existed for a long course 
 of centuries before men were aware of its use and 
 necessity. When is a relative term ; the most natural 
 application of it is, How long ago, reckoning backwards 
 from the present moment ? Thus if you were to ask 
 an Indian when such an event happened, he would 
 probably say, So many harvests ago, when I could but 
 just reach the boughs of yonder tree ; in the time of 
 my father, grandfather, great-grandfather ; still making 
 the time then present to him the date from which he 
 sets out. Even where a different method is well un- 
 derstood, we use in more familiar life this natural kind 
 of chronology, — The year before I was married, — 
 w 7 hen Henry, who is now five years old, was born, — 
 the winter of the hard frost. These are the epochs 
 which mark the annals of domestic life more readily 
 and with greater clearness, so far as the real idea of 
 time is concerned, than the year of our Lord, as long 
 
416 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 as these are all within the circle of our personal rec- 
 ollection. But when events are recorded, the relater 
 may be forgotten, and the when again occurs : " "When 
 did the historian live ? I understand the relative 
 chronology of his narration ; I know how the events 
 of it follow one another ; but what is their relation to 
 general chronology, to time as it relates to me and to 
 other events ? " 
 
 To know the transactions of a particular reign — that 
 of Cyrus, for instance — in the regular order in which 
 they happened in that reign, but not to know where 
 to place them with respect to the history of other times 
 and nations, is as if we had a very accurate map of a 
 small island existing somewhere in the boundless ocean, 
 and could lay down all the bearings and distances of 
 its several towns and villages, but for want of its longi- 
 tude and latitude were ignoraut of the relative position 
 of the island itself. Chronology supplies this longitude 
 and latitude, and fixes every event to its precise point 
 in the chart of universal time. It supplies a common 
 measure by which I may compare the relater of an 
 event with myself, and his now or ten years ago with 
 the present now or ten years, reckoning from the time 
 in which I live. 
 
 In order to find such a common measure, men have 
 been led by degrees to fix upon some one known event, 
 and to make that the centre from which, by regular 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 417 
 
 distances, the different periods of time are reckoned, 
 instead of making the present time, which is always 
 varying, and every man's own existence, the centre. 
 
 The first approach to such a mode of computing time 
 is to date by the reigns of kings ; which, being public 
 objects of great notoriety, seem to offer themselves 
 with great advantage for such a purpose. The Scrip- 
 ture history, which is the earliest of histories, has no 
 other than this kind of successive dates : * Now it 
 came to pass in the fifth year of the king Hezekiah " ; 
 "And the time that Solomon reigned in Jerusalem 
 over all Israel was forty years ; and Solomon slept 
 with his fathers, and Behoboam his son reigned in his 
 stead." From this method a regular chronology might 
 certainly be deduced if we had the whole unbroken 
 series ; but unfortunately there are many gaps and 
 chasms in history, and you easily see that if any links 
 of the chain are wanting, the whole computation is 
 rendered imperfect. Besides, it requires a tedious cal- 
 culation to bring it into comparison with other histo- 
 ries and events. To say that an event happened in the 
 tenth year of the reign of King Solomon gives you 
 only an idea of the time relative to the histories of that 
 king, but leaves you quite in the dark as to its relation 
 with the time you live in, or with the events of the 
 Eoman history. 
 
 We want, therefore, an universal date, like a lofty 
 
 18* AA 
 
418 "WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 obelisk seen by all the country round, from and to 
 which every distance should be measured. The most 
 obvious that offers itself for this purpose is the creation 
 of the world, an event equally interesting to all ; to us 
 the beginning of time, and from which, therefore, time 
 would flow regularly down in an unbroken stream from 
 the earliest to the latest generations of the human race. 
 This would probably, therefore, have been made use of, 
 if the- date of the creation itself could be ascertained 
 with any exactness ; but as chronologers differ by more 
 than a thousand years as to the time of that event, it is 
 necessary previously to mention what system is made 
 use of, which renders this era obscure and incon- 
 venient. It has therefore been found more convenient, 
 in fact, to take some known event within the limit of 
 well-authenticated history, and to reckon from that 
 fixed point backwards and -forwards. As we cannot 
 find the head of the river, and know not its termina- 
 tion, we must raise a pillar upon its banks and measure 
 our distances from that, both up and down the stream. 
 This event ought to be important, conspicuous, and as 
 interesting as possible, that it may be generally 
 received ; for it would spare a great deal of trouble in 
 computation, if all the world would make use of the 
 same date. This, however, has never been the case, 
 chance and national vanity having had their full share 
 in settling them. 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 419 
 
 The Greeks reckoned by olympiads, but. not till more 
 than sixty years after the death of Alexander the 
 Great. The Olympic games were the most brilliant 
 assembly in Greece. The Greeks were very fond of 
 them; they began 776 years before Christ, and each 
 olympiad includes four years. Some of the earlier 
 Greek historians digested their histories by ages, or by 
 the succession of the priestesses of Juno at Argos ; oth- 
 ers by the archons of Athens, or the kings of Lacedse- 
 mon. Thucydides uses simply the beginning of the 
 Peloponnesian war, the subject of his history ; for, 
 writing to his contemporaries, it seems not to have 
 occurred to him that another date would ever be neces- 
 sary. The Arundelian marbles, composed sixty years 
 after the death of Alexander the Great, reckon back- 
 wards from the then present time. 
 
 The Eoman era was the building of their city, — the 
 eternal city, as they loved to call it. 
 
 The Mahometans date from the Hegira, or flight of 
 Mahomet from Mecca — his birthplace — to Medina' 
 A. D. 622 ; and they have this advantage, that they 
 began almost immediately to use it. 
 
 The era used all over the Christian world is the 
 birth of Christ. This was adopted as a date about 
 A. D. 360 ; and though there is an uncertainty of a few 
 years, which are in dispute, the accuracy is sufficient 
 for any present purpose. 
 
 * 
 
420 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 The reign of Nabonassar, the first king of Babylon, 
 of Yesdigerd, the last king of Persia, — who was con- 
 quered by the Saracens, — and of the Seleucidae of 
 Syria, have likewise furnished eras. 
 
 Julius Scaliger formed an era which he called the 
 Julian period ; being a cycle of 7980 years, produced 
 by multiplying several cycles into one another, so as to 
 carry us back to a period 764 years before the creation 
 of the world. This era, standing out of all history like 
 the fulcrum which Archimedes wished for, and inde- 
 pendent of variation or possibility of mistake, was a 
 very grand idea ; and in measuring everything by 
 itself, measured it by the eternal truth of the laws of 
 the lieavenly bodies. But it is not greatly employed, 
 the common era serving all ordinary purposes. In 
 modern histories the olympiads, Boman eras, and oth- 
 ers, are reduced in the margin to the year of our Lord, 
 or of the creation. 
 
 Such is the nature of eras, now in such common use 
 that we can with difficulty conceive the confusion in 
 which, for want of them, all the early part of history is 
 involved, and the strenuous labors of the most learned 
 men, which have been employed in arranging them, 
 and reducing history to the order in whioh we now 
 have it. 
 
 The earliest history which we possess, as we have 
 before observed, is that of the Jewish Scriptures ; these 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 421 
 
 carry tis from the creation to about the time of Herod- 
 otus. Having no date, we are obliged to compute from 
 generations, and to take the reigns of kings where they 
 are given. But a great schism occurs at the very out- 
 set. The Septuagint translation of the Mosaic history 
 into Greek, which was made by order of Ptolemy Phila- 
 delphus, differs from the Hebrew text by 1400 years 
 from the creation to the birth of Abraham. 
 
 The chronology of the Assyrian and Babylonish 
 monarchies is involved in inextricable difficulties ; nor 
 are we successful in harmonizing the Greek with the 
 Oriental writers of history. The Persian historians 
 make no mention of the defeat of Xerxes by the 
 Greeks, or that of Darius by Alexander. All nations 
 have had the vanity to make their origin mount as 
 high as possible ; and they have often invented series of 
 kings, or have reckoned the contemporary individuals 
 of different dynasties as following each other in regular 
 succession, as if one should take the kings of the Hep- 
 tarchy singly instead of together. 
 
 You will perhaps ask, If we have no eras, what have 
 we to reckon* by ? We have generations and succes- 
 sions of kings. Sir Isaac Newton, who joined wonder- 
 ful sagacity to profound learning and astronomical 
 skill, made very great reforms in the ancient chronol- 
 ogy. He pointed out the difference between genera- 
 tions and successions of kings. A generation is not 
 
422 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 the life of a man, it is the time that elapses before a 
 man sees his successor ; and this, reckoning to the 
 birth of the eldest son, is estimated at about thirty 
 years. The succession of kings would seem, at first 
 sight to be the same, and so it had been reckoned ; but 
 Xewton corrected it, on the principle that kings are 
 often cut off prematurely in turbulent times, or are 
 succeeded either by their brothers or by their uncles, 
 or others older than themselves. The lines of kings of 
 France, England, and other countries within the range 
 of exact chronology, confirmed this principle ; he there- 
 fore rectified all the ancient chronology according to it, 
 and with the assistance of astronomical observations he 
 found reason to allow as the average length of a reign, 
 about eighteen or twenty years. - 
 
 But, after all, great part of the chronology of ancient 
 history is founded upon conjecture and clouded with 
 uncertainty. 
 
 Although I recommend to vou a constant attention 
 to chronology, I do not think it desirable to load your 
 memory with a great number of specific dates, both 
 because it would be too great a burden on the reten- 
 tive powers, and because it is, after all, not the best 
 way of attaining clear ideas on the subject of history. 
 In order to do this it is necessary to have in your mind 
 the relative situation of other countries at the time of 
 any event recorded in one of them. For instance, if 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 423 
 
 you have got by heart the dates of the accession of the 
 kings of Europe, and want to know whether John lived 
 at the time of the Crusades, and in what state the 
 Greek empire was, you cannot tell without an arith- 
 metical process, which, perhaps, you may not be quick 
 enough to make. You cannot tell whether Constanti- 
 nople had been taken by the Turks when the Sicilian 
 Vespers happened ; for each fact is insulated in your 
 mind, and, indeed, your dates give you only the dry 
 catalogue of accessions. Nay, you may read separate 
 histories, and yet not bring them together, if the 
 countries be remote. Each exists in your mind sepa- 
 rately, and you have at no time the state of the world. 
 But you ought to have an idea at once of the whole 
 world, as far as history will give it. You do not see 
 truly what the Greeks were, except you know that the 
 British Isles were then barbarous. 
 
 A few dates, therefore, perfectly learned, may suffice, 
 and will serve as landmarks to prevent your going far 
 astray in the rest ; but it will be highly useful to con- 
 nect the histories you read in such a manner in your 
 own mind that you may be able to refer from one to the 
 other, and form them all into a whole. For this pur- 
 pose it is very desirable to observe and retain in your 
 memory certain coincidences which may link, as it 
 were, two nations together. Thus you may remember 
 that Haroun al Easchid sent to Charlemagne the first 
 
424 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 clock that was seen in Europe. If you are reading the 
 history of Greece when it nourished most, and want to 
 know what the Romans were doing at the same time, 
 you may recollect that they sent to Greece for instruc- 
 tion when they wanted to draw up the laws of the 
 Twelve Tables. Solon and Croesus connect the history 
 of Lesser Asia with that of Greece. Egbert was 
 brought up in the court of Charlemagne. Philip 
 Augustus of France and Richard I. of England fought 
 in the same crusade against Saladin. Queen Elizabeth 
 received the French ambassador in deep mourning after 
 the massacre of St. Bartholomew. 
 
 It may be desirable to keep one kingdom as a 
 metre for the rest. Take for this purpose first the 
 Jews, then the Greek, the Romans, and, because it is 
 so, our own country ; then harmonize and connect all 
 the other dates with these. 
 
 That the literary history of a nation may be con- 
 nected with the political, study also biography, and 
 endeavor to link men of science and literature, and 
 artists, with political characters. Thus Hippocrates 
 was sent for to the plague of Athens ; Leonardo da 
 Vinci died in the arms of Francis I. Often an anec- 
 dote, a smart saying, will indissolubly fix a date. 
 
 Sometimes you may take a long reign, as that of 
 Elizabeth or Louis XIV., and, making that the centre, 
 mark all the contemporary sovereigns, and also the 
 
ON THE USES OF HISTORY. 425 
 
 men of letters. Another way is to make a line of life, 
 composed of distinguished characters who touch each 
 other. It will be of great service to you in this view 
 to study Dr. Priestley's biographical chart ; and of still 
 greater to make one for yourself, and fill it by degrees 
 as your acquaintance with history extends. Marriages 
 connect the history of different kingdoms ; as those of 
 Mary Queen of Scots and Francis II., Philip II. and 
 Mary of England. 
 
 These are the kind of dates which make everything 
 lie in the mind in its proper order ; they also take fast 
 hold of it. If you forget the exact date by years, you 
 have nothing left ; but of circumstances you never lose 
 all idea. As we come nearer to our own times, dates 
 must be more exact. A few years more or less signify 
 little in the destruction of Troy, if we knew it exactly; 
 but the conclusion of the American war should be 
 accurately known, or it will throw other events near it 
 into confusion. 
 
 In so extensive a study no auxiliary is to be 
 neglected : poetry impresses both geography and his- 
 tory in a most agreeable manner upon those who are 
 fond of it ; thus : — 
 
 ". . . . fair Austria spreads her mournful charms, 
 The queen, the beauty, sets the world in arms." 
 
 A short, lively character in verse is never forgotten : — 
 
 " From Macedonia's madman to the Swede." 
 
426 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 Historic plays deeply impress, but should be read with 
 caution. We take our ideas from Shakespeare more 
 than history ; he, indeed, copied pretty exactly from the 
 chroniclers, but other dramatic writers have taken 
 great liberties both with characters and events. 
 
 Painting is a good auxiliary; and though in this 
 country history is generally read before we see pic- 
 tures, they mutually illustrate one another. Painting 
 also shows the costume. In France, where pictures are 
 more accessible, there is more knowledge generally dif- 
 fused of common history. Many have learned Scrip- 
 ture history from -the rude figures on Dutch tiles. 
 
 I will conclude with the remark, that, though the 
 beginner in history may and ought to study dates and 
 epochs for his guidance, chronology can never be fully 
 possessed till after history has been long studied and 
 carefully digested. 
 
 Farewell ; and believe me 
 
 Yours affectionately. 
 
FASHION. 427 
 
 FASHION. 
 
 A VISION. 
 
 YOUNG as you are, my dear Flora, you cannot but 
 have noticed the eagerness with which questions 
 relative to civil liberty have been discussed in every 
 society. To break .the shackles of oppression and 
 assert the native rights of man is esteemed by many 
 among the noblest efforts of heroic virtue ; but vain is 
 the possession of political liberty if there exists a 
 tyrant of our own creation, who, without law or reason, 
 or even external force, exercises over us the most 
 despotic authority ; whose jurisdiction is extended over 
 every part of private and domestic life ; controls our 
 pleasures, fashions our garb, cramps our motions, fills 
 our lives with vain cares and restless anxiety. The 
 worst slavery is that which we voluntarily impose 
 upon ourselves ; and no chains are so cumbrous and 
 galling as those which we are pleased to wear by way 
 of grace and ornament. — Musing upon this idea gave 
 rise to the following dream or vision : — 
 
 Methought I was in a country of the strangest and 
 most singular appearance I had ever beheld : the rivers 
 
428 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 were forced into jets cCeau and wasted in artificial 
 water- works ; the lakes were fashioned by the hand of 
 art; the roads were sanded with spar and gold-dust ; 
 the trees all bore the mark's of the shears, they were 
 bent and twisted into the most whimsical forms, and 
 connected together by festoons of ribbon and silk 
 fringe ; the wild flowers were transplanted into vases 
 of fine china, and painted with artificial white and red. 
 
 The disposition of the ground was full of fancy, but 
 grotesque and unnatural in the highest degree ; it was 
 all highly cultivated, and bore the marks of wonderful 
 industry ; but among its various productions I could 
 hardly discern one that was of any use. 
 
 My attention, however, was soon called off from the 
 scenes of inanimate life by the view of the inhabitants, 
 whose form and appearance was so very preposterous, 
 and, indeed, so unlike anything human, that I fancied 
 myself transported to the country of 
 
 "The Anthropophagi, and men whose heads 
 Do grow beneath their shoulders " : 
 
 for the heads of many of these people were swelled to 
 an astonishing size, and seemed to be placed in the 
 middle of their bodies. Of some, the ears were dis- 
 tended till they hung upon the shoulders ; and of 
 others, the shoulders were raised till they met the ears : 
 there was not one free from some deformity, or mon- 
 
FASHION. 429 
 
 strous swelling, in one part or other; either it was 
 before, or behind, or about the hips, or the arms were 
 puffed up to an unusual thickness, or the throat was 
 increased to the same size with the poor objects once 
 exhibited under the name of the monstrous Craws : 
 some had no necks ; others had necks that reached 
 almost to their waists ; the bodies of some were bloated 
 up to such a size that they could scarcely enter a pair 
 of folding doors ; and others had suddenly sprouted up 
 to such a disproportionate height that they could not 
 sit upright in their loftiest carriages. 
 
 Many shocked me with the appearance of being 
 nearly cut in two, like a wasp ; and I was alarmed at 
 the sight of a few, in whose faces, otherwise very fair 
 and healthy, I discovered an eruption of black spots, 
 which I feared was the fatal sign of some pestilential 
 disorder. 
 
 The sight of these various and uncouth deformities 
 inspired me with much pity ; which, however, was soon 
 changed into disgust, when I perceived, with great sur- 
 prise, that every one of these unfortunate men and 
 women was exceeding proud of his own peculiar de- 
 formity, and endeavored to attract my notice to it as 
 much as possible. A lady, in particular, who had a 
 swelling under her throat, larger than any goitre in the 
 Valais, and which, I am sure, by its enormous projec- 
 tion, prevented her from seeing the path she walked in, 
 
430 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 brushed by me with an air of the greatest self-compla- 
 cency, and asked me if she was not a charming 
 creature. 
 
 But by this time I found myself surrounded by an 
 immense crowd, who were all pressing along in one 
 direction; and I perceived that I was drawn along 
 with them by an irresistible impulse, which grew 
 stronger every moment. I asked whither we were 
 hurrying with such eager steps, and was told that we 
 were going to the court of Queen Fashion, the great 
 Diana whom all the world worshippeth. I would have 
 retired, but felt myself impelled to go on, though with- 
 out being sensible of any outward force. 
 
 When I came to the royal presence, I was aston- 
 ished at the magnificence I saw around me. The 
 queen was sitting on a throne, elegantly fashioned in 
 the form of a shell, and inlaid with gems and mother- 
 of-pearl. It was supported by a camelion, formed of a 
 single emerald. She was dressed in a light robe of 
 changeable silk, which fluttered about her in a profu- 
 sion of fantastic folds, that imitated the form of clouds, 
 and like them were continually changing their appear- 
 ance. In one hand she held a rouge-box, and in the 
 other one of those optical glasses which distort figures 
 in length or in breadth according to the position in 
 which they are held. At the foot of the throne was 
 displayed a profusion of the richest productions of 
 
FASHION. 431 
 
 every quarter of the globe, tributes from land and sea, 
 from every animal and plant; perfumes, sparkling 
 stones, drops of pearl, chains of gold, webs of the finest 
 linen; wreaths of flowers, the produce of art, which 
 vied with the most delicate productions of nature ; for- 
 ests of feathers waving their brilliant colors in the air 
 and canopying the throne; glossy silks, network of 
 lace, silvery ermine, soft folds of vegetable wool, rus- 
 tling paper, and shining spangles ; — the whole inter- 
 mixed with pendants and streamers of the gayest tinc- 
 tured ribbon. 
 
 All these together made so brilliant an appearance 
 that my eyes were at first dazzled, and it was some 
 time before I recovered myself enough to observe the 
 ceremonial of the court. Near the throne, and its 
 chief supports, stood the queen's two prime- ministers, 
 Caprice on one side and Vanity on the other. Two 
 officers seemed chiefly busy among the attendants. 
 One of them was a man with a pair of shears in his 
 hand and a goose by his side, — a mysterious emblem, 
 of which I could not fathom the meaning : he sat cross- 
 legged, like the great lama of the Tartars. He was 
 busily employed in cutting out coats and garments ; 
 not, however, like Dorcas, for the poor, — nor, indeed, 
 did they seem intended for any mortal whatever, so ill 
 were they adapted to the shape of the human body. 
 Some of the garments were extravagantly large, others 
 
432 WORKS OF MBS. BARBAULD. 
 
 as preposterously small : of others, it was difficult to 
 guess to 'what part of the person they were meant to be 
 applied. Here were coverings, which did not cover; 
 ornaments, which disfigured ; and defences against the 
 weather, more slight and delicate than what they were 
 meant to defend ; but all were eagerly caught up, with- 
 out distinction, by the crowds of votaries who were 
 waiting to receive them. 
 
 The other officer was dressed in a white succinct 
 linen garment, like a priest of the lower order. He 
 moved in a cloud of incense more highly scented than 
 the breezes of Arabia ; he carried a tuft of the whitest 
 down of the swan in one hand, and in the other a small 
 iron instrument, heated red-hot, which he brandished 
 in the air. It was with infinite concern I beheld the 
 Graces bound at the foot of the throne, and obliged to 
 officiate as handmaids under the direction of these two 
 officers. 
 
 I now began to inquire by what laws this queen gov- 
 erned her subjects, but soon found her administration 
 was that of the most arbitrary tyrant ever known. 
 Her laws are exactly the reverse of those of the Medes 
 and Persians, for they are changed every day and 
 every hour : and what makes the matter still more per- 
 plexing, they are in no written code, nor even made 
 public by proclamation : they are only promulgated by 
 whispers, an obscure sign or turn of the eye, which 
 
FASHION. 433 
 
 those only who have the happiness to stand near the 
 queen can catch with any degree of precision : yet the 
 smallest transgression of the laws is severely punished ; 
 not indeed by fines or imprisonment, but by a sort 
 of interdict similar to that which in superstitious times 
 was laid by the Pope on disobedient princes, and 
 which operated in such a manner that no one would 
 eat, drink, or associate with the forlorn culprit, and he 
 was almost deprived of the use of fire and water. 
 
 This difficulty of discovering the will of the goddess 
 occasioned so much crowding to be near the throne, 
 such jostling and elbowing of one another, that I was 
 glad to retire and observe what I could among the 
 scattered crowd ; and the first thing I took notice of 
 was various instruments of torture which everywhere 
 met my eyes. Torture has, in most other governments 
 of Europe, been abolished by the mild spirit of the 
 times ; but it reigns here in full force and terror. I 
 saw officers of this cruel court employed in boring 
 holes with red-hot wires in the ears, nose, and various 
 parts of the body, and then distending them with the 
 weight of metal chains or stones, cut into a variety 
 of shapes ; some had invented a contrivance for cramp- 
 ing the feet in such a manner that many are lamed 
 by it for their whole lives. Others I saw, slender and 
 delicate in their form and naturally nimble as the 
 young antelope, who were obliged to carry constantly 
 
 VOL. II. 19 . B B 
 
43-4 WOKKS OF MKS. BABBAULD. 
 
 about with them a cumbrous, unwieldy machine of a 
 pyramidal form, several ells in circumference. 
 
 But the most common, and one of the worst instru- 
 ments of torture, was a small machine armed with fish- 
 bone and ribs of steel, wide at top but extremely small 
 at bottom. In this detestable invention the queen 
 orders the bodies of her female subjects to be enclosed : 
 it is then, by means of silk cords, drawn closer and 
 closer at intervals, till the unhappy victim can scarcely 
 breathe ; and they have found the exact point that can 
 be borne without fainting, which, however, not unfre- 
 quently happens. The flesh is often excoriated, and 
 the very ribs bent, by this cruel process. Yet, what 
 astonished me more than all the rest, these sufferings 
 are borne with a degree of fortitude which, in a better 
 cause, would immortalize a hero or canonize a saint. 
 The Spartan who suffered the fox to eat into his vitals 
 did not bear pain with greater resolution ; and as the 
 Spartan mothers brought their children to be scourged 
 at the altar of Diana, so do the mothers here bring 
 their children, — and chiefly those whose tender sex 
 one would suppose excused them from such exertions, 
 — and early inure them to this cruel discipline. But 
 neither Spartan, nor Dervise, nor Bonze, nor Carthu- 
 sian monk, ever exercised more unrelenting severities 
 over their bodies than these young zealots : indeed, 
 the first lesson they are taught is a surrender of their 
 
FASHION. 435 
 
 own inclinations and an implicit obedience to the com- 
 mands of the Goddess. 
 
 But they have, besides, a more solemn kind of dedi- 
 cation, something similar to the rite of confirmation. 
 When a young woman approaches the marriageable 
 age, she is led to the altar : her hair, which before fell 
 loosely about her shoulders, is tied up in a tress, sweet 
 oils drawn from roses and spices are poured upon it; 
 she is involved in a cloud of scented dust, and invested 
 with ornaments under which she can scarcely move. 
 After this solemn ceremony, which is generally con- 
 cluded by a dance round the altar, the damsel is 
 obliged to a still stricter conformity than before to the 
 laws and customs of the court, and any deviation from 
 them is severely punished. 
 
 The courtiers of Alexander, it is said, flattered him 
 by carrying their heads on one side, because he had 
 the misfortune to have a wry neck; but all adulation 
 is poor compared to what is practised in this court. 
 Sometimes the queen will lisp and stammer, — and 
 then none of her attendants can speak plain ; some- 
 times she chooses to totter as she walks, — and then 
 they are seized with sudden lameness : according as 
 she appears half undressed, or veiled from head to foot, 
 her subjects become a procession of nuns, or a troop 
 of Bacchanalian nymphs. I could not help observing, 
 however, that those who stood at the greatest distance 
 
436 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 from the throne were the most extravagant in their 
 imitation. 
 
 I was by this time thoroughly disgusted with the 
 character of a sovereign at once so light and so cruel, 
 so fickle and so arbitrary, when one who stood next me 
 bade me attend to still greater contradictions in her 
 character, and such as might serve to soften the indig- 
 nation I had conceived. He took me to the back 
 of the throne and made me take notice of a number 
 of industrious poor, to whom the queen was secretly 
 distributing bread. I saw the Genius of Commerce 
 doim* her homage, and discovered the British cross 
 woven into the insignia of her dignity. 
 
 While I was musing on these things a murmur arose 
 among the crowd, and I was told that a young votary 
 was approaching. I turned my head and saw a light 
 figure, the folds of whose garment showed the elegant 
 turn of the limbs they covered, tripping along with the 
 step of a nymph. I soon knew it to be yourself: — 
 I saw you led up to the altar, — I saw your beautiful 
 hair tied in artificial tresses, and its bright gloss 
 stained with colored dust, — I even fancied I beheld 
 produced the dreadful instrument of torture ; — my 
 emotions increased, — I cried out, " spare her ! spare 
 my Flora ! " with so much vehemence that I awaked. 
 
DESCRIPTION OF TWO SISTERS. 437 
 
 DESCRIPTION OF TWO SISTERS. 
 
 DEAR COUSIN, — Our conversation last night 
 upon beauties put me in mind of two charming 
 sisters, with whom I think you must be acquainted as 
 well as I, though they were not in your list of belles. 
 Their charms are very different, however. The young- 
 est is generally thought the handsomest, and yet other 
 beauties shine more in her company than in her sis- 
 ter's, whether it be that her gay looks diffuse a lustre 
 on all around, while her sister's beauty has an air of 
 majesty which strikes with awe, or that the younger 
 sets every one she is with in the fairest light, and dis- 
 covers perfections which were before concealed, whilst 
 the elder seems only solicitous to set off her own per- 
 son and throw a shade upon every one else ; yet — 
 what you will think strange — it is she who is gener- 
 ally preferred for a confidant ; for her sister, with all her 
 amiable qualities, cannot keep a secret. 
 
 what an eye the younger has ! as if she could look 
 a person through ; yet modest is her countenance, even 
 and composed her pace, and she treads so softly, — 
 "smooth sliding without step," as Milton says. She 
 
438 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 seldom meets you without blushing, — her sister can- 
 not blush. She dresses very gayly, sometimes in 
 clouded silks, which, indeed, she first brought into fash- 
 ion ; but blue is her most becoming color, and she gen- 
 erally appears in it. Now and then she wears a very 
 rich scarf or sash braided with all manner of colors. 
 
 The elder, like the Spanish ladies, dresses in black, 
 in order to set off her jewels, of which she has a 
 
 greater number than Lady , and, if I might judge, 
 
 much finer. I cannot pretend to give you a catalogue 
 of them ; they are of all sizes, and set in all figures. 
 Her enemies say she does well to adorn her dusky 
 brow with brilliants, and that without them she would 
 be but little taken notice of; but certain it is, she has 
 inspired more serious and Enthusiastic passions than 
 her sister, whose admirers are often fops more in love 
 with themselves than with her. A learned clergyman 
 some time ago fell deeply in love with her, and wrote a 
 fine copy of verses on her ; and, what was worst, her sis- 
 ter could not go into company without hearing them. 
 
 One thing they quite agree in, — not to go out of 
 their way or alter their pace for anybody. Once or 
 twice, indeed, I have heard that the younger .... but 
 it was a great while ago, and she was not so old then, 
 and so was more complaisant. She is generally waked 
 with a fine concert of music ; the other prefers a good 
 solo 
 
DESCRIPTION OF TWO SISTERS. 439 
 
 But see ! the younger beauty looks pale and sick ! 
 She faints, — she is certainly dying ! a slight blush 
 still upon her cheek ! it fades, fast, fast. — She is gone, 
 yet a sweet smile overspreads her countenance. Will 
 she revive ? Shall / ever see her again ? Who can 
 tell ine ? 
 
440 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 ON FRIENDSHIP. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP is that warm, tender, lively attach- 
 ment which takes place between persons in whom 
 a similarity of tastes and manners, joined to frequent 
 intercourse, has produced an habitual fondness for each 
 other. It is not among our duties, for it does not flow 
 from any of the necessary relations of society ; but it 
 has its duties when voluntarily entered into. In its 
 highest perfection it can only, I believe, subsist 
 between two ; for that unlimited confidence and per- 
 fect conformity of inclinations which it requires cannot 
 well be found in a larger number. Besides, one sucli 
 friendship fills the heart, and leaves no want or desire 
 after another. 
 
 Friendship, where it is quite sincere and affectionate, 
 free from affectation or interested views, is one of the 
 greatest blessings of life. It doubles our joys, and it 
 lessens our sorrows, when we are able to pour both 
 into the bosom of one who takes the tenderest part in 
 all our interests, who is to us another self. We love to 
 communicate all our feelings ; and it is in the highest 
 decree grateful where we can do it to one who will 
 
ON FRIENDSHIP. 441 
 
 enter into them all; who takes an interest in every- 
 thing that befalls ns ; before whom we can freely 
 indulge even our little weaknesses and foibles, and 
 show our minds, as it were, undressed ; who will take 
 part in all our schemes, advise us in any emergency; 
 who rejoices in our company, and who, we are sure, 
 thinks of us in our absence. 
 
 With regard to the choice of friends, there is little to 
 say ; for a friend was never chosen. A secret sympa- 
 thy, the attraction of a thousand nameless qualities, a 
 charm in the expression of the countenance, even in 
 the voice or the manner, a similarity of circumstances, 
 — these are the things that begin attachment, which is 
 fostered by being in a situation which gives occasion 
 for frequent intercourse ; and this depends upon 
 chance. Eeason and prudence have, however, much to 
 do in restraining our choice of improper or dangerous 
 friends. They are improper if our line of life and pur- 
 suits are so totally different as to make it improbable 
 we shall long keep up an intimacy, at least without 
 sacrificing to it connections of duty ; they are danger- 
 ous if they are in any respect vicious. 
 
 It has been made a question whether friendship can 
 subsist among the vicious. If by vicious be meant 
 those who are void of the social, generous, and affec- 
 tionate feelings, it is most certain it cannot, because 
 these make the very essence of it. But it is very pos- 
 
 19* 
 
442 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 sible for persons to possess fine feelings without that 
 steady principle which alone constitutes virtue ; and it 
 does not appear why such may not feel a real friend- 
 ship. It will not, indeed, be so likely to be lasting, 
 and is often succeeded by bitter enmities. 
 
 The duties of friendship are, first, sincere and disin- 
 terested affection. This seems self-evident ; and yet 
 there are many who pretend to love their friends, when 
 at the same time they only take delight in them, as we 
 delight in a fine voice or a good picture. If you Jove 
 your friend, you will love him when his powers of 
 pleasing and entertaining you have given way to mal- 
 ady or depression of spirit. You will study Jiis inter- 
 est and satisfaction ; you will be ready to resign his 
 company, to promote his advantageous settlement at a 
 distant residence, to favor his connection with other 
 friends. These are the tests of true affection ; without 
 such a disposition you may enjoy your friend, but you 
 do not love him. 
 
 Xext, friendship requires pure sincerity and the 
 most unreserved confidence. Sincerity every man has 
 a right to expect from us, but every man has not a 
 right to our confidence. This is the sacred and pecu- 
 liar privilege of friendship ; and so essential is it to the 
 very idea of this connection, that even to serve a friend 
 without giving him our confidence is but going half- 
 way ; it may command gratitude, but will not produce 
 
ON FRIENDSHIP. 443 
 
 love. Above all things, the general tenor of our 
 thoughts and feelings must be shown to our friends 
 exactly as they are ; without any of those glosses, col- 
 orings, and disguises, which we do, and partly must, 
 put on in our commerce with the world. 
 
 Another duty resulting from this confidence is invio- 
 lable secrecy in what has been intrusted to us. To 
 every one, indeed, we owe secrecy in what we are for- 
 mally intrusted with ; but, with regard to a friend, this 
 extends to the concealing everything which in the ful- 
 ness of his heart and in the freedom of unguarded con- 
 versation he has let drop, if you have the least idea it 
 may in any manner injure or offend him. In short, 
 you are to consider yourself as always, to him, under 
 an implied promise of secrecy; and should even the 
 friendship dissolve, it would be in the highest degree 
 ungenerous to consider this obligation as dissolved 
 with it. 
 
 In the next place, a friend has a right to our best 
 advice on every emergency ; and this, even though we 
 run the risk of offending him by our frankness. 
 Friends should consider themselves as the sacred guar- 
 dians of each other's virtue ; and the noblest testimony 
 they can give of their affection is the correction of the 
 faults of those they love. But this generous solicitude 
 must be distinguished from a teazing, captious, or too 
 officious notice of all the little defects and frailties 
 
444 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 which their close intercourse with each other brings 
 continually into view : these must be overlooked or 
 borne with ; for as we are not perfect ourselves, we 
 have no right to expect our friends should be so. 
 
 Friends are most easily acquired in youth, but they 
 are likewise most easily lost; the petulance and im- 
 petuosity of that age, the eager competitions and rival- 
 ships of an active life, and more especially the various 
 changes in rank and fortune, connections, party, opin- 
 ions, or local situations, burst asunder or silently 
 untwist the far greater part of those friendships which, 
 in the warmth of youthful attachment, we had fondly 
 promised ourselves should be indissoluble. 
 
 Happy is he to whom in the maturer season of life 
 there remains one tried and constant friend. Their 
 affection, mellowed by the hand of time, endeared by 
 the recollection of enjoyments, toils, and even suffer- 
 ings shared together, becomes the balm, the consola- 
 tion, and the treasure of life. Such a friendship is 
 
 inestimable, and should be preserved with the utmost 
 
 < 
 care ; for it is utterly impossible for any art ever to 
 
 transfer to another the effect of all those accumulated 
 
 associations which endear to us the friend *of our early 
 
 years. 
 
 These considerations should likewise induce us to 
 
 show a tender indulgence to our friends, even for those 
 
 faults which most sensibly wound the feeling heart, — 
 
ON FRIENDSHIP. 445 
 
 a growing coldness and indifference. These may be 
 brought on by many circumstances which do not 
 imply a bad heart ; and provided we do not by bitter 
 complaints and an open rupture preclude the possibil- 
 ity of a return, in a more favorable conjuncture the 
 friendships of our youth may knit again, and be culti- 
 vated with more genuine tenderness than ever. 
 
 I must here take occasion to observe, that there is 
 nothing young people ought to guard against with more 
 care than a parade of feeling and a profusion of exag- 
 gerated protestations. These may sometimes proceed 
 from the amiable warmth of a youthful heart ; but 
 they much oftener flow from the affectation of senti- 
 ment, which is both contemptible and morally wrong. 
 
 All that has been said of the duties or of the pleas- 
 ures of friendship in its most exalted sense is applicable 
 in a proportionate degree to every connection in which 
 there exists any portion of this generous affection. So 
 far as it does exist in the various relations of life, so 
 far it renders them interesting and valuable ; and were 
 the capacity for it taken away from the human heart, it 
 would find a dreary void, and starve amidst all the means 
 of enjoyment the world could pour out before it. 
 
446 ' WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 CONFIDENCE AND MODESTY: 
 
 A FABLE. 
 
 WHEN the Gods, knowing it to be for the benefit 
 of mortals that the few should lead and that 
 the many should follow, sent down into this lower 
 world Ignorance and Wisdom, they decreed to each 
 of them an attendant and guide, to conduct their steps 
 and facilitate their introduction. To Wisdom they 
 gave Confidence, and Ignorance they placed under the 
 guidance of Modesty. Thus paired, the parties trav- 
 elled about the world for some time with mutual satis- 
 faction. 
 
 Wisdom, whose eye was clear and piercing, and com- 
 manded a long reach of country, followed her conductor 
 with pleasure and alacrity. She saw the windings of 
 the road at a great distance; her foot was firm, her 
 ardor was unbroken, and she ascended the hill or 
 traversed the plain with speed and safety. 
 
 Ignorance, on the other hand, was short-sighted and 
 timid. When she came to a spot where the road 
 branched out in different directions, or was obliged to 
 pick her way through the obscurity of the tangled 
 
CONFIDENCE AND MODESTY. 447 
 
 thicket, she was frequently at a loss, and was accus- 
 tomed to stop till some one appeared, to give her 
 the necessary information, which the interesting coun- 
 tenance of her companion seldom failed to procure 
 her. 
 
 Wisdom in the mean time, led by a natural instinct, 
 advanced towards the temple of Science and Eternal 
 Truth. For some time the way lay plain before her, 
 and she followed her guide with unhesitating steps : 
 but she had not proceeded far before the paths grew 
 intricate and entangled; the meeting branches of the 
 trees spread darkness over her head, and steep moun- 
 tains barred her way, whose summits, lost in clouds, 
 ascended beyond the reach of mortal vision. At every 
 new turn of the road her guide urged her to proceed ; 
 but after advancing a little way, she was often obliged 
 to measure back her steps, and often found herself 
 involved in the mazes of a labyrinth which, after ex- 
 ercising her patience and her strength, ended but where 
 it began. 
 
 In the mean time Ignorance, who was naturally im- 
 patient, could but ill bear the continual doubts and 
 hesitation of her companion. She hated deliberation, 
 and could not submit to delay. At length it so hap- 
 pened that she found herself on a spot where three 
 ways met, and no indication was to be found which 
 might direct her to the right road. Modesty advised 
 
448 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 her to wait ; and she had waited till her patience was 
 exhausted. At that moment Confidence, who was in 
 disgrace with Wisdom for some false steps he had led 
 her into, and who had just been discarded from her 
 presence, came up, and offered himself to be her guide. 
 He was accepted. Under his auspices Ignorance, nat- 
 urally swift of foot, and who could at any time have 
 outrun Wisdom, boldly pressed forward, pleased and 
 satisfied with her new companion. He knocked at 
 every door, visited castle and convent, and introduced 
 his charge to many a society whence Wisdom found 
 herself excluded. 
 
 Modesty, in the mean time, finding she could be of 
 no further use to her charge, offered her services to 
 Wisdom. They were mutually pleased with each other, 
 and soon agreed never to separate. And ever since that 
 time Ignorance has been led by Confidence, and Mod- 
 esty has been found in the Society, of Wisdom. 
 
picnic. 449 
 
 MONKS 
 
 PRAY, mamma, what is the meaning of picnic ? 
 I have heard lately once or twice of a picnic 
 supper, and I cannot think what it means ; I looked 
 for the word in Johnson's Dictionary and could not 
 find it. 
 
 I should wonder if you had ; the word was not coined 
 in Johnson's time : and if it had, I believe he would 
 have disdained to insert it among the legitimate words 
 of the language. I cannot tell you the derivation of 
 the phrase ; I believe picnic was originally a cant word, 
 and was first applied to a supper or other meal in 
 which the entertainment is not provided by any one 
 person, but each of the guests furnishes his dish. In 
 a picnic supper one supplies the fowls, another the 
 fish, another the wine and fruit, etc. ; and they all sit 
 down together and enjoy it. 
 
 A very sociable way of making an entertainment. 
 
 Yes, and I would have you observe that the prin- 
 ciple of it may be extended to many other things. No 
 one has a right to be entertained gratis in society ; he 
 must expend if he wishes to enjoy. Conversation, 
 cc 
 
450 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 particularly, is a picnic feast, where every one is to 
 contribute something, according to his genius and 
 ability. Different talents and acquirements compose 
 the different dishes of entertainment, and the greater 
 variety the better; but every one must bring some- 
 thing, for society will not tolerate any one long who 
 lives wholly at the expense of his neighbors. Did not 
 you observe how agreeably we were entertained at 
 Lady Isabella's party last night ? 
 
 Yes : one of the young ladies sung, and another 
 exhibited her drawings ; and a gentleman told some 
 very good stories. 
 
 True : another lady who is very much in the fashion- 
 able world gave us a great deal of anecdote ; Dr. E., 
 who is just returned from the Continent, gave us an 
 interesting account of the state of Germany; and in 
 another part of the room a cluster was gathered round 
 an Edinburgh student and a young Oxonian, who were 
 holding a lively debate on the power of galvanism. 
 But Lady Isabella herself was the charm of the party. 
 
 I think she talked very little ; and I do not recollect 
 anything she said which was particularly striking. 
 
 That is true. But it was owing to her address and 
 attention to her company that others talked and were 
 heard by turns ; that the modest were encouraged and 
 drawn out, and those inclined to be noisy restrained 
 and kept in order. She blended and harmonized the 
 
picnic. 451 
 
 talents of each; brought those together who were 
 likely to be agreeable to each other, and gave us no 
 more of herself than was necessary to set off others. 
 I noticed particularly her good offices to an accom- 
 plished but very bashful lady and a reserved man of 
 science, who wished much to be known to one another, 
 but who would never have been so without her intro- 
 duction. As soon as she had fairly engaged them 
 in an interesting conversation, she left them, regard- 
 less of her own entertainment, and seated herself 
 
 by poor Mr. , purely because he was sitting in a 
 
 corner and no one attended to him. You know that 
 in chemical preparation two substances often require 
 a third to enable them to mix and unite together. 
 Lady Isabella possesses this amalgamating power : this 
 is what she brings to the picnic. I should add, that 
 two or three times I observed she dexterously changed 
 topics, and suppressed stories which were likely to 
 bear hard on the profession or connections of some of 
 the company. In short, the party which was so agree- 
 able under her harmonizing influence would have had 
 quite a different aspect without her. These merits, 
 however, might easily escape a young observer. But 
 
 I dare say you did not fail to notice Sir Henry B 's 
 
 lady, who was declaiming with so much enthusiasm, 
 in the midst of a circle of gentlemen which she had 
 drawn round her, upon the beau ideal. 
 
452 WORKS OF MRS. BAR_BAULD. 
 
 No, indeed, mamma, I never heard so much fire and 
 feeling : and what a flow of eloquent language ! I do 
 not wonder her eloquence was so much admired. 
 
 She has a great deal of eloquence and taste : she has 
 travelled, and is acquainted with the best works of art. 
 I am not sure, however, whether the gentlemen were 
 admiring most her declamation, or the fine turn of her 
 hands and arms. She has a different attitude for every 
 sentiment. Some observations which she made upon 
 the beauty of statues seemed to me to go to the verge 
 of what a modest female will allow herself to say upon 
 such subjects, — but she has travelled. She was sen- 
 sible that she could not fail to gain by the conversation 
 while beauty of form was the subject of it. 
 
 Pray what did , the great poet, bring to the pic- 
 nic, for I think he hardly opened his mouth ? 
 
 He brought his fame. Many would be gratified with 
 merely seeing him who had entertained them in their 
 closets; and he who had so entertained them had a 
 right to be himself entertained in that way which he 
 had no talent for joining in. Let every one, I repeat, 
 bring to the entertainment something of the best he 
 possesses, and the picnic table will seldom fail to afford 
 a plentiful banquet. 
 
LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 453 
 
 LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 
 
 MY DEAR SELIMA, — As you are now going 
 to quit the fostering cares of a mother, to enter, 
 young as you are, into the wide world, and conduct 
 yourself, by your owri prudence, I cannot forbear giving 
 you some parting advice in this important era of your 
 life. 
 
 Your extreme youth, and, permit me to add, the gid- 
 diness incident to that period, make me particularly 
 anxious for your welfare. In the first place, then, let 
 me beg you to remember that life is not to be spent 
 in running after your own tail. Remember you were 
 sent into the world to catch rats and mice. It is for 
 this you are furnished with sharp claws, whiskers to 
 improve your scent, and with such an elasticity and 
 spring in your limbs. Never lose sight of this great 
 end of your existence. When you and your sister are 
 jumping over my back and kicking and scratching one 
 another's noses, you are indulging the propensities of 
 3^our nature, and perfecting yourselves in agility and 
 dexterity ; but remember that these frolics are only 
 preparatory to the grand scene of action. Life is long, 
 
454 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 but youth is short. The gayety of the kitten will most 
 assuredly go off. In a few months, nay, even weeks, 
 those spirits and that playfulness, which now exhilarate 
 all who behold you, will subside ; and I beg you to 
 reflect how contemptible you will be, if you should 
 have the gravity of an old cat without that usefulness 
 which alone can insure respect and protection for your 
 maturer years. 
 
 In the first place, my dear child, obtain a command 
 over your appetites, and take care that no tempting 
 opportunity ever induces you to make free with the 
 pantry or larder of your mistress. You may possibly 
 slip in and out without observation ; you may lap a lit- 
 tle cream or run away with a chop without its being 
 missed ; but, depend upon it, such practices sooner or 
 later will be found out ; and if in a single instance you 
 are discovered, everything which is missing will be 
 charged upon you. If Betty or Mrs. Susan chooses to 
 regale herself with a cold breast of chicken which was 
 set by for supper, — you will have clawed it ; or a rasp- 
 berry cream, — you will have lapped it. Xor is this 
 all. If you have once thrown down a single cup in 
 your eagerness to get out of the store-room, every china 
 plate and dish that is ever broken in the house, you 
 will have broken it ; and though your back promises to 
 be pretty broad, it will not be broad enough for all the 
 mischief that will be laid upon it. Honesty, you will 
 find, is the best policy. 
 
LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 455 
 
 Kemember that the true pleasures of life consist in 
 the exertion of our own powers. If you were to feast 
 every day upon roasted partridges, from off Dresden 
 china, and dip your whiskers in syllabubs and creams, 
 it could never give you such true enjoyment as the 
 commonest food procured by the labor of your own 
 paws. \Y~hen you have once tasted the exquisite 
 pleasure of catching and playing with a mouse, yon 
 will despise the gratification of artificial dainties. 
 
 I do not with some moralists call cleanliness a half 
 virtue only. Remember it is one of the most essential 
 to your sex and station ; and if ever yon should fail in 
 it, I sincerely hope Mrs. Susan will bestow upon you a 
 good whipping. 
 
 Pray do not spit at strangers who do you the honor 
 to take notice of you. It is very uncivil behavior, and 
 I have often wondered that kittens of any breeding 
 should be guilty of it. 
 
 Avoid thrusting your nose into every closet and cup- 
 board, — unless indeed you smell mice ; in which case 
 it is very becoming. 
 
 Should you live, as I hope you will, to see the chil- 
 dren of your patroness, you must prepare yourself to 
 exercise that branch of fortitude which consists in 
 patient endurance ; for yon must expect to be lugged 
 about, pinched, and pulled by the tail, and played a 
 thousand tricks with, all which you must bear without 
 
456 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 putting out a claw ; for you may depend upon it, if 
 you attempt the least retaliation you will forever lose 
 the favor of your mistress. 
 
 Should there be favorites in the house, such as tame 
 birds, dormice, or a squirrel, great will be your tempta- 
 tions. In such a circumstance, if the cage hangs low 
 and the door happens to be left open, to govern your 
 appetite I know will be a difficult task. But remem- 
 ber that nothing is impossible to the governing mind ; 
 and that there are instances upon record of cats who 
 in the exercise of self-government have overcome the 
 strongest propensities of their nature. 
 
 If you would make yourself agreeable to your mis- 
 tress, you must observe times and seasons. You must 
 not startle her by jumping upon her in a rude manner ; 
 and above all, be sure to sheathe your claws when you 
 lay your paw upon her lap. 
 
 You have, like myself, been brought up in the coun- 
 try, and I fear you may regret the amusements it 
 affords; such as catching butterflies, climbing trees, 
 and watching birds from the windows, which I have 
 done with great delight for a whole morning together. 
 But these pleasures are not essential. A town life has 
 also its gratifications. You may make many pleasant 
 acquaintances in the neighboring courts and alleys. A 
 concert upon the tiles in a fine moonlight summer's 
 evening may at once gratify your ear and your social 
 
LETTER FROM GRIMALKIN TO SELIMA. 457 
 
 feelings. Rats and mice are to be met with every- 
 where ; and at any rate you have reason to be thankful 
 that so creditable a situation has been found for you, 
 without which you must have followed the fate of your 
 poor brothers, and with a stone about your neck have 
 been drowned in the next pond. 
 
 It is only when you have kittens yourself that you 
 will be able to appreciate the cares of a mother. How 
 unruly have you been when I wanted to wash your 
 face ! how undutiful in galloping about the room 
 instead of coming immediately when I called you ! 
 But nothing can subdue the affections of a parent. 
 Being grave and thoughtful in my nature, and having 
 the advantage of residing in a literary family, I have 
 mused deeply on the subject of education; I have 
 pored by moonlight over Locke and Edgeworth and 
 Mrs. Hamilton, and the laws of association ; but after 
 much cogitation I am only convinced of this, that kit- 
 tens will be kittens, and old cats old cats. May you, 
 my dear child, be an honor to all your relations, and to 
 the whole feline race. May you see your descendants 
 of the fiftieth generation ; and when you depart this 
 life, may the lamentations of your kindred exceed in 
 pathos the melody of an Irish howL 
 
 Signed by the paw of your affectionate mother, 
 
 Grimalkin. 
 
 VOL. II. 20 
 
458 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 ALLEGORY ON SLEEP. 
 
 MY DEAR MISS D ****, — The affection I 
 bear you, and the sincere regard I have for your 
 welfare, will, I hope, excuse the liberty I am going to 
 take in remonstrating against the indulgence of a too 
 partial affection which I see with sorrow is growing 
 upon you every day. 
 
 You start at the imputation : but hear me with 
 patience ; and if your own heart, your own reason, 
 does not bear witness to what I say, then blame my 
 suspicions and my freedom. 
 
 But need I say much to convince you of the power 
 this favored lover, whose name I will not mention, has 
 over you, when at this very moment he absorbs all 
 your faculties, and engrosses every power of your mind 
 to such a degree as leaves it doubtful whether this 
 friendly admonition will reach your ear, lost as you are 
 in the soft enchantment ? Is it not evident that in 
 his presence you are dead to everything around you ? 
 The voice of your nearest friend, your most sprightly 
 and once-loved amusements, cannot draw your atten- 
 tion ; you breathe, you exist, only for him. And when 
 
ALLEGORY ON SLEEP. 459 
 
 at length he has left you, do not I behold you languid, 
 pale, bearing in your eyes and your whole carriage the 
 marks of his power over you ? When we parted last 
 night, did not I see you impatient to sink into his 
 arms ? Have you never been caught reclined on his 
 bosom, on a soft carpet of flowers, on the banks of a 
 purling stream, where the murmuring of the waters, 
 the whispering of the trees, the silence and solitude 
 of the place, and the luxurious softness of everything 
 around you, favored his approach and disposed you to 
 listen to his addresses ? Nay, in that sacred temple 
 which ought to be dedicated to higher affections, has 
 he never stolen insensibly on your mind, and sealed 
 your ears against the voice of the preacher, though 
 never so persuasive ? Has not his influence over you 
 greatly increased within these few weeks ? Does he 
 not every day demand, do you not every day sacrifice 
 to him, a larger portion of your time ? 
 
 Not content with your devoting to him those hours 
 
 "When business, noise, and day are fled," 
 
 does he not encroach upon the morning watches, break 
 in upon your studies, and detain your mind from the 
 pursuit of knowledge and the pursuit of pleasure, — 
 of all pleasure but the enervating indulgence of your 
 passion ? 
 
 Diana, who still wishes to number you in her train, 
 
460 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 invites you to join in her lively sports ; for you Aurora 
 bathes the new-born rose in dew, and streaks the clouds 
 with gold and crimson ; and Youth and Health offer a 
 thousand innocent pleasures to your acceptance. 
 
 And, let me ask you, what can you find in the com- 
 pany of him with whom you are thus enamored, to 
 make you amends for all that you give up for his sake? 
 Does he entertain you with anything but the most 
 incoherent rhapsodies, the most romantic and visionary 
 tales ? To believe the strange, improbable, and con- 
 tradictory things he tells you requires a credulity 
 beyond that of an infant. If he has ever spoken 
 truth, it is mixed with so much falsehood and obscurity 
 that it is estimated the certain sign of a weak mind to 
 be much affected with what he says. 
 
 As I wish to draw a true portrait, I will by no means 
 disguise his good qualities ; and shall therefore allow 
 that he is a friend to the unhappy and the friendless, 
 that his breast is the only pillow for misfortune to 
 repose on, and that his approaches are so gentle and 
 insinuating as in some moments to be almost irresist- 
 ible. If he is at all disposed to partiality, it is in 
 favor of the poor and mean, with whom he is generally 
 thought to associate more readily than with the rich. 
 Yet he dispenses favors to all : and those who are most 
 disposed to rebel against his power and treat him with 
 contempt could never render themselves quite inde- 
 pendent of him. 
 
ALLEGORY ON SLEEP. 461 
 
 He is of a very ancient family, and came in long 
 before the Conquest. He has a' half-brother, somewhat 
 younger than himself, who has made his name very 
 famous in the world : he is a tall, meagre figure, with a 
 ghastly air and a most forbidding countenance ; he 
 delights in slaughter, and has destroyed more men than 
 Caesar or Alexander. 
 
 He who is the subject of my letter is fond of peace, 
 sleek and corpulent, with a mild heavy eye and a phys- 
 iognomy perfectly placid ; yet with all this opposition 
 of feature and character, there is such a resemblance 
 between them (as often happens in family likenesses), 
 that in some lights and attitudes you can scarce dis- 
 tinguish the one from the other. . 
 
 To finish the description of your lover, — he is gen- 
 erally crowned with flowers, but of the most languid 
 kind, such as poppies and cowslips ; and he is attended 
 by a number of servants, thin and light-footed, to 
 whom he does not give the same livery ; for some are 
 dressed in the gayest, others in the most gloomy habits 
 imaginable, but all fantastic. 
 
 He is subject to many strange antipathies, and as 
 strange likings. The warbling of the lark, to others 
 so agreeable, is to him the harshest discord, and Peter 
 could not start more at the crowing of a cock. The 
 slightest accident, the cry of an infant, a mouse behind 
 the wainscot, will oftentimes totally disconcert and put 
 
462 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 him to flight, and at other times he will not regard the 
 loudest thunder. His favorite animal is the dormouse, 
 and Ins music the dropping of water, the low tinkling 
 of a distant bell, the humming of bees, and the hollow 
 sound of the wind rustling through the trees. 
 
 But I have now said enough to let you into the true 
 character of this powerful enchanter. You will answer, 
 I know, to all this, that he begins by enslaving every 
 faculty that might resist him, and that his power must 
 be already broken before Eeason can exert herself. You 
 will perhaps likewise tell me (and I must acknowledge 
 the justice of the retort) that I myself, though my 
 situation affords a thousand reasons. to resist him which 
 do not take place with you, have been but too sensible 
 of his attractions. 
 
 With blushes I confess the charge. At this moment, 
 however, the charm is broken, and Eeason has her full 
 empire over me. Let me exhort you therefore .... 
 But why exhort you to what is already done ? for if this 
 letter has made its way to your ear, if your eye is now 
 perusing its contents, the spell is dissolved, and you are 
 no longer sunk in the embraces of Sleep. 
 
 
ON EXPENSE. 463 
 
 ON EXPENSE 
 
 A DIALOGUE. 
 
 YOU seem to be in a revery, Harriet ; or are you 
 tired with your long bustling walk through the 
 streets of London ? 
 
 Not at all, papa; but I was wondering at some- 
 thing. 
 
 A grown person even cannot walk through such a 
 metropolis without meeting with many things to won- 
 der at. But let us hear the particular subject of your 
 admiration j was it the height and circumference of St. 
 Paul's, or the automatons, or the magical effect of the 
 Panorama that has most struck you ? 
 
 No, papa ; but I was wondering how you who have 
 always so much money in your pockets can go through 
 the streets of London, all full of fine shops, and not 
 buy things ; I am sure if I had money I could not help 
 spending it all. 
 
 As you never have a great deal of money, and it is 
 given you only to please your fancy with, there is no 
 harm in your spending it in anything you have a mind 
 to; but it is very well for you and me too that the 
 
464 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 money does not burn in my pocket as it does in 
 yours. 
 
 No, to be sure you would not spend all your money 
 in those shops, because you must buy bread and meat ; 
 but you might spend a good deaL But you walk past 
 just as if you did not see them : you never stop to 
 give one look. Now tell me really, papa, can you 
 help wishing for all those pretty things that stand in 
 the shop windows ? 
 
 For all ! Would you have me wish for all of them ? 
 But I will answer you seriously. I do walk by these 
 tempting shops without wishing for anything, and in- 
 deed in general without seeing them. 
 
 "Well, that is because you are a man, and you do not 
 care for what I admire so very much. 
 
 No, there you are mistaken ; for, though I may not 
 admire them so very much as you say you do, there are 
 a vast number of things sold in London which it would 
 give me great pleasure to have in my possession. I 
 should greatly like one of Dollond's best reflecting 
 telescopes. I could lay out a great deal of money, if 
 I had it to spare, in books of botany and natural 
 history. Nay, I assure you I should by no means be 
 indifferent to the fine fruit exposed at the fruit- 
 shops ; the plums with the blue upon them as if 
 they were just taken from the tree, the luscious 
 hot-house grapes, and the melons and pine-apples. 
 
ON EXPENSE. 465 
 
 Believe me, I could eat these things with as good a 
 relish as you could. 
 
 Then how can you help buying them, when you have 
 money ; and especially, papa, how can you help think- 
 ing about them and wishing for them ? 
 
 London is the best place in the world to cure a 
 person of extravagance, and even of extravagant wishes. 
 I see so many costly things here which I know I could 
 not buy, even if I were to lay out all the money I have 
 in the world, that I never think of buying anything 
 which I do not really want. Our furniture, you know, 
 is old and plain. Perhaps if there were only a little 
 better furniture to be had, I might be tempted to 
 change it ; but when I see houses where a whole for- 
 tune is laid out in decorating a set of apartments, I am 
 content with chairs whose only use is to sit down upon, 
 and tables that were in fashion half a century ago. In 
 short, I have formed the habit of self-government, one 
 of the most useful powers a man can be possessed of. 
 Self-government belongs only to civilized man, — a 
 savage has no idea of it. A North American Indian 
 is temperate when he has no liquor; but as soon as 
 liquor is within his reach, he invariably drinks till he 
 is first furious and then insensible. He possesses no 
 power over himself, and he literally can no more 
 help it than iron can help being drawn by the load- 
 stone. 
 
 20* DD 
 
466 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 But he seldom gets liquor, so lie has not a habit of 
 drinking. 
 
 You are right ; he has not the habit of drinking, but 
 he wants the habit of self-control: this can only be 
 gained by being often in the midst of temptations, and 
 resisting them. This is the wholesome discipline of 
 the mind. The first time a man denies hirnself any- 
 thing he likes and which* it is in his power to procure, 
 there is a great struggle within him, and uneasy wishes 
 will disturb for some time the tranquillity of his mind. 
 He has gained the victory, but the enemy dies hard. 
 The next time he does not wish so much, but he still 
 thinks about it. After a while he does not think of 
 it ; he does not even see it. A person of moderate 
 fortune, like myself, who lives in a gay and splendid 
 metropolis, is accustomed to see every day a hun- 
 dred things which it would be madness to think of 
 buying. 
 
 Yes ; but if you were very rich, papa, — if you were 
 a lord ? 
 
 Ko man is so rich as to buy everything his un- 
 restrained fancy might prompt him to desire. Hounds 
 and horses, pictures and statues and buildings, will 
 exhaust any fortune. There is hardly any one taste 
 so simple or innocent but what a man might spend 
 his whole estate in it, if he were resolved to gratify it 
 to the utmost. A nobleman may just as easily ruin 
 
ON EXPENSE. 467 
 
 himself by extravagance as a private man, and indeed 
 many do so. 
 
 But if you were a king ? 
 
 If I were a king, the mischief would be much 
 greater; for I should ruin not only myself, but my 
 subjects. 
 
 A king could not hurt his subjects, however, with 
 buying toys or things to eat. 
 
 Indeed, but he might. What is a diamond but a 
 mere toy ? but a large diamond is an object of princely 
 expense. That called the Pitt diamond was valued at 
 £ 1,000,000. It was offered to George the Second, but 
 he wisely thought it too dear. The dress of the queen 
 of France was thought by the prudent decker a serious 
 object of expense in the revenues of that large king- 
 dom; and her extravagance and that of the king's 
 brothers had a great share in bringing on the calamities 
 of the kingdom. As to eating, you could gratify your- 
 self with laying out a shilling or two at the pastry- 
 cook's ; but Prince Potemkin, who had the. revenues 
 of the mighty empire of Russia at command, could 
 not please his appetite without his dish of sterlet soup, 
 which cost every time it was made above thirty pounds ; 
 and he would send one of his aids-de-camp an errand 
 from Yassy to Petersburg, a distance of nearly seven 
 hundred miles, to fetch him a tureen of it. He once 
 bought all the cherries of a tree in a greenhouse at 
 
468 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 about half a crown apiece. The Roman empire was 
 far richer than the Russian, and in the time of the 
 emperors was all under the power of one man. Yet 
 when they had such gluttons as. Yitellius and Helio- 
 gabalus, the revenue of whole provinces was hardly 
 sufficient to give them a dinner : they had tongues of 
 nightingales, and such kind of dishes, the value of 
 which was merely in the expense. 
 
 I think the throat of the poor little nightingales 
 might have given them much more pleasure than the 
 tongue. 
 
 True ; but the proverb says, The belly has no ears. 
 In modern Rome, Pope Adrian, a frugal Dutchman, 
 complained of the expense his predecessor, Leo X., was 
 at in peacock sausages. The expenses of Louis XIV. 
 were of a more elegant kind ; he was fond of fine tap- 
 estry, mirrors, gardens, statues, magnificent palaces. 
 These tastes were becoming in a great king, and would 
 have been serviceable to his kingdom if kept within 
 proper limits ; but he could not deny himself anything, 
 however extravagant, that it came in his mind to wish 
 for, and, indeed, would have imagined it beneath him 
 to think at all about the expense ; and therefore while 
 he was throwing up water fifty feet high at his palaces 
 of Versailles and Marli, and spouting it out of the 
 mouths of dolphins and tritons, thousands of his people 
 in the distant provinces were wanting bread. 
 
ON EXPENSE. 469 
 
 I am sure I would not have done so to please my 
 fancy. 
 
 Nor he neither, perhaps, if he had seen them ; but 
 these poor men and their families were a great way off, 
 and all the people about him looked pleased and 
 happy, and said he was the most generous prince the 
 world had ever seen. 
 
 Well, but if I had Aladdin's lamp I might have 
 everything I wished for. 
 
 I am glad at least I have driven you to fairyland. 
 You might, no doubt, with the lamp of Aladdin, or 
 Fortunatus's purse, have everything you wished for ; 
 but do you know what the consequences would be ? 
 
 Very pleasant, I should think. 
 
 On the contrary, you would become whimsical and 
 capricious, and would soon grow tired of everything. 
 We do not receive pleasure long from anything that is 
 not bought with our own labor ; this is one of those 
 permanent laws of nature which man cannot change, 
 and therefore pleasure and exertion will never be 
 separated even in imagination in a well-regulated 
 mind. I could tell you of a couple who received 
 more true enjoyment of their fortune than Aladdin 
 himself. 
 
 Pray do. 
 
 The couple I am thinking of lived about a century 
 ago in one of our rich trading towns, which was then 
 
470 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 just beginning to rise by manufacturing tapes and 
 inkle. They had married because they loved one 
 another ; they had very little to begin with, but they 
 were not afraid, because they were industrious. When 
 the husband had come to be the richest merchant in 
 the place, he took great pleasure in talking over his 
 small beginnings ; but lie used always to add, that, 
 poor as he was when he married, he would not have 
 taken a thousand pounds for the table his dame and he 
 ' ate their dinner from. 
 
 What ! had he so costly a table before he was grown 
 rich? 
 
 On the contrary, he had no table at all ; and his wife 
 and he used to sit close together, and place their dish 
 of pottage upon their knees ; their knees were the 
 table. They soon got forward in the world, as indus- 
 trious people generally do, and were enabled to pur- 
 chase one thing after another ; first, perhaps, a deal 
 table ; after a while a mahogany one ; then a sumptu- 
 ous sideboard. At first they sat on w T ooden benches ; 
 then they had two or three rush-bottomed chairs ; and 
 when they were rich enough to have an arm-chair for 
 the husband and another for a friend, to smoke their 
 pipes in, how magnificent they would think them- 
 selves ! At first they would treat a neighbor with a 
 slice of bread and cheese and a draught of beer; by 
 degrees with a good joint and a pudding; and at 
 
ON EXPENSE. 471 
 
 length with all the delicacies of a fashionable enter- 
 tainment; and all along they would be able to say, 
 " The blessing of God upon our own industry has pro- 
 cured us these things." By this means they would rel- 
 ish every gradation and increase of their enjoyments ; 
 whereas the man born to a fortune swallows his pleas- 
 ures whole, he does not taste them. Another inconven- 
 ience that attends the man who is born rich is, that he 
 has not early learned to deny himself. If I were a 
 nobleman, though I could not buy everything I might 
 fancy for myself, yet playthings for you would not 
 easily ruin me, and you would probably have a great 
 deal of pocket-money ; and you would grow up with a 
 confirmed habit of expense, and no ingenuity,, for you 
 would never try to make anything, or to find out 
 some substitute if you could not get just the thing 
 you wanted. That is a very fine cabinet of shells 
 which the young heiress showed you the other day ; 
 it is perfectly arranged and mounted with the ut- 
 most elegance, and yet I am sure she has not half 
 the pleasure in it which you have had with those 
 little drawers of shells of your own collecting, aided 
 by the occasional contributions of friends, which you 
 have arranged for yourself, and display with such tri- 
 umph. And now, to show you that I do sometimes 
 think of the pleasures of my dear girl, here is a play- 
 thing for you which I bought while you were chat- 
 
472 WORKS OF MRS. BARBAULD. 
 
 ting at the door of a shop with one of your youn^ 
 friends. 
 
 A magic-lantern ! How delightful S thank you, 
 papa ! Edward, come and look at my charming magic- 
 lantern. 
 
 THE END. 
 
 Cambridge : Electrotyped and Printed by Welch, Bigelow, & Co. 
 
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