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 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 (0 
 
Mr. Hunt is a man of the most indisputably superior worth; a Man of 
 
 Genius in a very strict sense of that word, and in all senses which it bears 
 
 or implies ; of brilliant, varied gifts ; of graceful fertility ; of clearness, loving- 
 
 ness, truthfulness ; of childlike, open character ; also of most pure and even 
 
 exemplary private deportment ; a man who can be other than loved only by 
 
 tliose who have not seen him, or seen him from a distance through a false 
 
 medium. 
 
 Thomas Carlvle. 
 
 (2) 
 
THE 
 
 Wishing-Cap Papers.. 
 
 LEIGH HUNT. 
 
 NOW FIRST COLLECTED. 
 
 / 
 
 Though I cannot promise as much entertainment, or as much elegance 
 as others have done, yet the reader may be assured he shall have as much 
 of both as I can. He shall, at least, find me alive while I study his 
 entertainment ; for I solemnly assure him I was never yet possessed of the 
 secret at once of writing and sleeping. 
 
 Goldsmith. 
 
 BOSTON: A 
 LEE AND SHEPARD, PUBLISHERS. 
 
 New York : 
 
 LEE, SHEPARD AND DILLINGHAM. 
 1873. 
 

 . W ^ 
 
 Entered, according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, 
 
 By lee and SHEPARD, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington. 
 
 Stereot3rped at the Boston Stereotype Foundry, 
 19 Spring Lane. 
 
TO THE READER 
 
 Not only those who, hke Lord Macaulay, '' have a 
 kindness for Mr. Leigh Hunt," but all lovers of the 
 pleasant art of essay writing, should find much to 
 amuse and intei*est them in this volume, which con- 
 tains articles, hitherto uncollected, on an agreeable 
 variety of subjects, from the Indicator, Examiner, 
 Literary Examiner, Companion, Tatler, London 
 Journal, Monthly Repository, New Monthly Maga- 
 zine, and Edinburgh Review. 
 
 Most of the Wishing-Cap Papers are written in 
 Leigh Hunt's happiest manner, and abound in rich 
 and felicitous descriptions of nature, in loving com- 
 ments on favorite authors and books, and in thought- 
 ful and good-natured speculations on human life. 
 Indeed, some of the essays in the collection are, 
 it seems to me, more terse in style, more vigor- 
 ous in thought, and more masculine in tone, 
 than even the best papers in the Indicator * or the 
 
 * Not the original edition of the Indicator, but a selection from that work 
 made by the author himself. 
 
6 TO THE READER. 
 
 Seer ; they show, moreover, that the genial essay- 
 ist had "true capabilities of wrath," and could battle 
 bravely for the right, as the hacks of the Toi-y press 
 learned to their cost. If, as M. Taine asserts, wit is 
 " the art of stating things in a pleasant way," this is 
 a very witty book, and Leigh Hunt is a great wit, for 
 almost all his sentences are charming examples of 
 the brilliant Frenchman's definition of wit. 
 
 Through the courtesy of Mr. James T. Fields, I 
 have had the opportunity of consulting Leigh Hunt's 
 own copies of the Tatler and the Literary Exami- 
 ner, containing some marginal emendations in the 
 author's own handwriting, to which the readers 
 of the Wishing-Cap Papers are indebted for sundry 
 valuable corrections, and for a few little characteristic 
 touches added to several of the chapters. 
 
 J. E. B. 
 
 Melrose, December 4, 1872. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 THE WISHING-CAP. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 I. Introduction. ii 
 
 II. A Walk in Covent Garden. . . .22 
 
 III. Piccadilly and the West End. . . 33 
 
 IV. A Walk in the City 43 
 
 V. Whitehall 52 
 
 VI. St. James's Park 64 
 
 VII. Spring 74 
 
 VIII. Rainy-day Poetry 81 
 
 IX. Eating and Drinking. .... 89 
 
 X. The Valley of Ladies 97 
 
 XI. Love and the Country 106 
 
 MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 Personal Reminiscences of Lords. . . '117 
 A Letter: On, To, and By the Book- Personage 
 
 KNOWN BY the NaME OF " ThE ReADER." . I24 
 
 Dr. Doddridge and the Ladies 138 
 
 Confectionery. 154 
 
 A Treatise on Devils 160 
 
 7 
 
8 CONTENTS. 
 
 A FEW Words on Angels 184 
 
 Child-bed : A Prose Poem 201 
 
 Rousseau's Pygmalion 203 
 
 On the Suburbs of Genoa and the Country 
 
 ABOUT London. ....... 213 
 
 Coffee-Houses and Smoking 246 
 
 Wit Made Easy, or a Hint to Word-catchers. 257 
 
 The Fencing-Master's Choice 262 
 
 Twilight Accused and Defended 266 
 
 Table Wits : A Breakfast 278 
 
 Going to the Play again. 288 
 
 Ladies' Bonnets in the Theatre. . . . 295 
 
 Moliere's Tartuffe 298 
 
 Hereditary House of Players 311 
 
 Madame Pasta 317 
 
 Madame Pasta in the White and Red Rose. . 331 
 
 On French Opera Dancing 337 
 
 Recollections of Old Actors 348 
 
 Clarendon's History of the Rebellion. . . 360 
 
 George Selwyn and his Contemporaries. . 388 
 
THE WISHING-CAP 
 
"At Maiano I wrote the articles which appeared in the Examiner, under the 
 title of the IVishing-Cap. Probably the reader knows nothing about them ; 
 but they contained some germs of a book he may not be unacquainted with, 
 called The Towft, as well as some articles since approved of in the volume en- 
 titled Me7t, PVomeit, and Books. 
 
 " The title was very genuine. When I put on my cap, and pitched myself in 
 imagination into the thick of Covent Garden, the pleasure I received was so 
 vivid — I turned the corner of a street so much in the ordinary course of things, 
 and was so tangib'y present to the pavement, the shop windows, the people, and 
 a thousand agreeable recollections which looked me naturally in the face, that 
 sometimes when I walk there now, the impression seems hardly more real. I 
 used to feel as if I actually pitched my soul there, and that spiritual eyes might 
 have seen it shot over from Tuscany, into York Street, like a rocket. It is 
 much pleasanter, however, on waking up, to find soul and body together in one's 
 native land : yes, even than among thy olives and vines, Boccaccio ! " — The 
 Autobiography of L.KiGH Hunt. 
 
 [Of course none of the JVishi^ig- Caps w^hlch the author collected and pub- 
 lished in Men, IVoinen, and Books, are included in this volume. We have, 
 however, inserted the articles on different parts of London. It is true, most 
 of the persons and places mentioned in these graceful and characteristic little 
 papers are more fully described in The Town. But "the first sprightly, run- 
 nings " are in the earlier sketches, which have also more gusto, and are richer 
 in personal reminiscences than the chapters on the same localities in that book. 
 — Ed.] 
 
THE WISHING-CAP 
 
 No. I. 
 INTRODUCTION. 
 
 I have cut through the air like a falcon. I would have it seem strange to 
 you. But 'tis true. I would not have you believe it neither. But 'tis miracu- 
 lous and true. Desire to see you brought me. — Decker's Old Fortuiutttis. 
 
 AS when a traveller, long expected, and yet but 
 half expected from abroad, suddenly enters 
 a room full of his old friends, instantly all the room 
 is in motion towards him, mouths are opened, hands 
 are stretched forward, card tables deserted, and old 
 ladies left in a state of inveteracy : he, with all his 
 feelings on tiptoe, and happy to be torn in pieces, 
 grasps as many hands as he can at once, turns to this 
 friend, makes half an answer to that, cuts short the 
 questions of soft lips, and revels in all the rewards of 
 the meritoriousness of absence ; thus, I trust, my old 
 friends of the Examiner will feel with me, when they 
 see the hand at the bottom of this paper.* 
 
 * Leigh Hunt's well-known signature — ^^. Ed. 
 
 II 
 
12 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 After a thousand questions are asked on both sides, 
 dehghtful memories brought up, and others that will 
 not bear touching upon spared, I hear the most good- 
 natured person in the company exclaim, " Bless me ! 
 you are not at all changed." I do bless thee, thou 
 handsomest of thy sex. Between you and me, I 
 should not care how dilapidated I looked with some 
 persons in a private meeting, — and for a short time. 
 I could make a merit of the silver hairs that come 
 amongst my black ones, and expect a double tender- 
 ness of look for my sunken cheeks. But after all, one 
 does not like to grow old. Man is in no haste to be 
 venerable. The fact is, I am not old, nor do I wish 
 anybody to believe that I am. But at forty there is a 
 pleasure in aflecting age on purpose to be disbelieved. 
 (I say forty, because I am only nine and thirty.) We 
 talk of " declining into the vale of years," that people 
 may say, " You decline into the vale of years ! " and 
 that we may be complimented on the youthfulness of 
 our appearance. The provocation lies in saying we 
 are middle-aged. It, is a malignant benediction of the 
 poets, — 
 
 "God bless your middle-ageish face ! " 
 
 I believe there are many persons abroad who regret 
 the not having returned to their native country in 
 time, but who would rather be shut up for life in a 
 German fortress, than appear again in a public place 
 in England. Thirty and forty years ago they were 
 Adonises, and cannot, for the life of them, take to be- 
 ing reverend. Being at a distance from home, and 
 not having contemporary faces to compare with, they 
 try to think that everybody grows old but themselves. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. . I3 
 
 They would fancy that the shore moves, and not 
 they. I own to this weakness, though I never was an 
 Adonis, nor ever shall be, which is more. 
 
 But I can conceive no circumstances but one, that 
 at any time of life would conquer in me the desire to 
 be among my old scenes and friends. I used to think 
 that with all my love of particular places, I should 
 not care where I went, provided I could take my 
 friends with me. But I find it otherwise. The fine 
 buildings in Genoa made me long to take a walk down 
 a London alley. The vineyards and olives of Tus- 
 cany gave me a calenture for my old green fields. 
 Walking about under the galleries and government 
 offices of Florence, I yearned infinitely to be at the 
 Examiner office in Covent Garden ; and so here I 
 am. 
 
 But it will be asked whether I am really here ; 
 whether I am arrived in propria persona^ — come 
 home, — seated visibly in the Examiner office. 
 Doubtless I am. I have just poked the fire, and am 
 toasting a foot upon each hob, with the Morning 
 Chronicle in my hand. Yesterday I was in all parts 
 of the town. If my presence is doubted, and the 
 gentleman I run against yesterday in Fleet Street has 
 any manliness in him, he will come forward and 
 state that I nearly knocked the breath out of his body 
 in turning the corner of Shoe Lane. 
 
 I am as surely here in London as I shall be in 
 Madrid, in Athens, in North or South America, when 
 I inform the reader to that effect : perhaps I shall be 
 in one of these places to-morrow. Incredulous read- 
 ers may smile, especially when I inform them, that 
 
14 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 SO far from condescending in general to travel on foot, 
 I fly. But they would be hard put to it to prove the 
 contrary. Let them first account for the power of 
 the human mind to fancy itself in Arabia, and then 
 they may undertake to prove it impossible for me, by 
 dint of a thought, actually to be there. Cogitation 
 has been held by some to be nothing but local mo- 
 tion. Their motion was a vulgar one, being as dif- 
 ferent from mine as that of a telegraph is from light- 
 ning ; but I desire to know how an uninitiated per- 
 son is to pronounce these travels of mine impossible ; 
 how he is to prove, and be assured that when I fancy 
 myself in Arabia, I, that is, my personal conscious- 
 ness, the best part of me, the ayiima of my tnundus^ 
 the true immaterial life and soul, of which my body 
 is but a vulgar symbol, is not, at that moment, to all 
 intents and purposes, in Arabia. " I pause for a re- 
 ply," as a man says, when he expects none. "• I 
 think, therefore I am," said the French philosopher : 
 now I think I am in Arabia, therefore I am there. I 
 beg to know the difference between these two proposi- 
 tions. 
 
 I pitch myself wherever I please, like a rocket or 
 a falling star. 
 
 In short, let those who doubt my reasoning look at 
 m}^ Cap. With them, anything that is visible puts 
 an end to mystery. This is an age of mechanism and 
 manufacture and, therefore, they say, there can be 
 no longer anything fanciful. Ecce sigmuii. This 
 Cap is one out of several now existing, and by no 
 means the most extraordinary of its kind. It is not 
 the famous Wishing-Cap of Fortunatus, but a poor 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. I5 
 
 relation. Sir Walter Scott has that, and the Purse 
 into the bargain. He is in the habit of going to 
 court in it, to refresh his good opinion of mankind. 
 The two finest Wishing-Caps are in possession of 
 Mr. Wordsworth and Mr. Coleridge. The one be- 
 longing to the latter is a great curiosity, and carried 
 him into those dreadful seas where he saw the An- 
 cient Mariner. I look upon it with more reverence 
 than all the curiosities in the Museum. Mr. Southey 
 has one, with which he has taken some pretty long 
 flights into the East. I wish he would relate his trav- 
 els in prose instead of verse. 
 
 I do not know to what class to refer the Cap of my 
 friend Elia, of the London Magazine ; certainly not 
 to a modern one, with bells to it, much in use at 
 courts, though it has a considerable resemblance to 
 one of the same cut, worn by a retainer to the fomous 
 King Lear, and also to that other belonging to the 
 celebrated Yorick. I mean Hamlet's Yorick. No- 
 body who hears him in it will say, " Where be your 
 gibes now? Your flashes of merriment that were 
 wont to set the table in a roar?" Nobody who sees 
 well into the stuff' of it, will take it for any other than 
 a Cap fit for the wisest head in England, provided the 
 rain is to rain every day. Having less thought, but 
 stouter muscles, I, for my part, must still endeavor, 
 till I die, to push the world a little farther into the 
 sunshine. It is for this reason I am in all parts of it ; 
 one of hundreds of beings wdio are trying to furnish 
 philosophers with a lever. 
 
 But the reader must know that this Cap of mine 
 not only carries me where I please, like that of For- 
 
1 6 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 tunatus, and introduces me to the invisible world, like 
 the Caps of the mountain spirits. It makes as little 
 of time as it does of space. It pitches me back into 
 ages. I make love very often a hundred years ago, 
 and may dine to-morrow at the table of Anacreon. 
 My tea I am fond of taking with Pope and the Miss 
 Blounts. A person in Tuscany often rouses me out 
 of the club, at the Mermaid in Cornhill, where I am 
 listening to Beaumont and Ben Jonson. I make noth- 
 ing of being in Arcady at twelve o'clock, and with 
 Horace between two and three. I meet old King 
 Ban " on the top of Fiesole." And this is as real as 
 all the rest. It was thought a modest request in the 
 two lovers to say, — 
 
 "Ye gods, annihilate but space and time, 
 And make two lovers happy." * 
 
 But let the reader peruse only two or three meta- 
 physical treatises (one of them being on time), and 
 then say if it is not easy to annihilate both. It is a 
 vulgar supposition, that one man of forty and another 
 man of forty are of the same age ; and that if two 
 
 * Readers of Carlyle will remember Herr Teufelsdrockh's philosophical specu- 
 lations upon space and time in one of the most stupendous chapters of Sartor 
 Resartus. " Fortunatus hadawishing-hat," says the learned Professor, "which 
 when he put on, and wished himself anywhere, behold he was there. By this 
 means had Fortunatus triumphed over space, he had annihilated space ; for him 
 there was no Where, but all was Here. Were a hatter to establish himself in the 
 Wahngasse of Weissnichtwo, and make felts of this sort for all mankind, what a 
 world we should have of it ! Still stranger, should, on the opposite side of the 
 street, another hatter establish himself; and, as his fellow-craftsman made space- 
 annihilating hats, make time-annihilating ! Of both would I purchase, were it 
 with my last groschen ; but chiefly of this latter. To clap on your felt, and, 
 simply by wishing that you were Anywhere, straightway to be there ! Next to 
 clap on your other felt, and, simply by wishing that you were anywhen, straight- 
 way to be i/ien / " — Ed. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 1 7 
 
 persons set out at four o'clock to dinner, and arrive 
 at the same place at the hour commonly called five, 
 they have both taken the same time to arrive in. No- 
 tions of boys and stockjobbers ! We have no idea 
 of time but that of space. In thinking of the hour 
 between one and two, we measure a distance on our 
 watches. Now, as in the same space of measure- 
 ment may be crammed many particles, and in the 
 same journey one road may be straight and another 
 crooked, so in the same space of time (the com- 
 mon phrase), we ma}^ include many different masses 
 of duration and varieties of experience. One man's 
 time is so much tin, another's lead, another's gold. 
 The link on which he tells his thoughts is his clock ; 
 and the more he tells the longer he lives. The hour 
 of the many-thoughted man contains many hours. 
 His metal is heavy and full of matter. 
 
 " Time, then," some of my readers may say, " is first 
 nothing, and then it is something. It is easy to be 
 annihilated, and yet is heavy as lead or gold." I do 
 not assert that it is nothing, though it is easy of anni- 
 hilation. I find it to be much : and yet how shall not 
 this much be altered or melted away. How shall not 
 this lead be turned into gold by the sunshine of love 
 and kindness ! How shall not this gold, by the force 
 of imagination, be beaten out into endless contact 
 with ages ! 
 
 Perhaps with no man living has. time been a heaviei 
 or a lighter thing than with me. My metal resembles 
 quicksilver, except that it is more malleable to 
 warmth than cold ; though cold also renders it very 
 grave and solid. Like quicksilver, it is not precious 
 
1 8 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 and weighty as gold ; and yet it easily unites with it, 
 and helps gold itself to gild a variety of common 
 things. Furthermore, it is subject to change of the 
 barometer. But I am running my metallic simile too 
 far for a spirit. A spirit I certainly am, by universal 
 acknowledgment; though what sort of one has been 
 much contested. " Time," as the philosopher says, 
 " will show." Certainly I am not a malignant spirit, 
 though I trifle now and then with a Caliban. Nei- 
 ther am I the devil on two sticks, confined to my bot- 
 tle ; nor the spirit, that according to the Italian poet, 
 dwelt in the smoke of roast meat. But like certain 
 spirits in poetry and romance, I have seen a good deal 
 of the world, visible and invisible. Like them, I 
 see knowledge. Like them I am fond of music, of 
 the air, of the trees and flowers, and of liberty. In 
 some things, I am not unlike the Sylph Husband of 
 Marmontel. Like a spirit, I can dilate myself, till 
 mountains become mole-hills ; or shrink into such 
 diminutive compass, as to stand by the side of a brook, 
 and live in imagination on the banks of it, with the 
 little insects, as if it were some mighty river. Mil- 
 lions of times have I ridden on the bat's back, and 
 gone to sleep in a buttercup. But my tears inform 
 me that I am human, to say nothing of my frailties. 
 It is not for me to think of the drowning,* and to doubt 
 whether or no I feel 
 
 " All as sharply, 
 Passioned as they." 
 
 I shall take up, in this paper, any subject to which 
 I feel an impulse, politics not excepted. It would be 
 
 * Of Shelley. — Ed. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. I9 
 
 idle to expect that a periodical paper, however un- 
 poHtical, would go into any quarters but those of 
 the Reformers, when published in a reforming journal. 
 My first intention was to render it a sort of with- 
 drawing-room, or retirement from the more public 
 part of the Examiner ; but I thought it better, upon 
 consideration, to take the opportunity of giving myself 
 full scope, political as well as otherwise. It is a fool- 
 ish reproach to men of letters, that they meddle with 
 politics. Who is to do so if they do not ? And how 
 is a man of any warmth of sympathy (unless he is 
 hopeless of all change) to see what is going on in the 
 world, and be able honestly to repress his blame and 
 his praise ? The necessity becomes stronger if he has 
 been accustomed to do so. Politics, however, will 
 occupy but a small part of my lucubrations.* 
 
 I am a spirit, not without hands or feet ; but my 
 strength lies in my power of flight, — in my Wish- 
 ing-Cap. The greatest distinction (talents apart) be- 
 tween me and other spirits that have manifested them- 
 selves to these latter times, is not in age or bodily 
 
 * Most of Leigh Hunt's literary contemporaries meddled with politics. Sir 
 Walter Scott dabbled in them. Southey contributed political essays to the Quar- 
 terly Review, and Coleridge wrote political articles for the Morning Post and 
 the Morning Chronicle. Wordsworth was the author of a political pamphlet on 
 the peace of Cintra, and Moore dashed off many a witty political squib. Wil- 
 son was a rash and bitter political writer; and Hazlitt published a volume 
 of Political Essays. Sydney Smith wrote political pamphlets, and published 
 political articles in the newspapers. Even "the gentle Elia" wrote political 
 squibs and epigrams for the Examiner and the New Times. Politics, to those 
 who are desirous of becoming acquainted with anything that concerns man- 
 kind, are, as Hunt says elsewhere, "a part of humane literature; and they who 
 can be taught to like them in common with wit and philosophy, insensibly do 
 an infinite deal of good by mingling them with the common talk of life, and help- 
 ing to render the stream of public opinion irresistible." — Ed. 
 
20 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 appearance (for those, as I said before, are notions) ; 
 but in my being a very truth-telling spirit. I tell 
 nothing of myself or others, which is not pure mat- 
 ter-of-fact, or, at least, which appears to me to be 
 such ; a verity, which I would have the reader bear 
 in mind. He wnll easily distinguish between the 
 things which I talk of in a mere spirit of fancy (as 
 the world calls it), and what I lay before them in the 
 grosser shapes of truth. 
 
 With regard to speaking of myself and my expe- 
 riences (which I shall do very freely whenever in- 
 clined), I have several reasons for it. In the first place, 
 it is impossible for me to sustain a fictitious charac- 
 ter, like that of Bickerstaff and others, in the great 
 periodical works. Secondly, authors sometimes, as 
 well as kings, "lack subjects." Thirdly, it is advisa- 
 ble that authors should write only upon subjects with 
 wdiich they are acquainted. Fourthly, people are 
 often much better acquainted with themselves than 
 the old adage implies ; though many, for that reason, 
 take care never to show it. Fifthly, I am much alone, 
 and have been in the habit of speculating upon my 
 feelings and adventures. I believe that if the first 
 person we meet in the street were to put down 
 upon paper the experiences he has had in life, 
 his school-days, journeys, &c., they would be found 
 interesting. I hav^e been perplexed whether to speak of 
 myself in the singular or the plural number, — wheth- 
 er to subject myself to the impatience of people vainer, 
 by saying I ; or to hamper my verisimilitudes and my 
 euphonies, with saying, We were^ We would, and 
 We once. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. -21 
 
 The last reason, or apology, which I have to lay 
 before him for talking of myself, I shall repeat in the 
 words of a great master of human nature : — 
 
 " The most sovereign remedy for self-love is to do 
 quite contrary to what these people direct, who in for- 
 bidding others to speak of themselves, do consequently 
 at the same time interdict thinking of themselves too. 
 Pride dwells in the thought : the tongue can have but 
 a very little share in it. They fancy, that to think of 
 one's self is to be delighted with one's self; to fre- 
 quent and converse with a man's self, to be over indul- 
 gent. But this excess springs only in those who only 
 take of themselves a superficial view, and dedicate their 
 main inspection to their affairs ; that call meditation, 
 raving and idleness, looking upon themselves as a 
 third person only, and a stranger. No particular quali- 
 ty can make any man proud, that will at the same time 
 put so many other weak and imperfect ones, as he has 
 in him in the other scale." — Mo7itaignes Essays^ 
 book ii. chap. 6. 
 
 1824. 
 
22 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 No. II. 
 A WALK IN COVENT GARDEN. 
 
 Ante oculos errant domus, urbs, et forma locorum, 
 Succeduntque suis singula facta locis. — Ovid. 
 
 Streets, houses, city, glide before my face, 
 With all that's done in each successive place. 
 
 THERE are three things that give a pleasant 
 look to the most ordinary commonplaces : 
 health, imagination, and coming from abroad. 
 I have been flying from place to place in London 
 for the last week, and have made my Cap as dingy 
 as a city sv/allow. At one time I dipped about Cov- 
 ent Garden ; now I was at the West End ; and then 
 again I was at St. Paul's. I turn about the streets, as 
 if I had never seen them before. To the list of 
 human pleasures I have to add the satisfaction which 
 arises from traversing a dirty lane. 
 
 There is Maiden Lane here in the neighborhood. 
 I do not care for it because the Examiner office was 
 once there, or because the Royal Academy there held 
 its infant sittings ; much less on account of the cider- 
 cellar ; but, in the first place, I have traversed it a thou- 
 sand times ; secondly, here are some poor book-stalls 
 and picture-shops ; and thirdly, when Voltaire lived 
 here " at the sign of the White Peruke," I guess that 
 he did so to be in the neighborhood of Congreve and 
 other wits, who had their lodgings in Southampton 
 Street and Bow Street. My head is filled with them 
 all. I imagine the thin Frenchman picking his way 
 towards his abode in a lank peruke. I fancy that it 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 23 
 
 was not far off that he astonished the mob, who 
 pelted him, with haranguing them in our language, 
 producing as lively a movement in his favor as if they 
 were all turned into Parisians. He got on the step 
 of a doorway, and appealed '' to the nobleness of the 
 national character," complimenting them on their in- 
 stitutions and love of liberty. I believe they proposed 
 to carry him home on their shoulders. 
 
 I like everything about Covent Garden. It pleases 
 me even that the ground belongs to the Russells, a 
 liberal and lettered family. I like the green market 
 in the middle, the noble portico (not to be thought 
 less of, after visiting Italy), the Grecian-built church, 
 the spacious streets, the narrower ones with their 
 book-stalls, the neighborhood of the theatres. Other 
 associations I have mentioned elsewhere.* Though 
 I am fond of going to the play, I do not care in gen- 
 eral for play books ; but I delight to see whole shops 
 of them here. They are in harmony with the place. 
 It is moving and alive with the best times of English 
 comedy, and one of the pleasantest of English Society 
 and verse. There, at Will's CofFee-House,t used to 
 sit Dryden in his arm-chair, encouraging a young au- 
 thor with a pinch out of his snuff-box. Addison is 
 keeping it up over the way at Button's, with Steele, 
 Garth, Congreve, and Colonel Brett (who married 
 Savage's mother, and bought Gibber's wig). | Here 
 come, to attend a rehearsal, Mrs. Barry, who acted 
 
 * In the Pleasant Memories Connected with the Various Parts of the Me- 
 tropolis, in The Indicator. — Ed. 
 
 t It was on the north side of Russell Street, near Bow Street. In Mai one's 
 time was numbered 23, and occupied by a perfumer. 
 
 t The reader will find a lively account of the purchase in the eleventh chap- 
 ter of Gibber's Apology. — Ed. 
 
24 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 such fine love-parts with her husband ; Mrs. Brace- 
 girdle, Congreve's mistress, and Mrs. Oldfield, the 
 Flavia of the Tatler, who gave Savage a pension.* I 
 cannot help thinking with Dr. Young, that it was a 
 pity Congreve did not leave his money " to poor Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle," instead of a duchess who bought dia- 
 mond necklaces with it. But the insinuation implied 
 on the part of Young (a preferment-hunter, who wrote 
 like a hermit) may be regarded with suspicion. In 
 Spence's Anecdotes, Congreve has the praise of all 
 who knew him as an honest, good-natured man : we 
 know not what he may have otherwise given Mrs. 
 Bracegirdle, nor how much regard for him was mixed 
 up with the singularities of the Duchess of Marlbor- 
 ough, who had an image of him seated with her at ta- 
 ble after his death. To be sure, there seems a vanity in 
 those bequests to people of rank; and Johnson says 
 the money was wanted by his relations. Let us hope 
 that those who were most intimate with him knew 
 him best. The story of his reception of Voltaire 
 (perhaps in Southampton Street, when he lived near 
 Mrs. Bracegirdle) is not in his favor. I will take this 
 opportunity of repeating an anecdote of Wycherley, 
 which is ill told in Spence's book. Pope is made to 
 inform us, that one day as Wycherley passed the 
 Duchess of Cleveland's carriage in the ring, " she 
 leaned out of the window, and cried out, loud enough 
 to be heard distinctly by him, ' Sir, you're a rascal ; 
 you're a villain.' " Spence's memory appears to have 
 deceived him. The other account says, that she 
 
 * See Tatler, No. 212. [In The Town, however, Hunt doubts if Mrs. Old- 
 field was Flavia, and conjectures that the lady immortalized under that name 
 was a Miss Osborne, who married the Bishop of Atterbury. — Eu.] 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 2^ 
 
 accosted him in a much coarser manner than this. 
 Wycherley next day waited on her, and begged to 
 know the reason. " Why, sir," said she, " in one of 
 your plays you say that the appelLation I gave you 
 belongs to all men of wit ; so I thought it fairly be- 
 stowed." The compliment was not ill turned, sucli 
 as it was : but " her grace " must have been a very 
 disagreeable woman. Wycherley, however, was not 
 nicer than his master. 
 
 It is with difficulty that I call to mind Inigo Jones, 
 as the architect of Covent Garden. Even Donne, in 
 the mansion of his father-in-law, Sir Thomas Drury, 
 in Drury Lane, with all his graver wit and his ro- 
 mantic passion, is thrust out of my mind by the crowd 
 of beaux and comedians. I can sooner find a pleas- 
 ure in recollecting that Rowe frequented a tavern in 
 Long Acre, and that in the same quarter dwelt Prior's 
 Chloe. Who she was, I do not stop to inquire. Suf- 
 fice it for me, that I know her in his verses. The 
 character of all this neighborhood is essentially gay 
 and social, scented with snuff-boxes, and rustling with 
 hoop petticoats. The tragedy of those times does not 
 interfere with it. Tragedy herself wore a hoop petti- 
 coat then, and was a very courtly personage. I con- 
 fess, that in latter times, Mr. Kemble carried the old 
 school of Booth and Qiiin to a pitch of the didac- 
 tic which disturbs my associations. Booth was a 
 kind of sublimated player at a fair ; and Quin a bon- 
 vivant.* But Munden and Drury Lane redeem all. 
 
 * There is a pleasant bit concerning Quin, in Fielding's too little read Voy- 
 age to Lisbon. "The only fish," he says, speakini^ of a great purchase there- 
 of for a "small spill of money," "the only fish which bore any price was a John 
 Dory, as it is called. I bought one of at least four pounds weight, for as many 
 shillings. It resembles a turbot in shape, but exteeds it in firmness and flavor. 
 
26 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 I should add Sheridan, but he touches too nearly on 
 grave times and melancholy recollections. Yet surely 
 he, and Drury Lane, and comedy, and carelessness, 
 were all made for each other. 
 
 Those melancholy exits of the gay are vile thvngs. 
 Poor Mrs. Jordan ! did nobody feel for thee in thy sad 
 and mysterious exile, but those who could do nothing 
 to help it? Her honest-hearted laugh rings at this 
 moment in my ears ! 
 
 I forget whether it was myself, or whether some- 
 body told me it was he, who saw Jack Bannister (I 
 had almost said Mr. Jack Bannister) standing one 
 day, leaning on his stick, and looking up in a melan- 
 choly manner at Old Drury. Old Drury is new 
 Drury in face, but it is old in situation and fame ; and 
 he had helped to carry all the old spirit into the new 
 house. A plague on tliose real old ages that belong 
 to nothing but men ! And Elliston too : — I read in 
 the papers, that he plays his old parts with all the 
 spirit of his former days. That can hardly be, con- 
 sidering that he did not take care to remain thin like 
 Lewis. Lewis's old age, after all, was an imposition, 
 though he died of it. But Elliston is one of those, 
 too, who will never be old, in some senses of the 
 
 The price had the appearance of being considerable when opposed to the extra- 
 ordinary cheapness of others of value, but was, in truth, so very reasonable 
 when estimated by its goodness, that it left me under no other surprise than how 
 the gentlemen of this county (Devonshire), not greatly eminent for the delicacy 
 of their taste, had discovered the preference of the Dory to all other fish : but I 
 was informed that Mr. Quin, whose distinguishing tooth hath been so justly 
 celebrated, had lately visited Plymouth, and had done those honors to the Dory 
 which are so justly due to it from that sect of modern philosophers, who, with 
 Sir Epicure Mammon, or Sir Epicure Quin, their head, seem more to delight in 
 a fi^.h-pfind thin a grirdcn, as the old Epicureans are said to have done." — Ed. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. Z*] 
 
 word. I wish with all my heart he was as young as 
 he was twenty years ago, and I with him, and that 
 we knew as much then as we do now. I do not 
 think either of us would be a bit the worse or less 
 young for it. I would have praised him as much as 
 I did then for his comedy, and for his making love 
 better than any man on the stage ; but he would not 
 have acted tragedy so often, nor would I have written 
 those fierce criticisms on the living dramatists, whose 
 taking to farce instead of comedy was not their fault, 
 but the age's. - Good-natured Tom Dibdin, behold at 
 last your critic repentant ! 
 
 C. L., why didst thou ever quit Russell Street? 
 Why didst thou leave the warm crowd of humanity, 
 which thou lovest so well, to go and shiver on the 
 side of the New River, enticing thy many friends to 
 walk in? Were friends and sittings up at night too 
 attractive? And was there no other way to get rid 
 of them ? Reader, we have not waked the niglit-owl 
 with a catch, for C. L. is not musical. He will put 
 up with nothing but snatches of old songs. ^Mozart 
 is to him an alien, and Paesiello the Pope of Rome. 
 But we have drawn three souls out of one card-play- 
 er ; and might have waked all the ghosts in our 
 neighborhood at Will's and Button's, seeing that 
 there is no pride in the next world, and some wit left 
 in this. What would I not give for another Thurs- 
 day evening? It was humanity's triumph ; for whist- 
 players and no whist-players there for the first time 
 met together. Talk not to me of great houses in 
 which such things occur ; for there the whist-players 
 are gamblers, and the no whist-players are nobody at 
 
28 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 all. Here, the v/hist was for its own sake, and yet 
 the non-players were tolerated. But the triumph 
 went further. Here was R., to represent among us 
 the plumpness of office and the solidity of govern- 
 ment. My brother reformer, W. H., came to rest his 
 disappointments and his paradoxes. Vain expecta- 
 tion ! With him contended A. the most well-bred 
 of musicians, who hates a paradox like an unresolved 
 discord. Another A. was there, the best of neigh- 
 bors, especially if you happen to be confined to your 
 room. Item, a third A. the most trusting of linen- 
 drapers, who lent a poet a hundred pounds. I do not 
 know whether he has been paid. I hope not ; for he 
 deserves to enjoy the interest forever, and in his case 
 it is a rich one. M. B. was one of us, having his 
 hands in his waistcoat pockets like his friend, and 
 talking well upon episodes. And there, M. L., — why 
 have I not the art, like the old writers of dedications, 
 of at once loading thee with panegyric, and saving the 
 shoulders of thy modesty? an art, by the by, which 
 was so conspicuously concealed, that nobody would 
 have suspected them of having it. There also came 
 old Captain B., who had been round the world with 
 Cook, and was the first man who planted a pun in 
 Otaheite. Nevertheless, though I met him fifty times, 
 I never had the courage to address liim, he appeared 
 to be so wrapped up in his tranquillity and his whist. 
 He seemed to be taking a long repose from his storms. 
 The jovial face of Colonel P., blooming with a second 
 youth, made me bolder. He had been round the 
 world also, when a boy, and had challenged his lieu- 
 tenant for not standing closer by his captain. This 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 29 
 
 illegality completed my confidence. With K. we re- 
 joiced over his successful plays, and tried to be in- 
 different over the others. He has humanity enough 
 to remember with pleasure, that on the latter occa- 
 sion we mustered up (some of us at least) as great an 
 appetite at supper as if two plays had succeeded at 
 once. It is more than we could have looked for, had 
 a critic written them, instead of a poet. But some- 
 how these poetical observers see farther into niceties 
 of us than your metaphysical. With regard to my- 
 self, the fact was (and I shall do myself no harm to 
 confess it — very likely he knows it already) that my 
 appetite was really great and craving. On livelier 
 occasions, if my lungs have not been well exercised, 
 I will not swear that I could eat tlie wing of a chicken. 
 My heart is up and dancing, and objects to the pas- 
 sage of anything grosser than a pint of wine. * 
 
 * Lamb moved from No. 4, Inner Temple Lane, to Russell Street, Covent Gar- 
 den, in the autumn of 1S17. " We have left the Temple," writes Mary Lamb 
 to Miss Wordsworth. " Our rooms were dirty and out of repair, and the incon- 
 veniences of living in chambers became every year more irksome, and so, at last, 
 we mustered up resolution enough to leave the old place, that so long has shel- 
 tered us ; and here we are, living at a brazier's shop, No. 20, in Russell Street, 
 Covent Garden, a place all alive with noise and bustle ; Drury Lane Theatre in 
 sight from our front, and Covent Garden from our back windows. The hubbub 
 of the carriages returning from the play does not annoy me in the least ; strange 
 that it does not, for it is quite tremendous. I quite enjoy looking out of the 
 window, and listening to the calling up of the carriages, and the squabbles of the 
 coachmen and link-boys. It is the oddest scene to look down upon. " Lamb 
 himself was equally well pleased with their new abode, declaring that they were 
 in the individual spot he liked best in all London. Here he wrote the best of 
 the Essays of Elia. In 1S23 he left the city, with its theatres and book-stalls, and 
 took a cottage in Colebrook Rowe, Islington. It was George Dyev who walked 
 into the New River, and thus gave Elia a subject for the fine humorous paper 
 entitled Amicus Redivivus. 
 
 Perhaps a word or two on some of the initials in the above reminiscence of 
 Lamb's Thursday evening suppers will not be wholly superfluous. Of course 
 C. L. is Charles Lamb, and W. H., William Hazlitt, and Captain B. is Can- 
 
30 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 All that part of the metropolis which may now be 
 called the centre of it, is classic ground : from Fleet 
 Street, where Johnson and Goldsmith lived, Gerrard 
 Street, Soho, wdiich contains the residence of Dry- 
 den.* It includes the chief places of resort, during 
 
 tain Bumey, and M. B., Martin Burney, whose dirty hands were so provocative 
 of Lamb's wit. The captain, according to Crabb Robinson, was "a fine, noble 
 creature, — gentle with a rough exterior, as became the associate of Captain 
 Cook in his voyages round the world, and the literary historian of all these acts 
 of circumnavigation." The three A. 's were Thomas Allsop, Thomas Alsager, and 
 William Ayrton, of the Italian Opera. Lamb said Ayrton was "a wit and 
 devilish good fellow." K. stands for James Sheridan Knowles, the dramatist, 
 author of Virginius. R. is John Rickman, clerk of the House of Com- 
 mons. "His manners," writes Southey of Rickman, " are stoical : they are 
 like the husk of the cocoa-nut, and his inner nature is like the milk within its 
 kernel. When I go to London I am always his guest. He gives me but half 
 his hand, but his whole heart — and there is not that thing in the world which 
 he thinks would serve or gratify me that he does not do for me, unless it be 
 something which he thinks I can as well do myself " George Dyer introduced 
 Lamb to Rickman. Lamb was so delighted with the man that he wrote a long 
 letter about him to Manning. "He is, "says Elia, exultingly, "a most pleasant 
 hand ; a fine, rattling fellow, has gone through life laughing at solemn apes ; — him- 
 self hugely literate, oppressively full of information in all stuff of conversation, 
 from matter of fact to Xenophon and Plato — can talk Greek with Porson, poli- 
 tics with Thelwall, conjecture with George Dyer, nonsense with me, and anything 
 with anybody ; a great farmer, somewhat concerned in an agricultural magazine 
 — reads no poetry but Shakespeare, very intimate with Southey, but never 
 reads his poetry, relishes George Dyer, thoroughly penetrates into the ridicu- 
 lous wherever found, understands the first time (a great desideratum in common 
 minds) — you need never twice speak to him: does not want explanations, 
 translations, limitations, as Professor Godwin does when you make an assertion ; 
 up to anything ; down to anything ; whatever sapit hotninem. A perfect man. 
 All this farrago, which must perplex you to read, and has put me to a little 
 trouble to select, only proves how impossible it is to describe a pleasaiit hand. 
 You must see Rickman to know him, for he is a species in one ; a new class ; an 
 exotic ; any slip of which I am proud to put in my garden pot." A "pleasant 
 hand " truly : but how different from Southey's stoical-mannered man ! Ls this 
 description of Rickman true in all its particulars, or was Lamb hoaxing the 
 " learned Trismegist " ? — Ed. 
 
 * It was "the fifth," says Mr. Malone, "in coming from Little Newport 
 Street, and is now numbered 43. Behind, his apartments looked into the gar- 
 dens of Leicester House." 
 
 [We copy this interesting passage relating to Covent Garden from a curious 
 
THE WISHIXG-CAP. 3I 
 
 the three periods, in which poetry and wit were alhed 
 with famihar hfe ; — Dryden's period, with Etherege, 
 Wycherley, Rochester, and others ; — the time of Steele 
 and Addison, Garth, Vanbrugh, Congreve, &c., and 
 that of the two authors above mentioned, who left us 
 just before the French revolution . In the Strand, oppo- 
 site Beaufort Buildings, walking at a very quick pace 
 for a man of his years, I once saw Cumberland, the 
 last survivor of Retaliation. His appearance was gen- 
 tlemanly (suited to his old character), and his face 
 earnest and thoughtful. I would have accosted him, 
 and thanked him for a criticism he wrote on a per- 
 formance of mine ; but besides carrying a certain habit 
 of independence at that time to a pitch of martyrdom, 
 I felt as if it would be an impertinence in so young a 
 man to bring himself into contact on such an occa- 
 sion with an associate of Goldsmith and Johnson. 
 The performance, to say the truth, was very crude 
 and young, and not worth his praises : nor could I 
 conceal from myself, that a panegyric bestowed on 
 him in the course of it had warmed the heart of the 
 old author. But his criticism was delightful, contain- 
 ing some excellent gossip upon Qtiin, Garrick, and 
 others. It appeared in the London Review, a work 
 
 letter by Thomas Grignion, addressed to Tom Dibdin, and published in a little 
 volume entitled Fly Leaves, or Scraps and Sketches : — 
 
 "You will see by my plan of 1691, that Covent Garden was then in the empo- 
 rium of the arts and sciences, and the residence of the chief nobility of the king- 
 dom. My late dear grandfather's cordial friend, the celebrated Barton Booth, 
 lived in Charles Street, No. 4 ; Colley Gibber lived in No. 3 ; and Easty's 
 Hotel was Mr. Garrick's ; Mrs. Oldfield lived in Southampton Street. Wilkes 
 built the hou?e in Bow Street, next door but one to the theatre ; Garrick and 
 Macklin lodged in it. I thought this information respecting our truly classic 
 ground might not be uninteresting to you." — Ed.] 
 
33 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 which did not continue long, probably because the 
 reviewers put their names to it. To be praised by 
 one of the heroes of Retaliation appeared to me a 
 piece of good fortune beyond all others ; too good 
 even for my vanity to take without drawback. 
 
 I have spoken of the laugh of Mrs. Jordan. There 
 is a delightful little poem by Clement Marot, On the 
 Laugh of Madame D'Albret^ which seems to re- 
 cord a similar quintessence of glee, cordiality, and 
 lightness. It reminded me of her the moment I 
 read it. 
 
 DU RIS DE MADAME D'ALBRET. 
 
 Elle lia tres bien ceste gorge d'albastre, 
 
 A doux jiarler, ce cler tainct, ces beaux jeux ; 
 
 Mais, en effect, ce petit ris follastre, 
 
 C'est a mon gre, ce qui lui sied le mieux: 
 
 Elle en pourroit les chemins et les lieux, 
 
 Ou elle passe, a plaisir inciter: 
 
 Et si ennuy me venoit contrister, 
 
 Tant que par mort fusta ma vie abbatue, 
 
 111 ne faudroit, pour ms resusciter, 
 
 Que ce ris la, duquel elle me tue. 
 
 Yes. iliat fair neck, too beautiful by half, 
 
 Those eyes, that voice, that bloom, all do her honor : 
 
 Yet after all, that little giddy laugh 
 
 Is what, in my mind, sits the best upon her. 
 
 Good God ! 'twould make the very streets and ways 
 Through which she passes, burst Into a pleasure ! 
 
 Did melancholy come to mar my days, 
 
 And kill me in the lap of too much leisure, 
 
 No spell were wanting, from tlie dead to raise me, 
 
 But only that sweet laugh, wherewith she slays me. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 33 
 
 No. III. 
 PICCADILLY AND THE WEST END. 
 
 Lo ! stately streets ; lo ! squares that court the breeze. — Thomson. 
 
 IF I had health, and my friends were all com- 
 fortable, and the world as happy as it might 
 be, and I could transport everybody where I pleased 
 as well as myself, and books were as plentiful as 
 blackberries, and a thousand other things (as some- 
 body said) were a thousand other things, the pleas- 
 ure I should take in writing these papers would 
 be inconceivable. As it is, it is no mean conso- 
 lation. The house I generally w^rite in being large, 
 I contrive to dismiss certain little scholars I have 
 into a distant play-room, and get an hour to myself 
 after breakfast, uninterrupted : — the sound of a wood 
 fire is crackling in my ears; — and with a fresh pen 
 and a fair sheet of paper, I begin.* 
 
 But I am fancying myself in Italy : and forget I 
 am in London, at the West End of the town. 
 
 By the West End of the town, I understand Picca- 
 dilly, the squares, and their neighborhood, as far as 
 the Regent's Park. The other parks ought to be in- 
 cluded : but I must treat of them another time. 
 
 * In Elia's letter to Southey, Leigh Hunt's "little scholars" are affection- 
 ately mentioned. Here is the passage: — "Leigh Hunt is now in Itnly ; on 
 his departure to which land with much regret I took my leave of him and of his 
 little family — seven of them, si-, with their mother —and as kind a set of little 
 people, as affectionate children, as ever blessed a .parent. Had you seen them, sir, 
 I think you could not have looked upon them as so many little Jonases, but rather 
 as pledges of the vessel's safetv, that was to bear such a freight of love." — Ed. 
 
 3 
 
34 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 The West End is a very agreeable portion of the 
 world to me for three reasons : — Imprimis, because I 
 have lived there ; secondly, because it is the next 
 part of the town to Hampstead, my other place of 
 abode ; and thirdly, because it contains the fairest 
 portion of God's creatures under the sun. If the two 
 first reasons are thought egotistical, they will be 
 found to resemble most others given by people for 
 their preference of places. The only difference be- 
 tween them and me is, that I tell what I feel. As to 
 the third reason, it is not only what no Englishman 
 will dispute, but no Frenchman or Italian that has 
 seen English women. But of this, more hereafter. 
 
 The West End may be supposed to commence at 
 Leicester Square. It is but a mongrel square, a 
 mixture of house and shop ; but it is green in the 
 middle, and contains a statue of some prince. There 
 are people wdio object to these royal statues, thinking 
 it a pity that they are not rather those of some great 
 philosophers, poets, or other public benefactors. But 
 when they reflect that the faces are too far off* to be 
 seen, and that few persons know who they are, the 
 objection perhaps will vanish. In Leicester Square, 
 at the house of Sir Joshua Reynolds (situate, I be- 
 lieve, in the west, side, towards the alley from which 
 you cross into Coventry Street), were many meetings 
 of Johnson, Goldsmith, and others. Leicester House 
 (now lost in the large house with shops on the north 
 side) was the residence of Frederick, Prince of Wales,* 
 
 * In the diseases and jarring tempers of this prince and his wife, may be dis- 
 cerned the seeds of the unfortunate malady which afflicted the late king, their 
 son. [George III., who was deprived of reason during the last ten years of his 
 life. -EdJ ■■ 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 35 
 
 who affected the love of liberty, and patronized 
 Thomson.* Whitcomb Street was formerly called 
 Hedge Lane, no doubt from a lane which ran up 
 from Charring Cross to the fields about Piccadilly 
 and Marylebone. Think of lovers having walked 
 here on a May-morning ! In a house opposite Cov- 
 entry Street lodged an early friend of mine, whom 
 it is a comfort to me to take even this obscure way 
 of noticing. He was an intelligent fellow, full of 
 goodness, and in love with music, and poetry, and 
 all o-ood things. I once walked with him a hundred 
 and twelve miles along the coast from Margate to 
 Brighton, talking, laughing, and singing all the way, 
 eating breakfasts which made us ashamed to ask for 
 more, and frilling to sleep at night the moment we 
 laid our heads on the pillow. We did it in four days. 
 Poor J. R. ! He had an overstock of love, which was 
 not very happily placed. He become sick, unsuccess- 
 ful, a wanderer ; and was at last taken prisoner by 
 the French, and died during the long detention of 
 his countrymen by Napoleon. He wrote me a long 
 letter from Bagneres, where he had been suffered to 
 go for the benefit of his health ; and I delayed, from 
 day to day, in order to write him as long an answer, 
 1:11 I delayed for months, and heard of his death. 
 The letter has been upon my conscience ever since. 
 It would be a useful task for those who have been 
 culpable during their lives on the score of delay, and 
 other petty neglects of duty, to set down upon paper 
 
 * Leigh Hunt should not have forgotten Hogarth, who lived at the " Painter's 
 Head," in Leicester Square. — Ed. 
 
2,6 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 all the unkind and serious consequences resulting 
 from it. There are petty as well as great remorses 
 which people feel, on and off, during the whole of 
 their lives ; and a good many of them amount to a 
 good large remorse ; and with reason, considering 
 what they do. I have an assortment of my own. 
 which make me speak. The one in question has 
 never suffered me to pass by that house, or think of 
 it, without a pang. I hope it was on a more fanciful 
 account that Dr. Johnson always avoided going 
 through Sydney's, or Cranborne Alley, in this neigh- 
 borhood, I forget which. 
 
 In Piccadilly, during the time of Cromwell and the 
 Stuarts, was a house of entertainment with a bowl- 
 ing-green, where the gentry and members of Parlia- 
 ment used to refresh themselves. Here came the 
 sprightly wits of the court, and the grave heads that 
 earned for us our liberties. Parliament at that time 
 used to meet at eight in the morning. If statesmen 
 got a little too much wine after dinner, it was in hon- 
 or of Phyllis and Chloe, and not to put themselves in 
 a fit state for settling the affairs of the world. They 
 did their work with clear heads ; and if they gam- 
 bled, gambled in the open air, which is better than 
 losing one's money and health together in the club- 
 rooms about St. James's. It is doubttul whether the 
 Burlington House mentioned in Gray's Trivia was 
 the one in Piccadilly, or anotlier in the Strand : 
 most probably the former. I cannot refer to books. 
 As the passage, however, is metropolitan and pleas- 
 ant, I will lay it before the reader : — 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 37 
 
 "Come, Fortescue, sincere, experienced friend. 
 Thy briefs, thy deeds, and even thy fees, suspend ; 
 Come, let us leave the Temple's silent walls ; 
 Me business to my distant lodging calls : 
 Through the long Strand together let us stray ; 
 With thee conversing I forget the way. 
 Behold that narrow street which steep descends, 
 Whose building to the slimy shore extends ; 
 Here Arundel's famed structure reared its frame, 
 The street alone retains an empty name. 
 Where Titian's glowing paint the canvas warmed, 
 And Raphael's fair design with judgment charmed, 
 Now hangs the bellman's song, and pasted here 
 Tlie colored prints of Overton appear. 
 Where statues breathed, the work of Phidias' hands, 
 A wooden pump or lonely watch-house stands. 
 There Essex' stately pile adorned the shore. 
 There Cecil's, Bedford's, VilHers', now no more. 
 Yet Burlington's fair palace still remains ; 
 Beauty within, without proportion reigns. 
 Beneath his eye declaring Art revives. 
 The wall with animated picture lives. 
 There Handel strikes the strings, the melting strain 
 Transports the soul, and thrills through every vein. 
 Tliere oft I enter (but with cleaner shoes) 
 For Burlington's beloved by every Muse." 
 
 Handel and Gay must have found two subjects of 
 mutual interest: music, of which the latter was a 
 judge ; and good eating, in which, Congreve tells us, 
 he was a great performer.* Handel set his pretty 
 Serenata of Acis and Galatea to music. I have never 
 been inside Burlington House ; but I once witnessed 
 an adventure inside the gates, which Gay might have 
 vv-rittcn upon had he seen it, and Handel have set to 
 r.ir.sic with drums and trumpets. The reader must 
 kiiow I have been a soldier, have had a red coat and 
 
 * In a letter to Pope. See Spence's Anecdotes. "As the French philoso- 
 pher," says Congreve, '"used to prove his existence hy cogito, ergo sum. the 
 greatest proof of Gay's existence is edii ergo est." Gay's poems abound with al- 
 lusions to eating and drinking. [Thackeray says Gay was "forever eating 
 and saying good things." — Ed.] 
 
38 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 great long green feather, and bivouacked in Du- 
 four's Place. I have seen horrid war at Wormwood 
 Scrubbs, and marched from " Ealing to Acton " in 
 all the dusty glory of a campaign. Our regiment 
 had not been long organized, when it was announced 
 to us that we were to have Lord A. for our colonel, 
 and that his lordship would make his first appear- 
 ance among us on a certain morning, on the parade 
 before Burlington House. We mustered about a 
 thousand strong at that time, and were all under arms 
 on the day appointed, anxious and exalted. On a 
 sudden the great gates are thrown open, the band 
 strikes up, the regiment presents arms, and his lord- 
 ship, on a gallant white charger, instead of riding 
 tenderly in, introduces himself to us by pitching head 
 foremost over his horse's neck ! The debut was awk- 
 ward : the sympathy hardly made it better ; but noth- 
 ing came of the bad omen ; unless it was prophetic 
 of the prostration which was afterwards required of 
 the noble lord in China, and which he so naturally 
 refused to make. The ko-tou to the band-major was 
 certainly enough, once in a man's life. 
 
 Golden Square is a vile square, though it was 
 once among the most fashionable.* You gather this 
 from the slip-slop novels, which always make a point 
 of being high-bred. No hero can have an interesting 
 aspect, and no heroine a becoming wretchedness of 
 mind, unless the family have an establishment in Port- 
 man or Grosvenor Square to support it. Soho Square 
 
 * " I have a grim pleasure in thinking thi.t Golden Square was once the resort 
 of the aristocracy," says Thackeray, in a delightful digression on the mutations 
 of fashion, in Philip. — Ed. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 39 
 
 is much better than Golden, for it has trees.* A 
 great improvement has been made of late years in this 
 respect in most of the squares ; but the two just 
 mentioned together certainly bear the palm. They 
 are all great ornaments to the town, and serve to 
 keep it healthy. In some parts of Italy they have a 
 pretty custom of putting inscriptions over the doors 
 and gateways, both in town and country. I have 
 often thought that mottoes would be an addition both 
 agreeable and useful to the doors of our fine houses 
 at the West End. The spaces over the entrances seem 
 to invite them. The passengers would be amused ; 
 and the householder who put up the inscription (for 
 every new possessor should have his own) would feel 
 it a sort of tie on his character. Devices of all kinds 
 are useful in this point of view, except hereditary 
 ones ; for those are not a man's own, and remind him 
 of nothing but the antiquity of his family. Once and 
 away, they may give him a just pride or as just a 
 qualm. A curious list of contrasts might be made 
 out between modern lands and the mottoes to their 
 arms. 
 
 The long streets without shops to them, in thi§ part 
 of the town, and with brick houses all built in the 
 same manner, have a strange look to persons who have 
 resided in Italy. In the cities there, the houses varv 
 at every step, and are faced with stucco. The ad- 
 vantage is on the side of the London houses in point 
 
 * Sir Roger De Coverley lived in Soho Square during his visits to London in 
 his "fine-gentleman days;" but later in life he preferred humbler quarters 
 when in towTi. When he came up to London to get a sight of Prince Eugene, 
 he lodged in Norfolk Street. — Ed. 
 
40 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 of snngness, especially on the ground floors, which in 
 Italy have the windows barred over with iron, which 
 gives thetn a prison look. It is impossible also for 
 an Englishman, at least in winter time, to divest him- 
 self of the preference due to the snug curtains and 
 carpets all over the house inside, things which do not 
 abound in the south. But in point of architecture 
 and general appearance, there is no comparison. The 
 houses in Italy are on a larger scale, the variety inter- 
 esting, and the proportions very often beautiful and in 
 high taste. The stucco and marble also suit the blue 
 sky. You see that the houses belong to a country of 
 artists. Nevertheless, give me the West End of my 
 old metropolis with its world of comfort, its firesides, 
 and its fair faces. I flit from drawing-room to draw- 
 ing-room, delighted with the endless succession of' 
 wealth, beauty, and elegance, the music, the books, 
 the graceful sisterhoods, the respectable parents, — in 
 short, with everything except the climate over their 
 heads, and the spleen too often in their faces. What 
 a pity the whole world cannot exchange their advan- 
 tages with one another ! 
 
 In Marylebone, Pope went for a short time to 
 school. There was a house and bowling-green there 
 in his time, similar to the one in Piccadilly, which I 
 suppose it succeeded. It was frequented by the best 
 company, bowls at that time being a game justly 
 held in estimation. Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, 
 was so constant a visitor, that he was said to live 
 there. Marylebone Gardens afterwards became cel- 
 ebrated for the same entertainments as the modern 
 Vauxhall. They existed up to a late period. Chat- 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 4I 
 
 terton wrote a cantata for them ; a burlesque (if I 
 remember) of the quarrels and amours of the pagan 
 heaven. The Thrales had a house in Hanover 
 Square, where Johnson visited. 
 
 The West End of London, for an obvious reason, is 
 of little interest in a classical point of view, com- 
 pared with other parts of the town. One or two 
 writers like Gibbon do nothing for so great a quarter. 
 Even Covent Garden is not the most inspired ground. 
 The most sacred places are now occupied by the 
 money-changers of Cornhill and the Borough. Of 
 these in my next. But O for the evenings again that 
 I have passed there, especially at a house at the other 
 end of Oxford Street ! The N.'s lived there, the most 
 Catholic of Catholics, for their spirit embraced the 
 whole world.* There we should have waked the 
 night-owl with a catch, had an owl been within hear- 
 ing. The watchman did instead. The solitary pas- 
 senger who was astonished at our Laughing Trios, 
 was not the less so at the majestic rolling of the organ 
 that would follow it ; just emblem of the devotion for 
 all good things which we had in our hearts. There 
 came J. G., a set of airy crotchets in the shape of a 
 man ; and H. R. (always ready with his tenor, his 
 joke, and his breathing nod of acquiescence), for 
 whom I shall have another pang in my conscience 
 if I do not write to him (not because he will die, but 
 because he will think my friendship is dead, which it 
 can never be), and C. C, who groaned a hundred times 
 of an evening in the fullness of his satisfaction (I 
 
 * The Novellos. See Charles Lamb's letter to Hunt, and the Chapter on 
 Ears in the Essays of Elia. — En 
 
42 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 hope to hear shortly that benevolent grind of his 
 epiglottis) ; and the G.s' pleasant specimens of hu- 
 manity ; and Kate H., a beauty fit to take coffee with 
 the party in the Rape of the Lock : — 
 
 " On her white breast a sparkling cross she wore, 
 Which Jews might kiss, and infidels adore. " 
 
 And it was as Catholic too as that of Belinda. 
 Kate was tall, had a fine black head of hair, with 
 eyes to match, and a face made for a portrait. When 
 she came home from the play, and sat down in her 
 long scarlet mantle, showing only her throat and fine 
 curls, and sparkling smiles, you saw how many eyes 
 had been looking at her from the pit. A husband 
 carried her off to a distance, and we never saw her 
 again, which was unfair : I wonder how these hus- 
 bands reconcile it to their consciences. C. L. came 
 there sometimes " to wonder at our quaint spirits," 
 with a quainter spirit of his own. He would put up 
 with no anthems but Kent's, and with no songs but 
 Water parted from the Sea. His sister humbly sug- 
 gested, at a beautiful passage in Mozart, that she 
 thought there was some merit in that. He would 
 not hear of it. What was the consequence? Why, 
 that he got loved by everybody in spite of his in- 
 tolerance ; which, with him, is apt to have more hu- 
 manity in it than the liberality of other men. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 43 
 
 No. IV. 
 A WALK IN THE CITY. 
 
 Rursus et urbe frui. — Ovid. 
 Again to enjoy the city. 
 
 WHEN I entered the metropolis on my pres- 
 ent visit, I lighted with my Wishing-Cap on 
 St. Paul's Cathedral. Could I have fancied a devil 
 with me on so sacred a place, I should have taken 
 myself for Don Cleofas in the novel ; for roofs and 
 walls fly open before me, as easily as I fly over them ; 
 and I saw in an instant the whole neighborhood, with 
 all that was going on inside the houses. The inhabi- 
 tants need not be alarmed, as it is not my intention to 
 pursue the likeness between this paper and the Devil 
 on Two Sticks any farther at present. I shall content 
 myself with expressing the agreeable surprise that 
 seized me on observing a little room, the inhabitant of 
 which was nursing an abundance of plants and flowers 
 against the spring. Among them was even an orange 
 tree. The very spirit of the Flora Domestica seemed 
 to be there. Surely, thought I, Nature must love those 
 who have so much love for her. If they have joy, 
 the joy must be doubled ; and though they be full of 
 sorrow, tnere must be still room, as in the cup of the 
 Arabian, for the rose-leaf to swim at top. 
 
 At their old place of resort in St. Paul's Church- 
 yard, I used to meet the survivors of the dinner par- 
 
44 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS, 
 
 ties of Mr. Johnson, the respectable bookseller. There 
 was G., buckling himself up, with his arms crossed, 
 for a controversy ; and F., like a little old white- 
 headed lion, " full of sound and fury," but by no 
 means " signifying nothing ; " and L. E., one of a 
 volatile generation, who have the art of settling them- 
 selves into teachers ; and good old gaunt Bonnycastle 
 (whom I name openly because he is no more), full of 
 his anecdotes and his Shakespeare, and showing his 
 teeth when he smiled, like a Houyhnhnm condescend- 
 ing to wear a human shape : and last, but not least, that 
 whole body of the magistracy personified, Horace- 
 loving old Kinnaird, a romantic aristocrat, to whom 
 God save the King was a requiem, and a bow from, 
 a court otiicer a beatific vision. His frame, poor 
 fellow ! was like a square mile of dropsy ; but he had 
 a large sparkling black eye, like a boy ; and he quoted 
 his Horace, and told his anecdote of " my lud North" 
 to the last. For all his excess of loyalty, he was hu- 
 mane to us Jacobins, his adoration of rank being 
 mainly connected with a notion of its high breeding. 
 To give him quotation for quotation, — to answer, 
 when he said, — 
 
 " Persicos odi, puer, apparatus," ^- 
 
 "Ah, Mr. Kinnaird, and that the elegant invitation 
 to MtEcenas, — 
 
 ' Tyrrhena regum progenies,' " — 
 
 was a bond of union with him forever. 
 
 I take a melancholy satisfaction (being an author) 
 in walking down Paternoster Row. The booksellers 
 hereabouts and eastwards do not make their shop 
 windows so lively as those of the Strand and West 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 45 
 
 End. Mr. Hunter, in St. Paul's Churchyard, humane- 
 ly shows us a portrait of Mr. Edgeworth or Mr. Day, 
 to qualify the dryness of his divinity ; * but the mere 
 warehouse look of the shops of Messrs. Longman 
 and others is a satire on the trade. 
 
 The City and the Borough contain the most classi- 
 cal ground in the metropolis. In the former, besides 
 Pope and Gray, were born three out of the four great 
 English poets, — Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton : the 
 literary clubs and tavern-meetings of the age of Shake- 
 speare were held in Fleet Street and Cornhill ; and 
 Shakespeare's theatre was over the water by the 
 Borough. Another stood near the present Apothe- 
 caries' Hall, in Blackfriars. From the Borough Chau- 
 cer set out on the journey to Canterbury with his 
 Pilgrims. I have touched upon these matters before ; 
 but I repeat them here, partly for the pleasure of 
 doing so, and partly to remark how the celebrity aris- 
 ing from authorship survives every other. Old city 
 palaces,, the dwellings of a proud nobility, have fallen 
 one after the other : you must now dig for their me- 
 morials in dusty books. Political tumults have sha- 
 ken perhaps every street in London : you must search 
 for them in old chronicles, which are not read by one 
 person in a million. But in the living productions 
 
 * Richard Lovell Edgeworth, brother of Maria Edgeworth. " Mr. Edge- 
 worth," says Sydney Smith, in a review of the essay on Irish Bulls, "seems 
 to possess the sentiments of an accomplished gentleman, the information of a 
 scholar, and the vivacity of a first-rate harlequin. He is fuddled with animal 
 spirits, giddy with constitutional joy ; in such a state he must have written on, 
 or burst. A discharge of ink was an evacuation absolutely necessary to avoid 
 fatal and plethoric congestion." Mr. Day is the good and eccentric Thomas 
 Day, author of Sandford and Merton. — En. 
 
46 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 of genius survive at once the rare individuals born, 
 and the places that gave them birth. A petty inci- 
 dent in the life of one of these men shall be repeated 
 a hundred times to do honor to a particular spot. It 
 is said to be on record, that Chaucer was fined a 
 shilling for beating a friar in P'leet Street, — a cir- 
 cumstance that hardly seems compatible w^ith the 
 character of the gentle poet, who describes himself 
 as shy in his manners, and going along with his eyes 
 bent on the ground. But if the reader has been in 
 the south, and seen w^iat sturdy vagabonds there are 
 among reverend persons, trudging along with their 
 hard, sneering faces, their staves, and their dirty drug- 
 get cloaks, the provocation seems far from unlikely ; 
 especially when it is considered that our poet, for all 
 his gentleness, was somewhat of an uproarious re- 
 former. 
 
 It must be confessed that it is not easy to walk 
 about London and indulge in retrospective meditation. 
 The noise being great, as Cowley would say, is little. 
 It might serve to deafen itself, like the Falls of Niaga- 
 ra ; but to be shouldered out of one's reverie is not so 
 pleasant. It seems as impossible for anybody but a 
 hypochondriac to think in Cheapside as for a fish in 
 the Channel to be at rest. Yet I prefer a hundred 
 times making m.y way in the most crowded streets to 
 walking along a suburban city street, which is neither 
 town nor country, — neither City nor West End. In 
 the City, shops and a certain bustle are fitting. Every- 
 thing ought to be alive, — the pavement, the windows, 
 the prospect. A genuine piece of quiet is good, but 
 this must be in some old street or corner. Bread 
 
THE WISHING- CAP. 47 
 
 Street has a right to be tranquil, both because it is 
 ancient and because Milton was born there. To go 
 through Christ-Hospital,* when my old school-fellows 
 are at their books, is a pleasant transitign from the 
 bustle of grown life to the dreams of boyhood. Any 
 Lpot, where you meet with a piece of antique build- 
 ing, a Gothic archway, or an old tottering house with 
 a coat of arms upon it, is a happy variety. I have a 
 particular respect for Austin Friars, for a reason 
 which I shall give presently. But rather than walk 
 in one of your " respectable " new streets, such as the 
 " ger^teel " ramifications out of Blackfriars Road or 
 the City Road, I would take my stroll through all 
 the old alleys, from Pudding Lane to Pie Corner. I 
 must have either antiquity to remind me of the past 
 generations, or something busy and going on to warm 
 my heart with the present. A new monotonous brick 
 street, full, perhaps, of government dependants, who 
 pass their lives between " the desk's dead wood " and 
 a vegetation in those long lines of pots from the brick- 
 kiln, — if I were one of them, I would sooner live in 
 a brick-field itself, provided there were a single tree 
 to look at from my window. It is true they walk out 
 of an evening in the dusty roads. O, charitable Sur- 
 rey Theatre, and Sadler's Wells, and thou Bagnigge 
 (who ought to be in being, if thou art not), wrongly 
 are ye despised by the independent gentlemen who 
 are fortunate enough to vegetate and be in flower at 
 the West End ! What the coach-maker and tailor are 
 
 * This, Hunt maintains, in his Autobiography, is its proper name, and not 
 Christ's Hoy.pital, as Lamb cills it in his two essays on the old school. — Ed. 
 
48 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 to them, helping them to their movable pots and 
 their tuHp fashions, are ye to the sadder and more 
 thinking generation of the dwellers in by-places. 
 O, half price at the great theatres! much more foul- 
 mouthed are they who cry out against thee, because 
 thou disturbest their polite sympathy at the fourth 
 act, than the throng of money economists, who, re- 
 leased from^ their long and respectable patience, burst 
 in upon thy expanded doors, time enough to supply 
 themselves with criticism for the next week on Mr. 
 Kean and Mr. Macready, and Mr. Liston in the farce. 
 Besides, w^hat would our worthy London 'prentices 
 do in the absence of their old city sports and tumul- 
 tuous meetings, when the cry of " clubs ! " used to fur- 
 nish them with a proper supply of hard blows and 
 sympathy for one another? To you, gentle sub-urban- 
 ites (not excepting the Cobourg, though its name be 
 modern and its gentility somewhat vociferous), to you 
 they repair " to light their wasted urns," — to rub off 
 the scurf generated by money-getting and hard ser- 
 vice, and fit themselves for becoming creditors, magis- 
 trates, and givers of good dinners. Unfortunately, 
 this intellectual regimen is not so good for digestion 
 as the foot-ball and targ^et-shootinsr, in which our 
 gallant apprentices excelled of old. Our shopmen 
 partake with others of the sickliness of a lettered 
 generation. They must have their tea to carry off 
 the vapors, and to generate more. " Mighty roast 
 beef" is an enemy not to be encountered with the old 
 impunity ; and gout and peevishness occupy their arm- 
 chairs, amidst a world of provoking comforts, at a time 
 of life when your citizen used only to be reasonably 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 49 
 
 bilious. This is attributed to the progress of civili- 
 zation, and to " us youth," the authors who grow 
 sickly ourselves in writing against effeminacy. But 
 with the leave of those who at once complain and 
 are proud of the refinement of the age in which 
 they live, our civilization is not so extreme as we 
 pretend. No state of man has arrived at a proper 
 pitch of civilization in which fair play is not attended 
 to between its intellectual and corporal faculties. I 
 confess, " for my own private eating," I would rather 
 have been a citizen of the age of Elizabeth, my 
 cheeks glowing not only with beef and pudding, but 
 with fresh air and a hundred merry games ; but, 
 nevertheless, my content to be a sick author in the 
 nineteenth century " hath a preferment in it." I 
 think, with a modern philosopher, that we must 
 come round again to our gymnastics at last; and, 
 when we do this, having meanwhile got our books 
 and our love of liberty into the bargain, the world 
 will be better off than if London contained the only 
 gallant apprentices going, and the rest of Europe 
 were full of slavery and superstition. 
 
 Some drawbacks on the health of our ancient 
 citizens must not be forgotten. Their streets were 
 narrow, which ultimately produced a plague ; and, in 
 the time of Henry the Eighth, when Erasmus visited 
 England, it appears that the nation who now pride 
 themselves above all others on the becoming clean- 
 liness of their houses (for Dutch cleanness is dull 
 excess), were, — wath humility be it spoken, — one 
 of the filthiest under the sun. I cannot refer to the 
 passage, but I have a vivid recollection of it. He 
 4 
 
50 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 describes our sitting or dining-rooms as incrusted with 
 a mass of dirt and refuse, ill concealed by the rushes 
 strewed over it, and never swept away. A sense of 
 what is due to humanity ultimately increases in every 
 respect with the progress of knowledge ; and this is 
 what makes me hope that we shall at last find out 
 the secret of being both healthy and wise. 
 
 When Erasmus was in England he lodged in Aus- 
 tin Friars. 
 
 Austin Friars, I love thee : and yet it is not for 
 this. Still less is it for St. Austin and his brethren ; 
 nor yet for thy being so quiet and well-bred a re- 
 treat. It is because of the feelings with which I used 
 to turn down thine archway, when a boy, to visit 
 the family of the T.'s. The T.'s, reader, were among 
 the most eminent families in the mercantile world, 
 and remain so still. The princely character of the 
 English merchant, has perhaps, never been carried 
 higher than by some of them. But the charm of a 
 respectable English family is ever to be found in- 
 doors. The T.'s never forsook the friends they had 
 known so long, in spite of politics and misfortune. 
 I used to think sometimes that an East India Di- 
 rector, who visited them, looked rather askance at 
 dinner-time upon the stuff of my school coats; but 
 a smile from A. T., or a challenge to a glass of 
 wine from the father, who used to sit (to my equal 
 veneration and terror), panting with asthma, at the 
 head of the table, soon reassured me. As for the 
 stranger, privately speaking, I thought that my Hor- 
 ace and Demosthenes gave me a right to sit at table 
 with any man : and I think so still. To this house, 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 5 I 
 
 with its music and its kindness, and to another at 
 the other end of the town, where there was a gal- 
 lery of pictures, I attribute much of the coloring of 
 my after-life, — I mean of my ideas and likings. Both 
 had gardens ; the latter of a size as well as tranquil- 
 lity enough to surprise a visitor in London (at least, 
 it cuts an important figure in my memory), and the 
 Drapers' Gardens abutted on it ; so that the imagi- 
 nation, in the very midst of the city, reposed on gar- 
 den upon garden. But the best thing in the house, 
 even better than the matronly grace and kindness of 
 the mistress of it, was a little apartment, one of two 
 or three which the best-hearted girl upon earth had 
 to herself, and to which I used to hasten up with 
 my mother before dinner, when there was no music 
 practising below. There was a small set of book- 
 shelves in it, containing, among other books, the 
 Turkish Spy, — a work that used to puzzle me ex- 
 ceedingly, and which, I will be bound for it, was as 
 great a puzzle to A. [I long to mention her name, 
 for it is as feminine and liandsome a one as can be 
 conceived, and four syllables long to boot ; but I 
 fear to startle the unaffected modesty of the bearer 
 with a more public mention than I can help.] This 
 place was a little sanctuary in my eyes. It was a 
 beautiful sight to see the excellent but care-worn per- 
 son that brought me with her met affectionately at 
 the door with both outstretched hands of a fine girl 
 of eighteen, and served with all the respect and 
 attention that could have waited on a princess. I 
 wonder how I can write about it with dry eyes. 
 Many years afterwards, when the new generation 
 
52 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 had grown up, and parted different ways, I had the 
 pleasure of seeing A. once again (now no longer T.), 
 and siiowing her my eldest born, whom I had named 
 after her family. Time had not taken away her 
 smile.* I might have known her, perhaps, still, not- 
 withstanding my politics ; and I have a hundred 
 times reproached myself that I did not try. 
 
 No. V. 
 WHITEHALL. 
 
 Veterum penetralia regum. — Virgil. 
 The insides of the old abodes of kings. 
 
 THE more I loiter about my old places of 
 abode, the more I long to stay. What I relate 
 has no pretensions to the notice of the antiquary. 
 He is acquainted with it already. My antiquities 
 are all out of Pennant, with the exception of what I 
 glean here and there from the wits and poets. The 
 only value of my pictures (if any) is in the coloring, 
 and in the figures occasionally introduced. 
 
 Charing Cross was so called from one of the affec- 
 tionate memorials set up by Edward the First, in 
 honor of places at which his wife's body rested on its 
 way to interment at Westminster. The cross here 
 
 * Thornton Leigh Hunt, the "dear little T. H." of Elia's Witches and 
 Other Night Fears ; and the subject of one of Lamb's poems. We hope the 
 reader is familiar with Leigh Hunt's beautiful lines To T. H. L., Six Years 
 Old, during Sickness. — A. T. is Almeria Thornton, of whom and of her 
 family there is considerable additional information in The Autobiography of 
 Leigh Hunt. — Ed. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 53 
 
 was the last. Its place is now occupied by the statue 
 of Charles the First, an unfitting ornament for a free 
 city. Indeed it can be considered in no other light 
 than that of an insulting rebuke. Nobody is respon- 
 sible for the insult now, because it has been of long 
 standing ; but the spirit that has maintained and al- 
 lowed it is not favorable to liberty, nor just to the 
 true spirit of the constitution. The constant assump- 
 tion, on the part of this representative of Charles the 
 First, of a right to beard it thus ostentatiously among 
 the people, and look in a triumphant manner towards 
 Whitehall, has its effect, even in stone and brass. 
 The forms of encroachment make way for the sub- 
 stance. These are the helps to the gradual introduc- 
 tion of soldiers, that are now suffered to stand sentinel 
 at museums and theatres, certainly in contradiction to 
 the spirit of English liberty. A free people ought 
 not to be familiarized in this manner with royal dom- 
 inations and liveries. There is a bust of Charles the 
 First indecently overlooking the avenue to the House 
 of Commons.* When the passage was undergoing 
 repairs some years back, the bust was missed by a late 
 minister, and eagerly inquired after. The workm^en 
 satisfied the anxiety of the minister, and all went 
 right. Charles's illegal entrance into the House of, 
 Commons, with the intention of seizing the five mem- 
 bers (the proceeding which afterwards brought him 
 to the block), rendered his appearance in such a quar- 
 ter still more insulting. It is true, there are statues 
 in other places, of princes of the house that displaced 
 
 * This bust does not appear to have been put up in Pennant's time. He 
 speaks of it as existing, but not in its present situation. It would be curious to 
 know who put it there. 
 
54 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 his family. In Russell Square we have even a Whig; 
 nobleman and a Whig statesman. But Charles's 
 statue is the most conspicuous and in the most con- 
 spicuous and crowded place of any in London ; and 
 Charles Fox would not be allowed to confront him 
 in the Parliament Avenue, where he has at least as 
 much right to appear. Even a Whig sovereign is not 
 allowed to see fair play ; which is surely unthankful 
 in one quarter, and not eminently unslavish in anoth- 
 er. In a thoroughfare behind Whitehall (skulking out 
 of sight, but " insinuated," as it were, " into the 
 boxes " ) is a statue of James the Second ! 
 
 All the noble thoroughfare, now called Whitehall, 
 with the buildings on either side, extended along the 
 river as far as Scotland Yard on one side, and up to 
 the street turning into Spring Gardens on the other, 
 occupies the ground of the immense palace formerly 
 existing under the same name. It was begun by the 
 Earl of Kent in the reign of the third Henry, and be- 
 came the palace of the Archbishops of York, and the 
 residence of Wolsey. It is the scene of the masquer- 
 ade in Henry the Eighth. A great masquerade has 
 been played there by Time. Here Wolsey, that mag- 
 nificent "Jack-priest of the world," displayed his 
 pomps and vanities, grew fat and diseased with de- 
 bauchery, gave out imperial healths in his gold cups ; 
 and at last burst like a bubble. Henry condescended 
 sto buy the house, and went swelling both it and him- 
 self in his turn, till he became too fat to write his 
 name.* The various exercises which he pursued in 
 
 * An historical fact. He had a seal made to stamp with instead, and must 
 be imagined moving his body and arm round to achieve the signature, like a 
 porpoise with something stuck in his fin. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 55 
 
 this place (for there were a tennis-court, tilting-yard, 
 cock-pit, and bowHng-green, and he was fond of 
 robust games) appear to have only been made subser- 
 vient to the prodigiousness of his appetites. Eating 
 and drinking, gallantry and divinity, he fell to them 
 all with the thirsty self-will and iron nerves of an 
 athlete ; only his divinity made him careful to marry 
 before he murdered.* 
 
 The pomps and vanities of Elizabeth were better 
 warranted, though she lectured a bishop out of her 
 pew for alluding to them. Her three thousand dress- 
 es (for such was the number found in her wardrobe) 
 have almost as many excuses, when we recollect what 
 a noise she made as queen and woman, and what a 
 number of high and gallant tastes were prepared to 
 admire her. It is true, she had " too much sense," 
 was '' too great a queen," &c., but in these matters 
 too much sense is very apt not to be enough ; nor do 
 we find that women, or even men, of the greatest 
 and gravest sense, are above the little artifices that 
 
 * Fuller, in his Church History, tells a good story of Henry the Eighth and 
 his fool. "King Henry," says the old divine, "had lately set forth a book 
 against Luther, endeavoring the confutation of his opinions as novel and un- 
 sound." None suspect this king's lack of learning (though many his lack of lei- 
 sure from his pleasures) for such a design ; however, it is probable some o Jier 
 GARDENER gathered the flowers (made the collectionsX though King Henry 
 had the honor to wear the posy, carrying the credit in the title thereof 
 
 To requite his paihs the pope honored him and his successors with a specious 
 title, "A Defender of the Faith." . . . There is a tradition, that King 
 Henry's fool (though more truly to be termed by another name), coming into 
 the court, and finding the king transported with an unusual joy, boldly asked of 
 him the cause thereof; to whom the king answered, it was because that the pope 
 had honored him with a style more eminent than any of his ancestors. " O, good 
 Harry," quoth the fool, "let thou and I defend one another, and let the faith 
 alone to defend itself" — Ed. 
 
56 THE WrSHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 help to set off their persons. Age and misfortune 
 make a difference, but the misfortune must be new 
 indeed that diminishes the vanity of a throne. In 
 those times pomp and splendor were thought to 
 belong as much to the person of the sovereign as 
 the state ; though nothing, it must be confessed, was 
 omitted or discontinued that could bring round the 
 world to a different v/ay of thinking. Here, in the 
 tilt-yard at Whitehall, did Elizabeth, " in her sixty- 
 fifth year, wrinkled face, red periwig, little eyes, 
 hooked nose, skinny lips, and black teeth," pre- 
 side over the chivalrous exercises, and receive the 
 homage of her gallant knights, who stormed alle- 
 gorical forts to get at her " beauty," and died in 
 all sorts of eloquent despairs if she averted the heav- 
 en of her looks. It was a set of poetical grown chil- 
 dren " making believe," and more grave and self-de- 
 ceiving than smaller ones. For we must not suppose 
 that the self-deception was confined to Elizabeth. 
 Her adoring courtiers would marry secretly against 
 her will, and occasionally be moved into a prosaical 
 sense of her age and her skinny lips ; but one charm 
 stands instead of another, and serves the latter with 
 its own results. Elizabeth being a great queen, and 
 able to gratify ever in so many ways the self-love of 
 her admirers, would remain an attractive woman 
 long after all pretensions had ceased in any other 
 station. Wit and good nature have done as much for 
 women ; and even deformity has been held by some a 
 fascination ; so much has mere sensation to do in 
 most extreme cases, beyond any other impulse. 
 James the First, that slatternly pedant and very ill- 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 57 
 
 contrived personage, kept up the spectacles of the tilt- 
 yard, and was the cause of much finery in others. 
 But the great patron of martial exercises was his son 
 Henry. After the filial fashion of heirs apparent, 
 Henry affected a policy quite opposite to that of 
 his father ; and, like all heirs apparent who die 
 before they come to the throne, was a popular and 
 hopeful prince. It is to James the First the public are 
 indebted for the noble banqueting-house built by Inigo 
 Jones. I have sometimes stood and looked at it till I 
 thought that, by one of the hidden analogies between 
 the fine arts, the beautiful proportions of the upper 
 part of the front affected me like a piece of music. 
 Let the reader stand and measure with his eye the pro- 
 portions between the windows and the spaces about 
 them, and imagine this or that part to be contracted 
 or enlarged, and he will feel how injurious would be 
 the alteration. The glory of Whitehall was at its 
 height in the time of James and Charles the First; 
 Inigo Jones built for the court, Rubens and Vandyke 
 painted for it,* and Ben Jonson wrote for it. Roy- 
 alty had not found out its weak side, nor learnt to be- 
 come jealous of natural greatness. Genius was 
 thought only an accessary to " the fair State," and was 
 allowed to put forth its full lustre. Louis the Four- 
 teenth told Boileau that he had always a quarter of 
 an hour to spare for his conversation whenever he 
 chose to visit the court. And this was thought a won- 
 
 * Holbein was employed at Whitehall under the Tudors. He died there of 
 the plague, and is supposed to have been buried in the churchyard belonging 
 to St. Catherine Cree, near the India House. Vandyke also died in England^ 
 and was buried in Old St. Paul's. The Academy should give him a monument 
 in the New. 
 
58 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 derful favor ; and so it was, as times went ; yet what 
 was it more than a good bargain made for himself by 
 a dull gentleman with a man of wit? This, however, 
 was nothing to poor Racine, who languished like a 
 lily and died, because the king was displeased with 
 him. — Painting is still more welcome at court than 
 poetry. Poets, with all their flattery, have arrogant 
 ways ; assume crowns of laurel, and talk of bestow- 
 ing immortality. They jostle the sovereign in his 
 throne with another sovereignty, which is of a suspi- 
 cious character, and disdains the common fashions 
 of mortality. But painting takes its place as part of 
 the show. It offers the most visible and ornamental 
 display of genius with the least pretensions to it, and 
 with the greatest flattery to places and persons ; and 
 accordingly has always been welcome. Even an 
 American and half Republican (the late Mr. West) 
 was liked at Windsor ; though perhaps there was a 
 particular zest in having an American for a royal 
 painter. In the time of the Stuarts there was a gen- 
 erosity in the treatment of artists, which argued much 
 for the intelligence of the patrons. 
 
 Rubens (who was employed in negotiations) car- 
 ried his art with such a high hand, that it seems 
 doubtful whether he was an ambassador condescend- 
 ing to be an artist, or an artist submitting to be an 
 ambassador. His pupil Vandyke married the daugh- 
 ter of a British earl. It has been said that architec- 
 ture was not appreciated, though good architects were 
 employed. The court had the good fortune to light 
 on a man of genius ; but his pay, they say, shows 
 what was thought of his art. Now it is true that 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 59 
 
 Inigo Jones, as Surveyor of the Works, had but eight 
 and four pence a day, and forty-six pounds per annum 
 for house rent, a clerk, and extras. But it remains to 
 be shown how long he was occupied in the business 
 of his office. Genius deserves all it can get ; but it 
 may be countenanced in a variety of ways ; and if it 
 grow wealtliy at last, as Inigo did, nobody can com- 
 plain. The royal countenance procured him a great 
 deal of employment, and Ben Jonson accuses him 
 of thinking himself of so much importance as to aspire 
 to be made a marquis. The jealous poet, whose 
 masques he ornamented too well with his machinery, 
 condescended to write a satire, in which he reproaches 
 him with commencing life with " forty pounds a year 
 in pipkins." Jones might have had a large sum of 
 money given him for every design ; but his profits 
 would then have become enormous, and beyond all 
 proportion. There appears to be considerable justice, 
 upon the whole, in the treatment which genius ex- 
 periences from the world. Fashion may overdo the 
 thing one way, and superiority to a man's age be a 
 drawback another ; but there is fair play in the main. 
 An architect is obliged to get money, like a builder ; 
 but he has the honor besides, and more profit. The 
 painter, though he has workmen also in his pupils, 
 labors hard himself, and gets profit in the same 
 manner. Rubens had three thousand pounds for 
 painting the ceiling of the Banqueting-house. The 
 poet is apt to get least of all ; but this is owing partly 
 to the causes before alluded to, and partly to the 
 greater volatility of his temperament. He is not so 
 accommodating to others, nor so prudent in himself. 
 
6o THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 He takes a wider range of thought and imagination, 
 gets more pleasure in that airy circle, and if he gets 
 more sorrows likewise, looks for a more exalted fame, 
 and feels himself to be one of the dictators of poster- 
 ity. If all this does not make up to him for what he 
 endures, the nature of things renders it necessary that 
 more good should be got out of him than out of any 
 other artist, because all the world can read books and 
 profit by them ; whereas few of us can see fine pic- 
 tures ; and fine architecture is still rarer, and of less 
 importance. The poet must content himself with the 
 noble fatality of liis destiny, and look for reward 
 elsewhere. It is his sympathies with the many that 
 keeps him poor, — the most honorable of all poverties. 
 It is clear, from all history, that great poets might 
 be as rich as any other men of genius ; but they have 
 always some starting-point in them, tangible in some 
 way or other, to the demands of the many, and 
 liable to carry them ofi' from their success. This 
 was the case with Dante, Petrarch, and Milton, with 
 Spenser (though his sympathy took an awkward di- 
 rection, and must needs subject him to the anger of 
 the Irish), with Chaucer, who got into a four years' 
 imprisonment in his old age for being a Wickliffite, 
 with the patriot Greek poets, and more or less with 
 almost every poet of eminence. Even the best cour- 
 tiers among them contrive to remain poor. A dra- 
 matist has the best chance ; for the wider his sympa- 
 thy, the greater chance the pit have of liking him ; 
 and it was a theatre that made Shakespeare rich. 
 
 The lamentation respecting the little pay to court 
 architects — (I believe there is no such lamentations 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 6 1 
 
 now, whoever the architects may be) — has been re- 
 newed in speaking of Sir Christopher Wren. The 
 salary of this excellent person ••' for building St. Paul's 
 from the foundation, was not more (as appears from 
 the public accounts) than two hundred pounds per 
 annum ; his allowance for building all the parochial 
 churches of the city of London was about a hundred 
 per annum, and the same for the repairs of Westmin- 
 ster Abbey ; he was director and chief architect of the 
 Royal Hospital at Greenwich, gratis^ and cheerfully 
 contributed to that work his time, labor, and skill for 
 several years, without salary, emolument, or reward ; 
 preferring in this, as in every other passage of his 
 life, the public service to his own private advantage." 
 (Seward's Anecdotes, quoted by Dr. Drake in the 
 notes to his interesHng edition of the Tatler, vol. ii., 
 p. 13.) This looks formidable enough. It is true 
 that sovereigns are fond of cheap payments for ever}^- 
 body but themselves ; but still, if the art they counte- 
 nance is such a one as fashion and private interest 
 can employ, the artist stands a good chance of be- 
 coming rich. Sir Christopher, I believe, did so in 
 spite of the time he spent in drawing plans for gov- 
 ernment. He was a member of the House of Com- 
 mons in two Parliaments. 
 
 It is generally supposed that Charles the First went 
 to the scaffold through one of the front windows of 
 the Banqueting-house. But he came out at the north 
 side. Pennant informs us that a passage was bro- 
 ken on purpose. It was remaining in his time, " and 
 was a door to a ssnall additional building of late 
 date." Most likely it is still in being. This was the 
 
63 
 
 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 hour of Charles's life which did him most credit. 
 Cromwell might have envied it at the close of his 
 usurpation. Marvel 1, a lover of liberty, has done it 
 justice : — 
 
 "He nothing common did, or mean, 
 Upon that memorable scene, 
 But with his keener eye 
 The axe's edge did try ; 
 Nor called the gods with vulgar spite 
 To vindicate his helpless right, 
 But bowed his comely head 
 Down as upon a bed. " 
 
 When will a court-poet write such verses upon a 
 freeman? 
 
 After a "sullen interval" on the part of Cromwell 
 (who nevertheless got softened by the court air, drank 
 his wine freely, and had " cunning musicians " to play 
 and vsing to him),* in came " Bacchus and his Revel- 
 lers," — Rochester's wits and Grammont's maids of 
 honor. Charles the Second, who somehow or other, 
 has contrived to be a favorite with some very regu- 
 lar moralists as well as politicians, — Sir Walter 
 Scott, for instance, and Dr. Johnson, — had in fact 
 many excuses for his general conduct, setting aside 
 even the usual indulgence allowed to kings in mat- 
 ters of pleasure. He had gone through a series of 
 early experiences, very imperious to a sense of the 
 dignity and hopefulness of human nature. The 
 sharpness of adversity, joined to his natural acute- 
 ness, must often have enabled him to see too far 
 
 * Cromwell took delight in a good voice, and had a church organ, which the 
 Puritans put down at Oxford, privately set up for his amusement at one of the 
 palaces. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 6^ 
 
 • 
 
 even into the spirit of loyalty, which did him such 
 romantic services. His little court, while in exile, 
 was a perpetual scene of jealousies and complaints ; 
 and the sudden tide of homage and popularity which 
 rushed to meet him on the change of his fortune 
 must have contributed to give no pleasanter turn to 
 the early furrows cut in his face by doubt and anx- 
 iety. He is called '' the merry monarch ; " but mirth 
 in him, as in many others, was set off by a ground 
 of melancholy. The French vivacity and voluptu- 
 ousness which he inherited on the mother's side, 
 had a certain hang-dog contradiction in it derived 
 from his father. He loved repose still better than 
 enjoyment. " Sauntering," said one of his compan- 
 ions, " was the true sultana queen he delighted in." 
 He was often seen in the Park, accompanied by his 
 dogs, and feeding the ducks he kept there ; and he 
 would chat familiarly with the people, which made 
 them love him. In Pennant's London is a picture 
 of the then state of the parade and horse-guards, 
 with his majesty, attended by his peers and his 
 puppies. 
 
 Most of Charles's mistresses had lodgings within 
 the precincts of Whitehall. It was one enormous 
 magazine of princes and their household officers, civil 
 and military, cooks, wine-cellars, bowling-greens, ten- 
 nis-grounds, pimps, gamesters, lords and ladies of 
 all sorts. Dryden, in an epilogue written the year be- 
 fore his death, though he appears always to have re- 
 tained a liking for his old master and his '* fair words," 
 does not mend the matter. Speaking of the licen- 
 tiousness of that time, he says, — 
 
64 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 "The sin was of our native growth, 'tis true ; 
 The scandal of the sin was wholly new. 
 Misses they Vvfere, but modestly concealed ; 
 Whitehall the naked Venus first revealed. 
 Who, standing as at Cyprus, in her shrine. 
 The strumpet was adored with rites divine." 
 
 The scandal drew in its horns in the time of James 
 the Second, who had more of the Jesuit in him ; but 
 the time was now approaching when the bustle of 
 Whitehall was to be broken up, and the place no 
 longer to be a seat of royalty. James was obliged to 
 write a letter to his invader, William, inviting him to 
 take up his abode at St. James's. The invitation was 
 accepted, and his majesty in return advised to take 
 his departure from Whitehall. William the Third 
 resided in other palaces ; and the only visible part 
 now remaining of the old establishment is the Ban- 
 queting-house, which has long been converted into a 
 chapel. 
 
 No. VT. 
 
 ST. JAMES'S PARK. 
 
 " TN the time of King Henry the Eighth," says a 
 X note to Dr. King's poems, in Mr. Chalmers's 
 collection, " the park was a wild^ wet field ; but 
 that prince, on building St. James's Palace, en- 
 closed it, laid it out in walks, and collecting the 
 waters together, gave to the new enclosed ground 
 and new-raised buildings the name of St. James's. 
 It was much enlarged by Charles the Second ; who 
 added to it several fields, planted it with rows of 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 65 
 
 lime trees, laid out the mall, formed the canal with 
 a decoy, and other ponds for water-pool. The lime 
 trees, or tilia^ whose blossoms are uncommonly fra- 
 grant, were probably planted inconsequence of a sug- 
 gestion of Mr. Evelyn, in his FuDiifuglum^ published 
 in 1661." 
 
 Charles the Second was very fond of the Park. His 
 habit of walking there, attended b}^ his dogs, both 
 sad and merry, has been noticed before. His ducks, 
 which he also amused himself with feeding, inhab- 
 ited a spot called Duck Island, which was erected 
 into a " government," in order to furnish the French 
 exile and wit, St. Evremond, with a pension. Bird- 
 cage Walk must not be forgotten, which was an 
 aviary of Charles's raising, and retains its appella- 
 tion. Waller speaks of the improvements of St. 
 James's Park in the gratuitous style of a poet. The 
 libertines of the court were to sport about the canal, 
 like the harmless wantons of a golden age ;* while 
 Charles walks among the trees in all the dignity of a 
 Numa, and settles the destinies of the world : — 
 
 " Methinks I see the love that shall be made, 
 The lovers walking in that amorous shade : 
 The gallants dancing by the river side ; 
 They bathe in summer, and in winter slide. 
 Methinks I hear the music in the boats, 
 And the loud Echo which returns the notes ; 
 While overhead a flock of new-sprung fowl 
 Hangs in the air, and does the sun control ; 
 Dark'ning the sky, they hover o'er, and shroud 
 The wanton sailors with a feather'd cloud. 
 Beneath, a shoal of silver fishes glides, 
 And plays about the gilded barges' sides : 
 The ladies angling in the crystal lake. 
 Feast on the waters with the prey they take ; 
 At once victorious with their lines and eyes, 
 They make the fishes and the men their prize." 
 
66 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 The vigor with which the king plays at mall is 
 then doted on ; and the poet proceeds in some strik- 
 ing verses : — 
 
 " Near this, my Muse, what most delights her, sees 
 A living gallery of aged trees ; 
 Bold sons of earth, that thrust their arms so high. 
 As if once more they would invade the sky. 
 In such green palaces the first kings reigned, 
 Slept in their shades, and angels entertained : 
 With such old counsellors they did advise. 
 And by frequenting sacred groves t^rew wise. 
 Free from the impediments of light and noise, 
 Man, thus retir'd, his nobler thoughts employs. 
 Here Charles contrives the ordering of his states, 
 Here he resolves his neighboring princes' fates : 
 What nation shall have peace, where war be made, 
 Determined is in this oraculous shade." 
 
 Again, in some verses not so good : — 
 
 " Here, like the people's pastor, he does go, 
 His flock subjected to his view below : 
 On which reflecting in his mighty mind, 
 No private passion does indulgence find : 
 The pleasures of his youth suspended are, 
 .\nd made a sacrifice to public care. 
 Here, free from court compliances, he walks, 
 And with himself, his best adviser, talks : 
 How peaceful olive may his temples shade. 
 For mending, and for restoring trade : 
 Or, how his brows may be with laurels charg'd, 
 For nations conquer'd and our bounds enlarg'd." 
 
 Alas, it should have been, — 
 
 " For pensions taken, and for France enlarg'd." 
 
 All that his majesty thought of " in this oraculous 
 shade," was how to pass his time and get money for 
 his pleasures. 
 
 " Methinks I see the love that shall be made." 
 
 This it was more easy for our grave poet to predicate. 
 The Park is the scene of some of the most libertine 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 6"] 
 
 plays of that period. I do not know where the Mul- 
 berry Garden stood, which gives a title to one of the 
 comedies of Sedley ; perhaps on the site of Spring 
 Garden, which was a place of entertainment up to a 
 late period. The milk fresh from the cow, which is 
 still sold under the trees at the entrance from that 
 quarter, and which has a pleasing effect on emerging 
 from the streets, appears to be a remnant of the for- 
 mer traffic. 
 
 Marlborough House, now the residence of Prince 
 Leopold, was one of the national acknowledgments 
 to the Duke of Marlborough. It was built partly in a 
 garden belonging to the queen. Her majesty had thus 
 her defender and her old friend the duchess by her 
 side ; and on the other side, in the palace still called by 
 his name, lived her old friend and admirer (who, they 
 say, courted her in his youth,) Sheffield, Duke of 
 Buckingham. He married her sister, natural child of 
 James the Second by the daughter of Sir Charles Sed- 
 ley. Sheffield built the mansion and laid out the 
 garden. He adorned the four sides of the house w^ith 
 inscriptions, one of which is much to the purpose : 
 '' Fastidiosus spectator sibi molestus," — "A fastid- 
 ious spectator is his owji annoyance." This is the 
 nobleman of whom the Tatler speaks as the " Duke 
 that lives at Marylebone." A strange story is related 
 in Pennant, of his giving a dinner to "the most in- 
 famous sharpers of the time," who gambled at that 
 place, and of a toast with which he concluded it: 
 " May as many of us as remain unhanged next spring, 
 meet here again." " I remember," says Pennant, 
 " the facetious Qinn telling this story at Bath, within 
 hearing of the late Lord Chesterfield, when his lord- 
 
68 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ship was surrounded by a crowd of worthies of the 
 same stamp with the above." I cannot help thinking 
 that the company was more suited to the author of the 
 Letters than the writer of the Minor Poems. Sheffield 
 is one of the " twinkling stars " in the Miscellanies, and 
 has a lurking goodness in the midst of his libertinism. 
 He has been accused of pride and arrogance ; but 
 they say he was amiable in private. His sharping 
 connections do not look like the man of whom his 
 widow speaks so highly in his Remains ; but it is 
 astonishing what strange things come together in 
 high life, and with what accommodating philosophy 
 the great regard their own contradictions. The lie 
 on which their pretensions are founded is the cause 
 of it, and renders it in a certain degree excusable. 
 A man cannot well feel that the world would consent 
 to make distinctions that have no real existence, with 
 impunity. 
 
 St. James's Palace was built by Henry the Eighth, on 
 the site of an ancient hospital for lepers. The name 
 was the name of the hospital. The palace was 
 fitted up by William for the Princess Anne and her 
 husband, Prince George of Denmark. She retained 
 it as her residence when queen, and it has since been 
 the headquarters of the British Court. Pennant says, 
 that although the outside is unsightly, it is the most 
 convenient palace for regal parade of any in Europe. 
 There were some interesting pictures there in his 
 time, probably still remaining. One of them was 
 " the diminutive Manhood of Geoffi-ey Hudson." * 
 
 * Scott introduced Geoffrey or Jeffrey Hudson into Peveril of the Peak. He 
 also honors the little man with a long note, to which we refer the curious reader. 
 — Ed. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 69 
 
 " Here," says Pennant, " is to be seen the famous pic- 
 ture by Mabuse, of Adam and Eve. Mr. Evelyn 
 justly remarks the absurdity of painting them with 
 navels and a fountain of* rich imagery amidst the 
 beauteous wilds of Paradise. Raphael and Michael 
 Angelo made the same mistake of the navel, on which 
 the learned Sir Thomas Browne wastes a long page 
 and a half to disprove the possibility." With the 
 leave of these worthy gentlemen, and of the profound 
 theosophist, Raphael and Michael Angelo knew more 
 about these navel affliirs than they. The fountain is 
 not so well; but (not to say anything of what is im- 
 possible to Omnipotence), Adam and Eve were 
 bound to be complete specimens of the human race ; 
 patterns and prototypes, as well as progenitors. As 
 they anticipated our growth, so they anticipated all 
 the rest of us : — 
 
 ' ' Adam the goodliest man of men since born 
 His sons, the fairest of her daughters Eve." * 
 
 The goodliness of the picture desiderated by Mr. Eve- 
 lyn and Sir Thomas, I leave all people of taste to 
 imagine. 
 
 In books of fifty and a hundred years back, if you 
 meet wn'th a hungry gentleman who did not know 
 where to get a dinner, you always find him sitting on 
 a bench in the Park. Others generally accompany 
 him, most of whom are politicians. Bickerstaff meets 
 here his acquaintance the upholsterer, who lets his 
 affairs run to ruin in his zeal for the KinsT of Swe- 
 
 * See South's remarkable sermon on The Creation of Man in God's Image. 
 He says that " an Aristotle was but th^^ rubbish of an Adam.'*'' — Ed. 
 
70 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 den.* People do not appear so patient nowadays 
 to hunger and thirst, though their poHtics are more 
 zealous than ever. In sympathizing with the world 
 at large, instead of confining themselves to be tragedy 
 spectators of royalty, they have learned to include 
 their own rights. They may die by other means, 
 they may be ruined by a bankruptcy, or be hacked and 
 hewed by a series of disappointed hopes ; but till they 
 are fairly put an end to, they claim the common priv- 
 ilege of eating their breakfast and dinner. Besides, 
 others would not let them want a dinner. Revolutions 
 have produced a tendency to diminish the extent of 
 royal kitchens, but only that »the superflux may be 
 shaken to the many. Rabelais would delight to see 
 Gargantua no longer considered as everybody. The 
 two pilgrims, whom he ate in a salad, would in these 
 times have at least made considerable objections. 
 
 It would appear, from novels, that the Park enjoyed 
 some privileges from arrest. In Fielding's Amelia, 
 if I remember, the hero often walks in the Mall, 
 when he can go nowhere else. During the exist- 
 ence of the old Cathedral of St. Paul's, the inside of 
 that church was the resort of the hungry ; who, in 
 
 * The character of the political upholsterer is by Addison ; it is one of the 
 happiest of his contributions to the Tatler. "We should hope," says Hazlitt, 
 in the Round Table, "the upholsterer and his companions in the Green Park 
 stand as fair a chance for immortality as some modern politicians." Beau Tibbs 
 was fond of sauntering in St. James's Park, now in rags, now in embroidery ; 
 and hither came Miss Hannah (another of Goldsmith's characters), to show her 
 finery and criticise die finery of others. Itwas in St. James's Park that the free- 
 holder saw his friend the Tory fox-hunter feeding the ducks. If the reader is un- 
 acquainted with this masterpiece of humorous characterizduon,he should forthwith 
 take down his Addison, and read the three little papers on the fox-hunter, in the 
 Freeholder. — Ed. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 7 1 
 
 allusion to a tomb supposed to contain the body of 
 Humphrey, Duke of Gloucester, gave rise to the say- 
 ing of dining with Duke Humphrey. 
 
 The Mall is so called from the game of mall to which 
 Waller alludes. Charles the Second transferred it from 
 Pall Mall. It is a great pity that these and similar 
 exercises have been left off. Without canting about 
 the degeneracy of the times, it is a reasonable deduc- 
 tion, from our abandonment of healthy and manly 
 games, that we are an inferior race to our ancestors 
 in point of bodily grace and vigor. 
 
 In a house looking into Mr. Bentham's garden, in 
 Bird-cage Walk, lived Milton. The front of it is in 
 York Street, and, without being the ancient one, is in 
 very squalid condition. If it had a new face and an 
 inscription, which it surely deserves, it would turn to 
 better account for all parties. There used to be a 
 bust on the other side, which we believe Mr. Ben- 
 tham put up. But it is not the custom of that emi- 
 nent person to monopolize a good thing, and he ought 
 to let as many people know of the house as possible. 
 It is the privilege of Westminster to exhibit a spirit 
 of liberty proportionate to the encroachments of the 
 other power that lives there. 
 
 The Horse-Guards were in poor condition in the 
 time of Charles. The stables looked like the open 
 corridors of an old inn ; and a toy of a building, with 
 staircase outside, appears to have been the Guard 
 House. These conclusions are drawn from the print 
 in Pennant. I thought the design of the present 
 building was by Vanbrugh ; but Pennant says he be- 
 lieves it was the work of an architect of the name of 
 
72 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Vardy. The structure is not older than the reign of 
 George the Second. There is something fantastic in 
 the custom of setting two soldiers on horseback to 
 mount guard in those tenements at the entrance, like 
 a couple of live statues. But they are fine specimens 
 of the weight and steadiness of a pair of English 
 dragoons, and keep a gravity becoming their situa- 
 tions. Some say they have been seen eating pud- 
 ding and apples ; but this is what I will not believe. 
 
 The band on parade is worth hearing. They play 
 some of the best pieces of Mozart and Haydn, which 
 the wind carries hither and thither in triumph. I 
 remember taking home to school the air of Non piu 
 andrai^ long before I knew the name of Mozart. 
 Here war is to be seen under its most harmless aspect, 
 with its fringes, its colors, and its gallant sounds. It 
 is all holiday play and gentle service ; a business of 
 steppings and salutations. The band-major looks 
 grave and ruling ; the blacks toss up their cymbals in 
 the sun ; the little triangle-boys emulate their long 
 legs ; the officers step along, very gentlemanly ; the 
 companies tread solidly at their elbows, like bodies 
 with their soul beside them ; the young ensign is ad- 
 mired in the middle, carrying his colors like a flutter- 
 ing heart. Anon, the noble instruments give way to 
 the drum and fife, and the regiment proceeds for the 
 court-yard in a livelier and more familiar step. Dui'- 
 ing the parade, a trumpet and a stir of cavalry are 
 heard ; and a fine troop of dragoons issue forth on 
 their long-tailed black liorses, the trumpeter on a 
 white one blowing his trumpet, which mingles w^ith 
 the instruments of the foot, and makes a gallant con- 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 73 
 
 fusion. Who would not then be a soldier, and dic- 
 tate to the world? Certainly if war is a necessary 
 evil, it is pranked up and recommended to us in the 
 best possible manner. Nature will do her utmost 
 to gild her bitterest pills. In one point of view, 
 what can be more silly than those gay and self-satis- 
 fied persons, marching away, in the long run, to have 
 their throats cut, and their heads blown to atoms .'^ 
 But in another, what can be more reconciling in its 
 necessity.? What more calculated to bring tears of 
 mingled pity and admiration in our eyes? What bet- 
 ter way could have been found out to enlist the 
 superfluous part of society into its roughest and most 
 dangerous service? I am no disciple of Mr. Mal- 
 thus. He either cannot, or, being a clergyman, dare 
 not handle the real question, which I think it re- 
 quires no great knowledge of economy to see into. 
 But wars have long been a part of the history of 
 mankind, and most have been the necessary result 
 of some modification of its manners. It does not 
 follow that the necessity is to exist forever, or that 
 the alternative is the one he speaks of. The present 
 forms of societv must be broken up, and the whole 
 earth properly cultivated, before he has a right to 
 argue that there is not enough for all, much less 
 that war is necessary to prevent the redundance 
 of population. See what Mr. Hazlitt has said on 
 the subject at the end of his Political Essays. In 
 the mean time an end is not likely to be put to 
 war by making mere representations of its misery, 
 however just. God knows they cannot well be ex- 
 aggerated. See, for one instance, worth a thousand, a 
 
74 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 note to a certain Ode to Horror, in the works of the 
 Poet Laureate, the Pilgrim to Waterloo. The point 
 is to keep our reasoning faculties on the alert, — our 
 liberties of thinking and speaking; and to enable our- 
 selves to detest sophistry and time-serving. One 
 sound philosophical discovery goes farther towards 
 the alteration of societ}^ than millions of complaints. 
 The danger of these is, that the very suffering will 
 be glad to relieve itself, and run into the gayety of de- 
 spair. It is our business to keep ourselves in heart, 
 as far as a present necessity goes, and in health of mind 
 not to be imposed upon beyond the necessity. 
 
 No. VII. 
 SPRING. 
 
 Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade ! 
 Ah, fields, beloved in vain ! — Gray.' 
 
 HAIL, beautiful season ! hail, return of the green 
 leaves ! hail, violets, daisies, and buttercups I 
 hail, blue sky ; and ye, white little silver clouds, 
 " gay creatures of the elements," the posterity of 
 your turbid sires of winter time ! 
 
 Hail, moreover, ye evidences of spring, even in 
 cities ! Hail, green in the windows, and on the 
 ladies' caps ! Hail, coats instead of great-coats ! 
 Hail, beaux and other butterflies ! Hail, the leaving 
 off of fires ; provided, dear fires, among my country- 
 men, ye are left oflT! Great encroachers upon sum- 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 75 
 
 mer time are ye ; mighty disputers of the sunshine 
 with May and June ! 
 
 There is a tendency all over the temperate part of 
 Europe to anticipate the beauties of spring, — to 
 fancy the season more forward than it is, or to com- 
 plain that it is otherwise. I find this in Italy as well 
 as in England. Horace Walpole said that it was the 
 fashion to say there was no winter in Italy. There 
 is certainly a winter sharp enough to startle foreign- 
 ers ; and the spring in Tuscany is far from prema- 
 ture. I have not found the weather in either season 
 different from what Horace says of the snows in 
 winter, and Virgil of the stormy showers in spring. 
 The Prj?navera, or spring of the Italian poets, dis- 
 appoints expectation as much as the Aprils and 
 Mays described by our own. Prhnavera comes in 
 March, and is properly the first part of the vernal 
 season, the ver j)7'i7nuin of the Latins. The blossom 
 issues forth on the trees, the cranes are seen travel- 
 ling in the sky, the hedges are lively with violets 
 and periwinkles ; but it is not a season warranting 
 what the poets say of it, and warming the blood. 
 Cold winds prevail, as with us ; the snows, lingering 
 on the mountains, embitter them, and the rains are vi- 
 olent. April commences the true poetical spring, and 
 May is spring confirmed, the real season of the " ?to- 
 velli a7nori" the May of the British poets. Whether 
 the seasons alter from time to time in different parts 
 of the world is a point contested. Most likely they 
 do. But, for a long time past, the May of our poets 
 is rather June, and very often the middle and end of 
 June rather than the beginning. For many years it 
 
76 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 has been common to have fires as late as tlie old> 
 King's birthday, the 4th of June. What we call 
 spring is indeed spriitg^ literally speaking ; and a 
 very beautiful idea the word gives us. The ver of the 
 ancients appears to have meant the rising of the sap. 
 Our Saxon term is more lively and visible. It is not 
 merely the life, but the leaping of the season ; the 
 gladness of its pulse. And yet the vivacity belongs 
 rather to nature than to us. We have not got rid 
 enough of our colds and clothings. 
 
 If the season is very fine indeed, the true time of 
 enjoyment in England is the one that Thomson has 
 selected for his Bower of Indolence, — 
 
 " A season at ween June and May, 
 Half prankt with spring, with summer half embrown'd." 
 
 When the spring came this year in Tuscany, it was a 
 great pleasure to me to see the corn, wine, and oil, all 
 preparing to flourish together, — for the fields are 
 nothing else. What are meadows and cornfields in 
 England, are orchards full of olives and vines in Tus- 
 cany, with the corn growing betwixt them. The 
 green corn running in close stripes among the olive 
 trees, and the preparations for the budding of the 
 vines, — it being the custom here to make trellises 
 of reed-work, really elegant in many parts of the 
 hedges, — furnish a lively spectacle. But spring, as 
 well as winter, made me think of home. I put on 
 my Cap, and pitched myself in those delicious fields, 
 all over daisies and buttercups, which go sloping 
 from Hampstead to West End and Kilburn, — fields, 
 the representatives of thousands of others all over 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 77 
 
 England, and in which I would rather take a walk 
 " atween June and May " than in the divinest spot 
 recorded by the divinest of southern poets. It is 
 common with persons in love to fancy that everybody 
 must be happy wdio lives in the society of the object 
 of their attachment. In the same manner, when I 
 am compelled to forego the privileges of my Cap, and 
 confine myself to wishing without enjoying (which 
 is sometimes the case), I cannot help envying the 
 reader for his power to go into the places I write of. 
 I say to myself, " Now somebody will take it into his 
 head to go and look at those fields, or he will go and 
 look at those he is more acquainted with ; or he will, 
 or he can^ go into some English field or other, rich 
 with grass and pov^dered with flowers. He will see 
 the hedges ; he will see the elms and oaks (there are 
 no elms and oaks here). He will, or he may and 
 can, or might, could, would, should walk in a wood 
 full of them. Furthermore, he will meet with some 
 old friends." 
 
 Reader, if there is any man who has offended you, 
 and whom you find it hard to forgive, forgive him, I 
 entreat you ; for I forgive you, and you are the most 
 provoking person I have known a long time. I could 
 knock the paper out of your hand. Don't you sit 
 giggling there, you other reader, C. L., A. B., or 
 C, or whatever title pleased thy godfather's ear. 
 Conscious of your power to take a long walk through 
 the sun and dust, you take advantage of my weakness 
 to triumph over me. But, lo ! my Wishing-Cap is on 
 me in all its glory. The very mention of your name 
 makes me present. I am with you ; walk with you, 
 
78 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 talk with you. It was I who sighed just now while 
 you were reading. — Reader, we are reconciled and 
 together. 
 
 Fortunately I am not of a temper to make the 
 worst of any situation I happen to be cast in. And 
 I look upon it as a reward for my love of Nature that 
 I have never been in a situation in which I had not 
 some glimpse of her to console me. Even in prison 
 I had a little garden to myself, and raised my own 
 heart's-ease. It may not be the most grateful thing 
 in the world to think of a jail while strolling about 
 the most classical ground in Tuscany. I confess I 
 think of it very often. But Nature will excuse me, 
 because my dejection is owing to my love. If I had 
 not loved her so much at home, I should not miss, as 
 I do, the old homestead. I do what I can. I think 
 of Petrarch and Boccaccio, of Milton and Galileo, and 
 Fiesole, which I see from my window, and which is 
 a common boundary to my walks. I endeavor to 
 keep the vines and the olive trees new to me. Be- 
 sides Virgil and the Italy of books, I make the olives 
 remind me of Athens, of Plato, and Homer, and Soph- 
 ocles, and Socrates, and a still more reverend Name in 
 another country, who went up into a mount of olives 
 to pray. A Dominican convent is a little in my way, 
 with its inscription in honor of the fiery saint, "the 
 destroyer of heretics ; " but the friars no longer in- 
 habit it, and I endeavor to consider even the Inqui- 
 sition as a violent note struck in the ears of mankind 
 to make them attend to the doctrine it contradicted. 
 Philosophy has separated the doctrine from its abuse, 
 and the Inquisition is no more. I think of the gayer 
 
THE WISmXG-CAP. 79 
 
 sort of abuses, the red side of their cheek, the jollity 
 of a refectory. Pope's picture is before me, of 
 
 " Happy convents, buried deep in vines, 
 Where slumber abbots purple as their wines," 
 
 (A couplet as plump and painted as the subject.) The 
 transition to Horace and Anacreon is a pleasing ne- 
 cessity. I am in the very thick of the vines of Redi, 
 the author of the Bacchus in Tuscany. His Bac- 
 chus is as flourishing a god as ever, and sworn by as 
 devoutly, though the saints have displaced his image. 
 Florence, at a little distance, meets the turn of my 
 eye at every opening of the trees. In short, I am in 
 a world of poetry and romance, of vines and olives, 
 and myrtles (which grow wild), of blue mountains 
 and never-ending orchards, with a beautiful city in 
 the middle of it. What signifies? I think of an Eng- 
 lish field in a sylvan country, a cottage and oaks in 
 the corner, a path and a stile, and a turf full of dai- 
 sies ; and a child's book with a picture in it becomes 
 more precious to me than all the landscapes of 
 Claude. 
 
 I intended to sprinkle this article with some flowers 
 out of the Italian poets; but positivel}' I will not do 
 it. They are not good. They are not true. The 
 grapes are sour. Commend me to the cockney sat- 
 isfactions of Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton, who talk 
 of " merry London," of lying whole hours looking at 
 the daisies, and of walking out on Sunday mornings 
 to enjoy the daisies and green fields. There are no 
 daisies here that I can see, except those belonging to 
 the Grand Duke. What is a daisy belonging to a duke ? 
 Nature is not to be put upon a gentleman's establish- 
 
8o THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ment. The other fine houses do not impose upon 
 me. They want comfort and fireplaces, and instead 
 of parks, and other natural pieces of ground about 
 them, have vines and olives, vines and olives without 
 end. The peasants are all vine-dressers and olive- 
 squeezers. You meet a piece of a cow occasionally 
 on your table ; but a good, handsome, live animal, 
 with a low, I have not encountered for many months. 
 You must go to Lombardy for a pasture. There are 
 goats, ver\^ large and bucolic; but goats in England 
 are poor and small, which is the proper goat, and 
 renders a kid pathetic. The only one I have a re- 
 spect for is the companion of our voyage, given us 
 by a friend, and preserved through various vicissi- 
 tudes for her sake. A dog belonging to an acquaint- 
 ance of ours inhospitably bit her ear off, and the 
 storms at .sea frightened away her milk. But she now 
 reposes for life, like a matron, enjoying herself among 
 scenes more native to her palate than England itself. 
 If the sky in England would only mitigate a little 
 of its clouds and fogs in favor of one of its country- 
 women, and of a modest demi-exotic, who loves a 
 green field better than all the sugar-canes of his an- 
 cestors . . . But what signifies talking? Suffice it, 
 that an Englishman in Italy, who loves Italian poetry, 
 and is obliged to be grateful to Italian skies, assures 
 his beloved countrymen (who are not always sensible 
 of the good things they have about them) that there 
 is nothing upon earth so fine as a good, rich English 
 meadow in summer time. That English Frenchman, 
 La Fontaine, is of the same opinion ; for when he 
 speaks with rapture of a bit of turf, and says there is 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 8l 
 
 nothing to equal it, it must be recollected that such 
 turf is more native to England than to France ; and so 
 he would have told us had he come over to England, 
 as he ought to have done, and taken a stroll in our 
 fields with his friend, St. Evremond. Even a Tus- 
 can's idea of a garden is not complete without a piece 
 of turf, though the podei'e^ or farm, encroaches every- 
 where, and 2^0Linds and shillings must be planted in 
 the shape of olive trees. A garden in the English 
 taste is a " miracolo " and a " paradiso ; " their poet- 
 ry rises within them at the sight of it, but they think 
 this is only for princes and grand dukes. Yet Hor- 
 ace could not dispense with his grass and his oak 
 trees ; and the valley which I look upon from my 
 window sparkles in the Decameron with a perpetual 
 green. Nature inspires great authors, and they repay 
 her by rescuing her very self from oblivion, and keep- 
 ing her transitory pictures fresh in our hearts. Tliey^ 
 thank God, as well as the fields, are Nature ; and so 
 is every great and kindly aspiration we possess. 
 
 No. VIII. 
 RAINY-DAY POETRY. 
 
 Dicessit ab astris 
 
 Humor, et ima petit. — Lucan. 
 
 Humor sets the welkin free, 
 
 And condescends with you and me. 
 
 CRITICS lament over a number of idle rhymes 
 in the works of Swift, that may come under the 
 above title ; and wish, at least, that thev had never 
 6 
 
82 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 been published. They designate them as the sweep- 
 ings of his study, his private weaknesses, unworthy 
 of so great a genius, and exclaim against his friends 
 for collecting them. I really cannot see the humilia- 
 tion. If he had written nothing else, there might 
 be some color of accusation against him ; though I 
 do not see why a dean is bound to be a dull private 
 gentleman. But if he had written nothing else, I 
 think it may be pretty safely pronounced that he 
 would not have written these trifles. They bear the 
 mark of a great hand, trifling as they are. Their ex- 
 travagance is that of power, not of w^eakness ; and 
 the wilder Irish waggery of Dr. Sheridan, slatternly 
 and muddled, stands rebuked before them. What 
 should we have done had we lost Mary the Cook-maid's 
 Letter, and the Grand Question about the Barracks? 
 These, to be sure, are excepted by everybody ; but I 
 like, for my part, to hear all that such an exquisite 
 wag has to say. I except the coarseness of two or 
 three pieces, which I never read. I wish the critics 
 could say as much. I have such a disgust of this 
 kind of writing that there are poems, even in Chaucer, 
 which I never look at. But this does not hinder me 
 from loving all the rest. Perhaps I carry my dislike 
 of what I allude to too far. It is possible that it may 
 not be without its use in certain stages of society. 
 But so it is, and I mention it, that I may not be 
 thought to be confounding or recommending two 
 different things. 
 
 It is our own fault if we take this Rainy-Day 
 Poetry for more than the author intended it. It is 
 our loss if we do not take it for as much. I give 
 
THE WISHING-CAr. 83 
 
 it this title, because we may suppose it written to 
 while away the tedium of rainy days, or of the feel- 
 ings that resemble it. There is also Rainy-Day 
 Prose ; of a great deal of which my own writings 
 are composed, though I was hardly aware of it at 
 the time. I relish all that Swift has favored us 
 with, of either kind. The only approach that we 
 minor humorists can make to such men, is to show 
 that we understand them in all their moods, — that 
 nothing is lost on us. The greatest fit of laughter 
 I ever remember to have had, was in reading the 
 Comininatioii piece against William Wood, in which 
 all his enemies are introduced execrating him in 
 puns. The zest was heightened by the presence of 
 a deaf old lady, who had desired a friend of mine 
 and myself to take a book, while waiting to see a 
 kinsman of hers. Her imperturbable face, the shock- 
 ing things we said before her, and even the dread 
 of being thought rude, produced a sort of double 
 drama in our minds, extreme and irresistible. 
 
 A periodical writer derives the same privileges 
 from necessity which other men do from wit. The 
 rainy days here in Italy are very rare compared with 
 those of England ; but the damps which the latter 
 produce within us sometimes make their appearance 
 when we are away ; and a . . . In short, it is not 
 necessary to inform the reader that periodical writers 
 produce a great deal of rainy-day poetry, voluntary 
 or involuntary. If he excuses it, all is well. I shall, 
 therefore, whenever I am inclined, make use of this 
 title to pass off rhymes that I have more pleasure in 
 writing than in publishing. The other day I was 
 
84 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 moved to vent my pluviose indignation on the sub- 
 ject of Ferdinand, King of Spain ; a personage who 
 has had the extraordinary fortune (even for a prince) 
 to become the spectacle of the whole world, precisely 
 because he is destitute of every quality whicli de- 
 serves their notice. That my poem might be as 
 small as my subject, I wrote it in Lilliputian lines 
 and miniature cantos ; but, in consequence of the 
 variety of feelings that pressed upon me as I pro- 
 ceeded, three out of the four became neither one 
 thing nor t'other, and are not worth indulgence. 
 The exordium I lay before the reader, because it 
 contains an anecdote of his majesty's first appear- 
 ance on the stage, with which he may not be ac- 
 quainted. I had it from a Spanish gentleman now 
 in England. 
 
 "I sing the least of things, — 
 To wit, the least of kings. 
 
 Imprimis, when the nation 
 First raised him to his station, 
 And blest him as he rid 
 In triumph to Madrid, 
 A gentleman who saw him 
 (And hugely longed to claw him) 
 Said, that he never showed 
 One feeling on the road, 
 But sat in stupid pride, 
 Staring on either side. 
 Letting his hand be kissed 
 (I think I see the fist). 
 As if, where'er they took it. 
 They meant to pick his pocket ; 
 And goggling like an owl, — 
 The hideous beaky fool ! " 
 
 The last line is emphatic ! I had not patience to con- 
 tinue in a proper style of burlesque. Ferdinand has 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 85 
 
 astonished even those who were never astonished at 
 kings before. And yet what was to be expected from 
 this portentous specimen of royalty, — royalty, na- 
 ked, instinctive, unmitigated, unadorned? What ex- 
 amples he had before him ! What an education ! 
 What contempt of decencies, public and private ! 
 What a mother, what a minister, what a father ! The 
 same gentleman who related to me the above anec- 
 dote, told me that he had seen the old king dining in 
 public, and that the spectacle was disgusting beyond 
 description. Such brutal feeding, such pawing and 
 grinding, such absorption in the immediate appetite 
 and will, and contempt of everything else in the 
 world, could only be exhibited by one who was ac- 
 customed to set up the mere consciousness of royalty 
 as superior to every other consideration. This is 
 Ferdinand's principle. He has no other, nor ever 
 had, even when he petitioned to be made a member 
 of Bonaparte's family. Bonaparte dazzled him, like 
 something supernatural, and was an emperor to boot; 
 but if he had not been one, it would have made no 
 difference. The royal will, the immediate security, 
 interest, or even whim, sanctions everything; and 
 royalty is to come out clear from the furnace upon 
 the strength of its divine right, let it have gone through 
 what it may. How much right have we to complain 
 of it, flattering it as we do, even in the best regulated 
 monarchies? The frog in the fable swelled herself 
 to bursting, as it was ; but if she had, besides, had all 
 frogland for spectators and applauders, if she had 
 been puffed up with huzzas ! and vivas ! and been 
 made a worshipped spectacle wherever she carried 
 
86 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 herself, who would have wondered at all her chil- 
 dren's bursting themselves, one after the other, in spite 
 of her example? I pity, for my part (next to suffer- 
 ing nations), every king in existence, except Ferdi- 
 nand ; and will pity him too when he is put out of- a 
 condition to slaughter those who would have made 
 him an honest man. 
 
 Pleasant C. R. ! let me recall my happier rhymes 
 and rainy days by thinking of thee. C. R. is one of 
 those happy persons whom goodness, imagination, 
 and a tranquil art conspire to keep in a perpetual 
 youth. He and his brother once called upon a man 
 whom I knew, who told me he had seen " the young 
 gentlemen," and yet this man was not old, and C. R. 
 was seven-and-thirty if he was a day. C. R. has a 
 quaint manner with him, which some take for sim- 
 plicity. It is, but not of the sort which they take it 
 for. I could hear it talk for an hour together, and 
 have heard it, delighting all the while at the interest 
 he can take in a trifle, and the entertainment he can 
 raise out of it. His simplicity is anything but foolish- 
 ness, though it is full of boithomie. He is a nice 
 observer. At the same time he is as romantic as a 
 sequestered schoolmaster, and will make as grave 
 Latin quotations. He produces a history out of a 
 whistle. He will describe to you a steam-engine or 
 a water-mill, with all the machinery and the noise to 
 boot, till you die at once with laughter and real in- 
 terest at the gravity of his enthusiasm. He makes 
 them appear living things, as the fulling-mills did to 
 Don Qtiixote. One day he gave us all an account of 
 a man he had seen in tbe Strand, who was standing 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. S^ 
 
 with a i^ole in his hand, at the top of which was a 
 bladder, and underneath the bladder a bill. He told 
 us what a mystery this excited in the minds of the 
 spectators, and how they looked, first at " the man," 
 then at ^' the bill," and then " at the bladder ; " — and 
 again, said he, they looked at the bladder, then at 
 the bill, and so on, ringing the changes on these words 
 till we saw nothing before us in life but a man hold- 
 ing those two phenomena. We begged him to change 
 the word '' man" into " body," that charm of allitera- 
 tion might be added ; and he complied with a pass- 
 ing laugh, and the greatest good nature conceivable, 
 entering into the joke, and yet feeling a real gravity in 
 commenting upon the people's astonishment. This 
 combination of " bill, body, and bladder " was, after 
 all, nothing but a man standing with an advertise- 
 ment of blacking, or an eating-house, or some such 
 thing. We have been thankful ever since that " such 
 things are." 
 
 I once rode with C. R. from Gainsborough to Don- 
 caster, making rhymes w'ith him all the way on the 
 word philosopher. We made a hundred and fifty, 
 and were only stopped by arriving at our journey's 
 end. Readers uninitiated in doggerel may be startled 
 at this ; but nothing is more true. The words were 
 all different, and legitimate doggerel rhymes ; though, 
 undoubtedly, the rhymes themselves must often have 
 been repeated, that is to say, the same consonants 
 must have begun them. The following is a rainy- 
 day production on the same subject, exhausting, we 
 believe, the real alphabetical quantum of rhymes, with 
 their combinations. But it is submitted with defer- 
 
SS THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ence to the learned. We dedicate it to our pleasant 
 friend, heartily wishing we could have such another 
 ride with him to-morrow. 
 
 You talk of rhyming to the word Philosopher. — 
 
 That jade the Muse '• It's doubtless very cross of her 
 
 To stint one even in rhymes, which are the dross of her ; 
 
 I can't but think that it's extremely gross of her: 
 
 I told her once how very wrong it was of her : 
 
 If I could help, I'd not ask one, that's poz, of her: 
 
 I would not quote procutnbit hutnis bos of her ; 
 
 Nor earn a single lettuce yclept Cos of her ; 
 
 I would not speak to Valcnaer or to Voss of her ; 
 
 Nor Dryden's self, although the Great High Joss of her : 
 
 I would not care for the divitmm os of her. 
 
 No, though she rhymed me the whole mos, flos, ros, of her: 
 
 Walking in woods I wouldn't brush the moss off her : 
 
 Nor in the newest green grown take the gloss of her: 
 
 In winter-lime I wouldn't keep the suows off her ; 
 
 And yet I don't think either I could go so far: 
 
 Thy anger, certainly, I couldn't show so far: 
 
 I didn't think the hatchet I could throw so far. 
 
 Good heavens ! now I reflect, I love the nose of her: 
 
 I could cut off my hair to tie the hose of her : 
 
 The brightest eyes are nothing to the doze of her : 
 
 Love in my heart the smallest keepsake stows of her : 
 
 O, for as many kisses as I chose of her ! 
 
 Since I had one there's no sweet air but blows of her : 
 
 There's not a stream but murmurs as it flows of her : 
 
 I could exalt to heav'n the very clothes of her. 
 
 I wonder how a man can speak in prose of her : 
 
 Yet some have e'en said ill (while my blood froze) of her : 
 
 Never again shall any be that crows offer 
 
 To do her harm, or witli his quid pro guos huff her. 
 
 With pleasure I could every earthly woe suffer 
 
 Rather than see the charmer's little toe suffer : 
 
 ' Tis only gouty Muses that should so suffer. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 89 
 
 No. IX. 
 EATING AND DRINKING. 
 
 Quae virtus et quanta boni sit vivere parvo, 
 (Nee meus hie sermo, sed qua praecepit Ofellus, 
 Rustieus abnormis sapiens, crassaque Minerva) 
 Discite, non inter lances mensaque nitentes 
 Cum stupet insanis acies fulgoribus, et cum 
 Aulinis falsis animus meliora recusat: 
 Vecum hie impransi meeum disquirite. — Horace. 
 
 What, and how great, the virtue and the art 
 
 To live on little with a cheerful heart ! 
 
 (A doctrine sage, but truly none of mine) 
 
 Let's talk, my friends, but talk before we dine; 
 
 Not when a gilt buffet's reflected pride 
 
 Turns you from sound philosophy aside ; 
 
 Not when from plate to plate your eyeballs roil, 
 
 And the brain dances to the mantling bowl. — Pope. 
 
 SO sang a Roman poet, who describes himself as 
 having grown as fat as a pig ; and so sang after 
 him an English one, who is said to have died of eat- 
 ing stewed lampreys. They were judicious in sing- 
 ing before dinner. What is the use, it may be asked, 
 of repeating maxims so often contradicted, and by the 
 very persons that broach them? To which it may 
 be answered. What is the use of any maxims at all? 
 Why do the world go to school ? Why do they teach 
 their children ? Why do they pique themselves on their 
 experience? Is all this useless? The members of a 
 community that values itself on its good conduct, will 
 hardly answer no : nor must they answer no on the 
 present occasion. Poets of the middle order, perhaps 
 
9© THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 of the greatest, are famous for the warfare they under- 
 go between their sensibihties and then' knowledge. 
 The stretchers " of the ray to ages yet unborn " phiy 
 tricks among their beams of light, that often scorch 
 their fingers. But the ray is stretched ; philosophy 
 is never so well recommended to the world as by the 
 radiance they throw upon it. Generally speaking, 
 the book, rather than the author, is in the reader's 
 mind ; and where this is not the case, and the danger 
 of example is apprehended, perhaps the danger is 
 more than compensated by deduction in favor of char- 
 ity. Besides, those who do contradict their theories, 
 would contradict them more, and in worse taste if they 
 were ignorant of what is good, or in bitter despair of 
 attaining it. Horace had fits of temperance as well 
 as luxury. He has said such pretty things of crusts 
 and salads, that one longs to have eaten them with 
 him, and laughed at the fume of great dinners. 
 Pope was a little domestic fowl, brought up tenderly, 
 and accustomed to be picking. He could not take 
 stout exercise : his frame would not allow it. '' Then 
 he ought to have eaten little in proportion." True ; 
 but something is to be allowed to the perpetual wear 
 and tear occasioned by the exercise of the mind, and 
 something to the irritability of that very delicacy of 
 constitution which rendered indulgence perilous. The 
 moth flies to the candle ; robuster insects avoid it. 
 Let us thank the butterfly race, notwithstanding, for 
 reminding us of Nature and the flowers. What num- 
 bers of men, of similar constitutions with Pope, have 
 died of surfeits, and done nothing! How much more 
 gracefully might they have lived, how oftener have 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 
 
 91 
 
 varied their pleasures, with temperance, and after all 
 survived to a pretty good age, considering their creak- 
 ing bodies (for he lived to be fifty-six), had they pos- 
 sessed his good sense and his elegance of desire ! 
 
 I like to begin a lecture with a good charitable ex- 
 ordium. In the first place, I have need of it myself j 
 and secondly, I have observed that advice always does 
 more harm than good, if it does not see fair play. I 
 must observe again, then, in behalf of the superfluous 
 diner, particularly if he is studious and sedentary, that 
 there may be reasons for his roasting of eggs beyond 
 what a commonplace moralist may discern. Study 
 exhausts the body. Mental excitement demands with 
 a loud, I do not say always with a lawful voice, the 
 help of ph3^sical nourishment. A poet shall come to 
 table from a morning's occupation, his nerves shat- 
 tered, his blood thick and melancholy from over-driv- 
 ing, his whole soul agitated and confused in his body, 
 in which it has been at supernatural work. I will 
 concede, that in this very work he has been sowing 
 seeds of philosophy, and writing couplets on temper- 
 ance. Let the future ages who are to benefit from his 
 inspiration, look back with an eye of tenderness rather 
 than scorn on the havoc he proceeded to make among 
 his dishes. Perhaps he will fast to-morrow. At least 
 they will have the benefit of his remorse. Inspira- 
 tion, which is nothing but a concentration of the fac- 
 ulties upon the exercise of some natural talent, is a 
 mighty exhauster of the stomach, a producer of mor- 
 bid appetites and craving desires for refreshment. 
 The nerves, trembling from the glowing task, demand 
 to be set right again; the blood, hot and dragging 
 
92 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 with fatigue, calls for an airy lift. He had better go 
 out into the air, and take exercise : — I exhort him 
 to do so: — Milton did so: — the greatest of his 
 brethren have been surely temperate : — he will re- 
 pent bitterly if he does not. No : the meat and 
 drink come in, and the deed is done. Let us take 
 the advice he has left us, and pity him for the danger- 
 ous warmth he took in writing it. 
 
 It is the same, in proportion, with pleasure and mel- 
 ancholy of all sorts, with any kind of over-fatigue. Fif- 
 ty things may excuse us in the eye of charity : climate, 
 anxiety, troublesome tasks, past or to come, bodily 
 or mental exhaustion, from whatever cause ; nay, the 
 cheerfulness of our return to one's friends or family. 
 But melancholy, above all, claims a particular tender- 
 ness. It is a hard thing when a man has been in 
 trouble all the morning, and sees nothing but trouble, 
 perhaps, before him in the afternoon, to deny him the 
 pleasure of tickling his palate a little. The loss of a 
 very little satisfaction is sometimes a great loss in this 
 world ; the difficulty of foregoing it is in proportion. 
 Let the abstaining from a particular dish, or the get- 
 ting up from dinner without a full stomach, be re- 
 spected accordingly. I confess I had more difficulty 
 in leaving off butter and cheese (which happen to dis- 
 agree with my temperament) than in volunteering 
 some actions, which the world would have thought 
 less easy. The satisfaction of having one's way, or 
 of doing what we can to have it, and venting one's 
 feelings on account of what we think just and honor- 
 able, is a mighty and a reasonable help to one's vir- 
 tue. The pinch comes when our virtue is at war 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 93 
 
 with our tendencies ; when we hold to it through pain 
 and anxiety, and when we doubt whether we shall be 
 as well or ill thought of for acting up to our con- 
 sciences. 
 
 Again and again, therefore, I say, let justice be 
 done to self-denial in matters of beef and port, and 
 above all, I say, let those consider also the necessity 
 of the self-denial, who would fain lighten the gather- 
 ing shadows of age or middle life, and retain as 
 much health and good temper as they can for them- 
 selves and others. They have no alternative be- 
 tween a great deal of it and exercise. The more 
 they exercise, the more they may indulge ; for there 
 is a business in all things ; and citizens must earn 
 their dinners, as well as the money to purchase them, 
 if the}^ would not have those other creditors come upon 
 them, spleen and gout. I do not say that they require 
 nothing to give them a fillip. Qiiite the contrary. 
 I only say that sedentar}^ eating and drinking is not the 
 best ; that the good effects of it are not lasting, and 
 the bad ones very much so ; and that however diffi- 
 cult it may be for a pleasant fellow to deny himself 
 " t'other plateful " as well as " t'other glass,", deny it 
 he must, or his comfort some day will be grievously 
 denied to him. He may rub his hands at the sight 
 of his dishes, he may crow over his wine, he may 
 throw sayings (as he willingly would the plates) at 
 the heads of the moral and the musty ; but as surely 
 as he sits there, gay and contemptuous, so surely will 
 he find the " black ox's foot " come upon his toes under 
 the table, not to be lightened, to any real purpose, 
 by all the effects of champagne. Age is always sup- 
 
94 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 posed to bring melancholy along with it. I do not 
 believe it. I believe that many a temperate old man, 
 who has nevertheless indulged a reasonable appetite, 
 is as cheerful as the majority of young ones. But age 
 will have shadows with a vengeance if it has been 
 intemperate ; and middle life will be plunged in them 
 before its time. Purple faces and a jovial corpulence 
 may impose upon the spectator ; but the sick gentle- 
 man within knows what his tenement consists of. 
 A fool may indeed go to his grave pretty comfortably ; 
 a mere animal,' a human prize ox, may swell and 
 abuse his system for a long time, because he has no 
 intellect to be hurt by it, and to hurt him in turn ; 
 but good sense in the head, and a perpetual contra- 
 diction of it in the stomach, will never do in the long 
 run. The head ought to rule ; the stomach will re- 
 venge its bad government by sending up its angry 
 ambassadors of megrims and vapors ; and the anx- 
 iety and irritability of the ruler will in time revenge 
 itself on the stomach. 
 
 Are we not then to obey the impulses and benevo- 
 lences of Nature? Have we palates and appetites for 
 nothing? Are we to turn hermits and starvelings, 
 and not enjoy ourselves ? 
 
 By no means. There is the simple, and eternal, 
 and benevolent law of Nature : " Earn, and you 
 may enjoy." Experience adds. Enjoy truly, and you 
 will know what it is to enjoy with reason. And 
 Nature adds. Enjoy with reason in general ; and oc- 
 casionally I will smile and shut my eyes when 
 friends and festivity call upon you for an amiable de- 
 lirium. Would you enable yourself to eat heartily, 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 95 
 
 yet without oppression? Secure a good digestion 
 with exercise. Would you enable yourself to take 
 a reasonable portion of wine? Spin your blood first 
 with exercise, that it may not be roused too abruptly, 
 and fevered. Would you be free from melancholy, a 
 strong and cheerful man, an old man free from the 
 clouds and peevishness of old age? Wash, exercise, 
 and be temperate, that you may throw off ill humors 
 at the pores, and not have your soul incrusted with 
 sordidness of the body. As much, perhaps, ought to 
 be said about washing as about exercise. It is a 
 duty not sufficiently attended to in our chill climate. 
 There is a story of a Scotchwoman, who attempted to 
 drown herself in a fit of melancholy. She was taken 
 out of the water in a doubtful state, and underwent 
 an active rubbing, according to the process of the 
 Humane Society. She not only returned to life, but 
 recovered her health and spirits ; the physicians pro- 
 nouncing, that twenty to one her melancholy was 
 entirely owing to her dirt. There is the same reac- 
 tion in this respect as in the other. Melancholy peo- 
 ple are apt to grow careless of their persons ; people 
 who are careless of their persons grow melancholy. 
 But cleanliness is the first of virtues ; not the first in 
 rank, but the first in necessity.* The most selfish 
 people can practise it for their own sakes ; the rest 
 
 * "Cleanliness," observes Charles Lamb, in that little neglected essayling, en- 
 titled Saturday Night, "says some sage man, is next to Godliness. It may be : 
 but how it came to sit so very near, is the marvel. Methinks some of the more 
 human virtues might have put in for a place before it. Justice — Humanity — 
 Temperance — are positive qualities ; the courtesies, and little civil ofi&ces of life, 
 had I been Master of the Ceremonies to that Court, should have sate ab<J^•e the 
 salt in piefereoce to a mere negation. " —Ed. 
 
96 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ought to practise it for themselves and others. With 
 regard to exercise, judge between the two following- 
 extremes : A fox-hunter can get drunk every night 
 in the year, and yet live to an old age ; but then he is 
 all exercise, and no thought. A sedentary scholar shall 
 not be able to get drunk once in a year with impuni- 
 ty ; but then he is all thought, and no exercise. Now 
 the great object is neither to get drunk, nor to be all 
 exercise, nor to be all thought ; but to enjoy all our 
 pleasures with a sprightly reason. The four ordinary 
 secrets of health are, early rising, exercise, personal 
 cleanliness, and the rising from table with a stomach 
 unoppressed. There may be sorrows in spite of 
 these ; but they will be less with them ; and nobody 
 can be truly comfortable without. 
 
 There is a great rascal going about town (a traveller 
 to boot in foreign countries, particularly in the East 
 and in the South) who does a world of mischief, 
 under the guise of helping you to a digestion. I am 
 loath to mention him. His very name is beneath 
 the dignity and grace of my Platonic philosophy. 
 But I must. He talks much about the liver. Some- 
 times he calls himself the Blue Pill, sometimes one 
 thing, sometimes another. He is particularly, fond 
 of being denominated " the most innocent thing in the 
 vs^orld." Let the sufferer beware of him. He may 
 turn his company to advantage a few times, provided, 
 and oitly provided^ he does not anticipate his ac- 
 quaintance, or let him divert him from his better rem- 
 edies. Wherever he threatens to become -a habit, 
 let the patient take to his heels. Nothing but exer- 
 cise can save him. He is only surfeit in disguise ; a 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 97 
 
 perpetual temptei" to repletion, under the guise of 
 preventing the consequences. The excess is tempted, 
 and the consequences are not prevented ; for, at the 
 least, one ill is planted in the constitution instead of 
 another. Disguise the scoundrel as we may, he is 
 only, in a small shape, what an emetic was to Vitel- 
 lius, or a bath of mud to the drunken barbarian.* 
 Sometimes, with an unblushing foresight and inten- 
 tion, he is even taken before dinner ! Imagination 
 escapes from the thought of an abuse so gross. I dart, 
 upon the wings of my Wishing-Cap, out doors, and 
 hail, as I go, those light bodies and animating looks, 
 which are the happy results of Exercise. 
 
 No. X. 
 THE VALLEY OF LADIES. 
 
 PoichS noi fummo qui, d io desiderato di menarvi in parte assai vicina di 
 questo luogo, dove is non credo che moi alcuna fosse di voi ; e chiamavisi la 
 Valle delle Donne. — Decameron. 
 
 Since we have been here, I have longed to take you into a spot close by, where 
 none of you, I thinlc, have ever been. It is called the Valley of Ladies. 
 
 AS the spring advanced here in Tuscany, and the 
 leaves all came out, and the vines rose like 
 magic, and day after day the green below was con- 
 trasted with a blue southern sky overhead, I began, 
 modestly speaking, to be reconciled to the beauties of 
 Italy. I was wrong when I said there were no trees 
 
 * One of the O'Neales used to inflame himself with drinking, and then stand 
 up to the neck in a bath of mud to cool. 
 
 7 
 
98 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 in this neighborhood except olives. We have a few 
 poplars, oaks, and young chestnuts, &c., which make 
 an agreeable variety. They incrust the lanes with a 
 decent quantity of hedge and bower. But the vines 
 make an astonishing difference. In the v/inter you 
 see nothing of thousands of them ; in the spring out 
 they come, from a bit of a trunk, like so much fairy- 
 work, and grow with a marvellous rapidity. In a 
 few weeks they are up round their standards, and 
 climbing their trees ; doubling, as it were, at one 
 blow, the whole prospect of green. Add to this the 
 noble growth of the corn, and the exuberance of 
 everything wild about the hedges, and spring is ten- 
 fold spring here to what it is in the north. The con- 
 trast is more striking, because there is no green in 
 winter except dark firs and cypresses and the hazy- 
 looking olive. The beautiful grass, which remains 
 all the year round in England, gives a sort of perpet- 
 ual summer to the earth, whatever may be the case 
 with the sky ; but the sky in Italy during winter, 
 though it has glorious intervals of blue and warmth, 
 is inclement enough to make the inhabitants chatter 
 with cold, and there is no verdure on the ground. All 
 this being the case, the very green of the vines had in 
 it something of England ; and as the ground is no 
 sooner dry here than it is very dry, I put vigor in my 
 steps, and my Orlando Innamorato in my pocket, and 
 did my best to fancy myself at once abroad and at 
 home in the sunny-bowered Valley of Ladies. 
 
 The Valley of Ladies is a spot celebrated in the 
 sixth and seventh books of the Decameron. It lies at 
 the foot of one of the Fiesolan hills, about two miles 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 99 
 
 from Florence, commencing at the path leading up to 
 Maiano, and terminating under the Convent of the 
 Doccia. Doccia signifies a water-spout, a name with 
 which the convent was christened by a little stream, 
 the Affrico, which leaps out beneath it and waters the 
 valley. This stream, and another called the Mensola, 
 which runs through a neighboring valley, are the 
 metamorphosed hero and heroine of a poem of Boc- 
 caccio's, called the Nimphale of the Fiesole. Upon 
 the Mensola, about half a mile from the Valley of 
 Ladies, is the Villa Gherardi, in which Boccaccio laid 
 the scene of his four first days ; and upon the Mu- 
 gnone, about a mile on the other side of the valley, is 
 the Villa Palmieri, to which his company retired for 
 the remainder of their time, on account of the influ- 
 ence of neighbors. Not far from the villa a house is 
 shown, which is said to have belonged to Dante. 
 Milton and Galileo give a glory to Fiesole beyond 
 even its starry antiquity ; nor, perhaps, is there a 
 name eminent in the best annals of Florence to which 
 some connections cannot be traced with this favorite 
 spot. When it was full of wood it must have been 
 eminently beautiful. It is at present, indeed, full of 
 vines and olives, but this is not wood woody ^ not arbo- 
 raceous, and properly sylvan. A few poplars and for- 
 est trees mark out the course of the Afl^rico, and the 
 convent ground contrived to retain a good slice of 
 evergreens, which make a handsome contrast on the 
 hillside with its white cloister. But agriculture, quar- 
 ries, and wood fires have destroyed the rest. Never- 
 theless, I now found the whole valley beautiful. It is 
 sprinkled with white cottages ; the cornfields pre- 
 
lOO THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 sented agreeable paths, leading among vines and fig 
 trees ; and I discovered even a meadow, — a positive 
 English meadow^, — w^itli the hay cut, and adorned 
 vs'ith English trees. In a grassy lane, betwixt the 
 corn, sat a fair rustic, receiving the homage of three 
 young fellows of her acquaintance. In the time of 
 Boccaccio, the Affrico formed a little crystal lake, in 
 which (the said lake behaving itself, and being prop- 
 erly sequestered), the ladies of his company, one day, 
 bathe themselves. The gentlemen, being informed 
 of it, follow their example in the afternoon ; and, 
 next day, the whole party dine there, take their siesta 
 under the trees, and recount their novels. This lake 
 has now disappeared before the husbandman, as if it 
 were a fairy thing, of which a money-getting age was 
 unworthy. Part of the Affrico is also closed up from 
 the passenger by private grounds, but the rest of it 
 runs as clearly as it did ; and under the convent a 
 remnant of the woodier part of the valley — a deli- 
 cious remnant — is still existing. The stream jumps 
 into it as if with delight, and goes slipping down 
 little banks. It is embowered with olives and young 
 chestnut trees, and looks up to the long white cloister, 
 which is a conspicuous object over the country. 
 
 A white convent, a woody valley, chestnut trees 
 intensely green, a sky intensely blue, a stream which 
 it is a pleasure to stop and drink, — behold a subject 
 fit for a day in August ! And besides these, there are 
 stories recounted and ladies bathing. 
 
 If the reader objects to the probability of this last 
 circumstance in a civilized country and so near town, 
 he must remember that the place in Boccaccio's time 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. lOI 
 
 was really- sequestered ; that the convent did not exist 
 then (though, of course, monks could have been no 
 objection), and that Florence has always been a 
 walled city, from which you emerge directly into the 
 country. The lake was so little frequented (as, indeed, 
 most beautiful places are apt to be), that Boccaccio 
 represents the male part of his company as unac- 
 quainted with it till enlightened by the more inquir- 
 ing spirit of the ladies. In short, the manners of one 
 time or place argue nothing for the manners of an- 
 other. I know a lady who has frequently bathed 
 among the rocks of a West India island, as Virginia 
 does in the novel ; and if Thomson does not appear 
 to have hit very nicely the manners of Englishwomen 
 in his episode of Damon and Musidora, he probably 
 copied after Nature as far north as his own country. 
 The two damsels in the Gentle Shepherd bathe in a 
 pool, in one of those pretty landscapes with which 
 that beautiful pastoral abounds. Sir Philip Sydney's 
 heroines, in the Arcadia, do the same. It is true 
 they were princesses, and nobody could enter the 
 place on pain of death ; but an intruder was in it 
 nevertheless. I confess, to my taste, the banks ought 
 to be very rugged and woody, and the bather be able 
 to slip into the water like a fish ; in consideration of 
 which I might allow an agreeable trepidation, and 
 much interesting mixture of modesty and vivacity. 
 But Musidora playing the Venus de' Medici in that 
 open, and at the same time reflecting manner, is what 
 I cannot tolerate, though she begins her answer to 
 her lover's placard in a pretty taste. 
 
 This, then, is the '^ Valle delle Donne." If Boc- 
 
I02 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 caccio's spirit ever visits his native country, here must 
 it repose. It is a place for a knight in romance to 
 take his rest in, his head on his elbow, and the sound 
 of the water in his ear. Why do I say, " if Boccac- 
 cio's spirit ever visits"? I have seen him there, such 
 as he looked when he meditated the story of the Fal- 
 con. The knight in romance also, — I have seen 
 him. He was in dark armor, with a red cross on 
 his shield. He had taken his helmet and gauntlet 
 off to feel the air, and lay, like Lord Herbert of 
 Cherbury in the picture, thinking placidly of achieve- 
 ment. 
 
 Being somewhat of a knight-errant myself, I rest 
 in another part of the shade, looking down upon him 
 of the red cross, and, with the help of my book, 
 conjuring up a thousand visions. 
 
 How vivid, as you look up, is the green of these 
 young chestnut trees ! How blue, indeed, the blue 
 sky ! How warm were the paths I came through ; 
 how cool is the shade ! What a basking, a fertility, 
 a southern richness, a lazy lending and generosity of 
 all that is in earth and air. A smiling slumber of Na- 
 ture with her hands full, diffuses its influence all over 
 the place ! The very bees seem to be at work, that 
 we may lull ourselves to sleep. 
 
 I whisk to England in my Wishing-Cap, and fetch 
 the reader to enjoy the place with me. 
 
 How do you like it? Is it not a glen most glen- 
 icular? a confronting of two leafy banks, with a rivu- 
 let between? Shouldn't you like to live in tlie house 
 over the way, where the doves are.'* If you walk a 
 little way to the left, through the chestnut trees, you 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 
 
 103 
 
 see Florence. The convent up above us on the right 
 is the one I spoke of. There is nobody in it nov^ but 
 a peasant for housekeeper. Look at this lad coming 
 down the path, w^ith his olive complexion and black 
 eyes. He is bringing goats. I see them emerging 
 from the trees ; huge creatures, that w^hen they rise 
 on their hind legs to nibble the boughs almost look 
 formidable. There is Theocritus for you. And here 
 is Theocritus or Longus, w^hich you will ; for a peas- 
 ant girl is with him, one of the pleasantest counte- 
 nances in the world, with a forehead and eyes for a 
 poetess, as they all have. I wish the fellow were as 
 neat as his companion, but somehow these goatherds 
 look of a piece with their goats. They love a ragged 
 picturesque. 
 
 You have only to see the e3'es and foreheads in 
 Tuscaoy to know that you are among a people capa- 
 ble of great things. And what, indeed, has not this 
 little region done in the world of art and poetry.? 
 The rest of the face is genial and good-natured, only 
 to an English eye the features are apt to be too large ; 
 and the higher you rise in society the more advantage 
 we have in our women. A sophisticated Italian is a 
 formidable thing, man or woman. All the world 
 cannot match a room full of young Englishwomen, 
 delicate and accom.plished. And you could sooner 
 persuade one of them to take up her abode in the 
 country, and brown her fair face with the sunshine, 
 than seduce a ready-made Tuscan brunette to live out 
 of the gates of Florence. Two months in the year, 
 May and October, — very often only one, — they run 
 about the villas a little. All the rest, of their life is 
 
I04 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 passed in town ; and they are never seen abroad but 
 in their carriages. They are fond of flowers. They 
 have also the grace to visit the Cascine every evening. 
 The Cascine are meadows with trees, where the 
 Grand Duke has an aviary and dairy, a pretty little 
 pastoralized edition of Kensington Gardens, with the 
 Arno on one side and mountains in the distance. But 
 their visitors only come for a drive, and they would not 
 come for that if it were not fashionable. The charm 
 consists in criticising shaped bonnets, and saying, " Ah, 
 there's Tomkins ! " — I beg pardon, — Gian-Battista, I 
 should say ; but these Italian commonplaces sound so 
 finely that they impose on one's ear. The Tomkinses 
 are a numerous race all over the world, " from China to 
 Peru ; " and they abound much more among the upper 
 orders in the south than the lower. If I were a bach- 
 elor, and inclined to marry in Italy, I should like to 
 select a peasant girl, of a reasonable age, deepen the 
 depth of her eyes with a little more knowledge, and in 
 five years' time make her my wife. The graces would 
 follow as a matter of course. In her style of lan- 
 guage I already defy anybody to discover the differ- 
 ence, except that among the ladies the perpetual 
 recurrence of certain elegancies of no meaning, and 
 phrases of polite deprecation, looks more like the art 
 of Letter-writing made Easy, or the Academy of 
 Compliments. 
 
 Let an Englishman, if he is wise and well off, seek 
 his wife among those most respectable of all the re- 
 spectable families on earth, who, in his own native 
 soil, spend a good part of every year in the country, 
 and make everybody happy about them. I have one 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. IO5 
 
 in my eye now, at C, inNorthumberland, the headof 
 which is a second Allworthy. Even the town resi- 
 dence of this family looks upon a noble garden. 
 Never shall I forget how affectionately the mother 
 and daughter (the most unaffected people in the 
 world, and yet they read Latin — hear that, ye Blues 
 and ye anti-Blues !), — never shall I forget how they 
 all came about the object of their love, putting their 
 gentle hands about his neck, and asking him how 
 he fared after his walk. There is not a good of his 
 fellow-creatures which he does not seek, nor a grace to 
 grace it which he does not feel. I sometimes change 
 color when alone to think what regard and gratitude 
 an author may feel towards such men, and how long 
 he may struggle in vain to show it. Why cannot we 
 coin some of the wealth of our imagination into proofs 
 tangible, and pour down our souls upon them in 
 the princely shower? The less they care for it, in one 
 sense, the more desire we have to show them how we 
 care for it in another. And yet, God knows, I grudge 
 no man his generosity. But " these things are a 
 mystery." I look upon it as a blessing in my lot that 
 all the friends I ever was connected with have sym- 
 pathized with me in preferring a country life. And 
 yet they have liked the town too, and so do I. Luck- 
 ily, very genuine country maybe found near town for 
 those who are not rich enough to go to a distance. 
 Come, let us whisk ourselves back again. There is 
 nothing like it. I pitch myself into one of those old 
 green lanes of which I am so fond, and invite any 
 bachelor that pleases to come and see me. I think there 
 is a cottage in the neighborhood that will suit him. 
 
I06 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 No. XL 
 LOVE AND THE COUNTRY. 
 
 Hie gelidi fontes, hie mollia prata, Lycori, 
 
 Hie neraus, hie ipso teeum consumere aevo. — Virgil. 
 
 A wood, a stream, fair fields, and flowering hedges — 
 O, love, with thee, here could I live lor ages ! 
 
 IT is a large, low cottage, smoking among the trees, 
 with its back to a couple of green hills that shelter 
 it from the north and east. Everything is neat: 
 Everything is quiet. Listen to the bees ! What 
 meadows go down there to the plain ! What rich 
 trees are about us, — elms, oaks, and beeches ; not rich 
 in fruit, but rich in verdure and leaves, and food for 
 poetry. By heavens ! this is better than Tuscany. 
 The pleasures there are all too tangible and sensual, 
 
 — all corn, v\dne, and oil. Here man does not live by- 
 olives alone, but by those useful trees also, which, 
 among a number of other calumniated goods, are on 
 the face of them useless. " I love," exclaimed some- 
 body, on passing a moorland, " to see some ground 
 left in God Almighty's hands." So say I. I love to 
 see trees that look as if they were good for nothing 
 but to walk under, and to furnish us with a sentiment. 
 I have a particular regard for those which the car- 
 penter rejects with disdain. I know they do not ex- 
 ist for nothing; and I take them for what they are, 
 
 — memorandums of the abundance and poetry of 
 Nature. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. lO/ 
 
 At the bottom of the grounds about the cottage, 
 there is a lane by a brook-side, which runs into a 
 cross-country road. But the place, though solitary, is 
 not desolate. There are some farms, and a noble 
 mansion not far off, where a hospitable old gentleman, 
 the possessor, has a fine library. The lanes branch 
 off in all directions, some opening into meadows, oth- 
 ers into cornfields, most of them between rich banks 
 of earth ornamented with natural hedges. One of my 
 favorite spots is a bit of heath, looking up to a hill 
 full of trees, out of which peeps a summer-house. 
 Another is a wilderness, where the roots of the old 
 trees issue forth and twist over the ground. But I 
 know scarcely one which I prefer to certain meadows 
 enriched with elm trees. I lie there very often in 
 my Wishing-Cap, when the hay has been cut, and 
 build castles in the air, — I should rather say, cottages 
 in the trees, — for those whom I love. 
 
 Is not this a pleasant place to come to of an even- 
 ing? "What can man more desire? " when he has 
 been studying all the morning, and is determined to 
 make heavens of his afternoons? Task the most am- 
 bitious old bachelor, whether there have not been 
 periods in his life — and the very best of them all — 
 when the idea of such a cottage smoking among the 
 trees, a kettle on the fire, and his arm round a slen- 
 der waist, has not found the " consummation," of all 
 others, " most devoutly to be wished." 
 
 Accordingly, I have provided a wife for my reader. 
 She is not regularly handsome ; but she has one of 
 those faces which are justly accounted more beau- 
 tiful than beauty. A person who goes by says, 
 
I08 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 " What a lovely expression ! " There is intelligence 
 in her eyes, and an infinite sweetness about her mouth. 
 Whenever she turns her face upon you in kindness, 
 she seems to thank and bless you, and wn'sh you all 
 happy things. Sorrow might cut her to pieces, ere 
 she would say a word to distress you : or if she did, 
 she would repent it forever. But in joy, — I advise 
 you to bring a world of vivacity along with you, 
 for she will give as good as you bring. She is fond 
 of books and music. If you do not have some ex- 
 quisite casts and engravings to adorn your parlor 
 with, you will not do her justice. When females of 
 her own rank come to see her, they long to play 
 the rustic as she does. When the peasant girls bring 
 her provision, they desire more than ever to be la- 
 dies. She meets them half way, and will pin their 
 handkerchiefs for them, if got loose. Between our- 
 selves (for it must not be mentioned to everybody), 
 she can make an excellent pudding. It was a whim 
 of her grandmother to teach her ; and she insists 
 that her cliildren will be the better for it, and not 
 at the mercy of a cook ; for I must own, that al- 
 though not yet married, she has the face to speak 
 of the family she may have some day ; and has even 
 been heard to say, that she should not like to make a 
 very poor match, because she hopes to have leisure 
 enough to be her husband's companion ; which, add- 
 ed she, is after all the first business of a wife : though 
 she blushed when she said it. Her vivacity and ad- 
 dress serve to extricate her gentleness out of its dif- 
 ficulties. Her brother, who is a collegian, and loves 
 somewhat maliciously to call her " a Blue," caught 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 
 
 :o9 
 
 her one day, to his great triumph, in the act of 
 loitering over a dumpHng she was making, and read- 
 ing a book. She was forced to blow open the 
 leaves, her fingers being all over flour. In vain she 
 protested that it was an offence extraordinary, and 
 that the pudding should not be the worse for it. 
 He takes an unfair advantage, and brings her out to 
 us in the garden, holding her by the helpless arms, 
 upon which, what does my lady, but suddenly slip 
 aside, smear his ears all over with the flour, and 
 scamper away ! But I shall never make an end if I 
 say more. 
 
 Now, what does any bachelor say to such a cottage 
 with such a mistress.^ Is it not a pretty mixture of 
 the polite and the rustic? I once heard a nobleman 
 observe, that it was natural to men of rank to like 
 peasant girls, and for plebeians to like ladies. I am 
 not of his opinion. I think that whenever men prefer 
 women of an inferior station — (unless they do it for 
 the sake of a libertine variety, or because they have 
 undergone some particular disgust) — it is owing to 
 want of address. The peasant renders them bolder. 
 Their superior station enables them to substitute airs 
 of condescension and familiarity, for approaches which 
 they know not how to manage. But nothing is so de- 
 lightful in a woman, as a mixture of habitual gentility 
 with the simple and healthy tastes which might adorn 
 the heroines of a genuine pastoral. The Peggy of 
 Allan Ramsay is a promising specimen. If I had 
 married out of the Lizard family in the Guardian — 
 (which, by the way, is the sort of family I spoke of in 
 my last) — I should have wished Miss Cornelia to 
 
no THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 have more of " the Sparkler" in her composition, or 
 the Sparkler more of Cornelia. Since I saw them 
 last, they both want mending a little. I used to prefer 
 the SjDarkler, till she made that unsparkling observa- 
 tion in No. 31 ; which, however, I trust the self-love 
 of the old gentleman induced him to misrepresent. 
 But Mrs. Cornelia's romance, in the same number, 
 would have been more to my taste, had she acknowl- 
 edged at once, that she intended to make somebody 
 happy, instead of beating about the bush in that 
 manner.* 
 
 * The old gentleman referred to above is Nestor Ironside, the imaginary 
 writer of the Guardian. The account of the Lizard family is by Steele. This is 
 his character of the Sparkler: "Mrs. Mary, the youngest daughter, whom 
 they rally and call Mrs. Ironside, because I have named her the Sparkler, is the 
 very quintessence of good nature and generosity ; she is the perfect picture of her 
 grandfather ; and if one can imagine all good qualities which adorn human life 
 become feminine, the seeds, nay, the blossom of them, are apparent in Mrs. 
 Mary." Here is what he says of Mrs., or, as we should call her, Miss Cornelia : 
 " Mrs. Cornelia passes away her time very much in reading, and that with so great 
 an attention that it gives her the air of a student, and has an ill effect upon her, 
 as she is a fine young woman ; the giddy part of the sex will have it she is in love ; 
 none will allow that she affects so much being alone, but for want nf particular com- 
 pany. I have railed at romances before her, for fear of her falling into those deep 
 studies : she has fallen in with my humor that way for the time, but I know not 
 how, my prohibition has, it seems, only excited her curiosity ; and I am afraid she 
 is better read than I know of for she said of a glass of water in which she was going 
 to wash her hands after dinner, dipping her fingers with a pretty lovely air, ' It is 
 crystalline.' I shall examine farther, and wait for clearer proofs." Here is 
 also the Sparkler's ''unsparkling observation," made in the course of some 
 profitable conversation upon happiness: "My favorite, the Sparkler, with an 
 air of innocence and modesty, which is peculiar to her, said that she never ex- 
 pected such a thing as happiness, and th.-it she thought the most any one could 
 dowastokeep themselves from being uneasy; for, as Mr. Ironside has often 
 told us, says she, we should endeavor to be easy here, and happy hereafter." 
 The romantic Cornelia "was for living in a wood among choirs of birds, with 
 zephyrs, echoes, and rivulets to make up the concert. She would not seem to 
 include a husband in her scheme, but at the same time talked of cooing turtles, 
 mossy banks, and beds of violets, that one might easily perceive she was not 
 without thoughts of a companion in her solitudes." — EU. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. I I I 
 
 I will conclude this iDaper with two old French 
 songs, which are much to the purpose. The first of 
 them is by Maynard, an author of a caustic turn, 
 who agrees with the nobleman i?bove mentioned in 
 preferring peasants to ladies. The other is from the 
 good-natured pen of Froissart, the old chronicler, and 
 makes the lady partake of the peasant. If Froissart 
 wrote many such songs, his poems deserve to be re- 
 printed as well as his Chronicles. 
 
 ADIEU TO LADIES. 
 
 Hilene, Oriane, Angelique, 
 
 Je ne suis plus cle vos amans ; 
 Loin de moi I'Jclat magnifique 
 
 De noms pulsus dans les romans. 
 
 Ma passion, quoiqu' Amour fasse, 
 
 N2 fera plus son paiadis 
 Des beautes qui tirent leur race 
 
 De la chronique d'Amadis. 
 
 Vive Barbe, Alix, at Nicole, 
 
 Dont les simples nai'vetes 
 Ne furent jamais a I'ecole 
 
 Des ruses et des vanites. 
 
 Une sautd fraiche et robuste 
 
 Fait que toujours leur teint est net ; 
 
 Et lorsque leur beaute s'ajuste, 
 La campagne est leur cabinette. 
 
 Lour ame n'est pas inhumaine 
 
 Pour tir:r mes vceux en longueur ; 
 Jamais J2 n'ai perdu I'haleine 
 
 En courant apres leur ri^ueur. 
 
 Adieu, dames, dont I'habit riche 
 
 Sous un lux vain et trompeur 
 N'est autre chose que la niche 
 
 D'une carcasse k faire peur. 
 
112 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 J'en veux aux femmes de village, 
 Je n'aitne plus en autre part ; 
 
 La nature en leur beaux visages 
 Fait la figue aux secrets de I'art. 
 
 TRANSLATION. • 
 
 Helens, Clelias, Orianas, 
 
 I am no longer of your train ; 
 
 Far from me be your sultanas, 
 With their splendor, proud and vain. 
 
 I can love, and feel a passion ; 
 
 But no more I place my bliss 
 Upon dames of lofty stations. 
 
 Who descend from Amadis. 
 
 Long live Alice, Barbara, Molly I 
 Girls whose little simple hearts 
 
 Never went to school with folly 
 To pick up your airs and arts. 
 
 Strong and fresh with healthy duties, 
 Theirs the tint is, theirs the bloom ; 
 
 When the rouges adjust their beauties, 
 Fields are all their dressing-room. 
 
 They, good creatures, keep no man in 
 Vile suspense, to show their power ; 
 
 None need lose their breath with running 
 After them, from hour to hour. 
 
 Farewell, ladies, patch'd and painted. 
 Who beneath your stately clothes 
 
 Hide but limbs with luxury tainted, 
 Bodies fit to scare the crows. 
 
 Morning eyes and milkmaid faces 
 Henceforth rule an honest heart : 
 
 Nature, in their rustic graces. 
 Snaps her fingers at your art. 
 
THE WISHING-CAP. 11-2 
 
 THE BEAUTY WHO WAS TOLD TO BE PROUD. 
 
 Jeune Beaute doit, dit-on, 
 
 Etre orgueilleusette ; 
 On reconnait k ce ton 
 
 Noble pucellette. 
 
 Hier au hasard me levai 
 
 Dis la matiiid ; 
 Au jardin me promenai 
 
 Dessous la feuille. 
 
 Diji me couchais par mi 
 La naissante herbette, 
 Quand je vis mon doux ami 
 
 CueiLaiit la fieurctte. 
 
 Comment gionder un amant 
 
 De sa dil'gence ' 
 J'ecoutais son compliment 
 
 Avec complaisance. 
 
 D'un bouquet il me fit don, 
 
 Simplctte, doucette ; 
 J'oubliai cette l-^^on, 
 
 Que I'on m'avait faite. 
 
 Jeune Beaute doit, dit-on, 
 
 Etre orgueilleusette ; 
 On reconnait a ce ton 
 
 Noble pucellette. 
 
 TRANSLATION. 
 
 A beauty ought, they say, 
 
 To be a little proud ; 
 It is the only v,-ay 
 
 To know her from the crowd. 
 
 I rose at early morning, 
 Upon this truth intent, 
 
 And down the garden turning. 
 Beneath the trees I went. 
 
 I laid me in the bloom, 
 Among the grassy bowers. 
 
 And saw my lover come, 
 A-gathering of flowtrs. 
 
 8 
 
114 ^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 How could a lady look 
 On such a work askance ? 
 
 His compliments I took, 
 I own, with complaisance. 
 
 A bunch of flowers he gave me 
 From his own coat-button, 
 
 And, as I hope to save me. 
 My lesson was forgotten. 
 
 Good Lord ! and yet they say 
 A beauty should be proud ; 
 
 It is the only way 
 To know her from the crowd. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS 
 
 ESSAYS AND SKETCHES, 
 
Peace be with the soul of that charitable and courteous author who introduced 
 the ingenious way of miscellaneous writing. — Shaftesbury. 
 
Essays and Sketches. 
 
 PERSONAL REMINISCENCES OF LORDS. 
 
 THE first time we saw any Lords, we were too 
 young to receive such impressions of them as 
 should remain in after hfe. The earHest man of any 
 note we remember, was an American projector, who 
 had a talent for ship-building. We were told of the 
 extraordinary things he could do to make ships sail 
 fast and well ; and him we have never forgotten. We 
 have his face this minute before us. 
 
 The next time we were blessed with the sight of 
 Right Honorable and Most Noble faces, was in the 
 House of Lords itself. We had just been shown the 
 House of Commons, where the nonchalant appear- 
 ance of a few members, with their hats on, lounging 
 upon the benches, struck us as no very dignified sight, 
 though we thought them sharp looking men and 
 mightily unaffected. From there we were taken to 
 see the Lords ; and we state, with perfect candor, the 
 impression they made on us, when we say that they 
 looked like a parcel of linen-drapers. If the Com- 
 mons were free and easy, we expected to find the 
 Noble Lords noble and lordly ; we thought we should 
 
 M7 
 
Il8 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 see the dignity which we missed among the others. 
 Not an atom of it. Both houses, it is true, were very 
 thinly attended, and the most dignified members of 
 both may have been absent ; but we found that a 
 number of lords might be collected and not look a 
 bit superior to any other collection of decent men. 
 We had absolutely seen our chamberlain of London 
 a few days before, who surpassed every man of them 
 in dignity of appearance. Nor had we any prejudice 
 against lords. On the contrary, our prejudice was 
 in their favor, and we were greatly disappointed. 
 ,"What!" said we to ourselves, "are these lords? 
 Why, they look like men just come from behind 
 counters, and those of the least manly description." 
 It was the fashion at that time to wear light-colored 
 small clothes and white stockings, and this custom 
 added to the effeminacy of their appearance. But 
 their faces ! What poor-looking expression was 
 there ! What weakness ! What a negation of all 
 purpose and energy ! We came away, quite morti- 
 fied for our chivalrous notion of the peerage, — of 
 the relations of the Bolingbrokes and Peterborough s, 
 and never heartily recovered the impression after- 
 wards. 
 
 From time to time we were shown a lord in a 
 stage-box or on horseback. They were nothing 
 different from other men, except that we fancied 
 a look of higher self-possession, — perhaps because 
 they were lords. Doubtless there was often a con- 
 scious look which the spectator might take for self- 
 possession, or assumption, or pride, or dignity, 
 according to his preconceived notions. Pope talked 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. II9 
 
 of the "• nobleman look," but said that Wycherley had 
 it as well as Bolingbroke, which shows that it had 
 nothing to do with rank.* He meant the look of 
 self-possession, in its most graceful aspect. The per- 
 son the most answering to the received idea of a 
 nobleman, whom we ever saw, was the late Duke of 
 Grafton. We remember him coming out of the Uni- 
 tarian chapel in Essex Street, with his staid gloved 
 hands, tall person, hook nose, and cocked hat sur- 
 mounting all, like the father of a generation of Sir 
 Charles Grandisons. Junius would have given a dif- 
 ferent account of his inner nobility. It was consci- 
 entious in him, however, to go to the Essex Street 
 Chapel, and he was a very respectable-looking man, 
 — not in the gig-keeping sense. 
 
 Lord Castlereagh, the only time we saw him, — 
 which was many years before his death, — struck us 
 as being something of a dandy. He was in nankeen 
 pantaloons and a green coat ; but he had as fine a 
 face as man could well have, with little intellect in it. 
 If nobility could have a patent ft^ce, — a countenance 
 appropriated to rank, apart from the look of wit and 
 talent, — it would look like him. But then he had 
 been occupied in important work. No lord looks 
 good for anything who is a mere lord, and by far the 
 greatest number we have seen were of this class. 
 Lord Eldori, who is a judge, and of plebeian origin, 
 casts as fine an eye upon you in passing along the 
 streets some years ago, as could be looked for in a 
 " learned gentleman ; " and yet law has made it come 
 
 * Hazlitt writes admirably on this subject in the paper On the Look of a 
 Gentleman, in The Plain Speaker. — Ed. 
 
I20 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 to nothing. Lord Ellenborough had the glance of a 
 clever man, but his face was clouded with a look of 
 burly stubbornness. The face of the nobleman we 
 have always looked at with the greatest interest is 
 Lord Holland's. We felt thankful for his elegant 
 literature, his advocacy of liberal opinions, and above 
 all, his never-failing protests in the House of Lords 
 when an ignorant or ungenerous measure was car- 
 ried. But we have seen him only at a distance. Let 
 his black eyes and his shrewd looks, however, say 
 what they may, they say nothing in behalf of his 
 rank : for he is a wit, and could do without it. 
 
 We were once going down Bedford Row, when we 
 saw a little mean-looking man ascend the steps of a 
 house, give a good knock, and ask the footman a 
 question. The footman answered with a face, the 
 expression of which amounted to contempt. It was 
 as much to say, " What does such a shabby-looking 
 fellow as you want with my master, and why do you 
 take upon yourself to give such a knock? " The little 
 man, turning to go away, took out a card, and gave it 
 the footman. The reader should have seen the fel- 
 low's manner at sight of this card ! He saw " Lord " 
 upon it; and his face, shoulders, arms, legs, and soul 
 fell instantly into a profound respect and humiliated 
 repentance. We omit this lord's name, but nobody, 
 most assuredly, would have taken him for a noble- 
 man, — unless, indeed, a footman might have done 
 so; for footmen, being conversant with lords, ought 
 to know of what aspects they are capable. 
 
 Not long after this we happened to sit next a lord 
 in a box, who swore much at a debutante in n com- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 121 
 
 edy, and said she was the " d — dest impudent little 
 devil he ever saw in his life." At the same time he 
 clapped a speech of hers with as much energy as his 
 hands could bring together, for he too was a fragile 
 little fellow. We begged to know the reason of this 
 apparent contradiction ; and he said, " O, I like her 
 impudence of all things ; it's devilish amusing." 
 This was candid, and we had nothing to object. It 
 was also professional, — of the " order," — for it up- 
 held claims without merit, and stood by a sort of 
 "privilege of peerage," — the right that impudence 
 has to be on a par with impudence. 
 
 The next lord we remember seeing, whose patent 
 was put to the test, was the colonel of a body of vol- 
 unteers, who were assembled in the courtyard of a 
 great house in Piccadilly, in expectation of seeing 
 him for the first time. Suddenly it was announced 
 that he was coming. The great gates were thrown 
 open, the band struck up, the regiment presented 
 arms: enter my lord on a white charger, and, byway 
 of introduction to his men, is pitched right over the 
 horse's head. Thus (as the moral of a fable would 
 say) the being a lord does not render a man a good 
 horseman any more than it renders him modest, or 
 wise, or handsome, or strong, or genteel, or even 
 such a man as can be safe in the experience of a 
 footman. 
 
 We were standing once at a book sale behind two 
 gentlemen, one of whom, by his voice, we recog- 
 nized to be the late John Kemble. The other was of 
 the same stature as the actor, not so gentlemanly 
 in appearance, and had his hat set knowingly on the 
 
122 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 top of his head. Mr. Kemble, addressing him as 
 " My Lord," made us curious to see his face. The 
 actor's face we saw very weU. It was turned side- 
 wise towards the great unknown, exhibiting all the 
 dignity of its Roman profile ; and the tone, high in 
 dignity as in sound, in which the actor spoke, inter- 
 ested us extremely, considering the rank of the person 
 he was conversing with. Ou a sudden this person 
 turned rapidly towards his acquaintance, exhibiting 
 his profile in turn, and letting us into the secret of 
 his voice. The effect was ludicrous. The noble* 
 man's person had given us a manly idea of him 
 enough, though there was a dandyism in his bearing 
 not of the genteelest kind ; but his face ! and his 
 voice ! The first was like a premature old woman's, 
 the second worthy of it, — at once high, mumbHng, 
 and gabbling. A little staring eye surmounted this 
 odd imbecility. He rapidly uttered a few shufiling 
 sentences, forming a most singular contrast with the 
 lofty and measured tones of the actor ; and we thought 
 how much better the latter would have acted the 
 nobleman ofl' the stage than the former upon it. How 
 ludicrous, indeed, the noble lord would have appeared 
 in any serious character, on or ofi'! 
 
 The next time we fell in company with a lord, he 
 was talking on the subject of art, which he did very 
 badly. We did not know who he was, nor was 
 he acquainted with all the persons present. Some- 
 body made a remark in dissent ; we expressed (in all 
 civility) our agreement with it. The stranger, who 
 had a veiy insipid countenance, said nothing, but con- 
 trived to throv/ into his face an air of nonchalant 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 1 23 
 
 assumption, which appeared very odd. The secret 
 was explained when we learnt wdio he was. But are 
 these, we thought, the manners of high life? Ave 
 such the people that think to dispense with objection, 
 and are these the faces their absurdity begets them ? 
 Who would have known this lord from an arrogant, 
 mean citizen? His appearance is not a jot better. 
 
 Does the reader remember a little, withered old 
 man, who used to emerge on tine days into his bal- 
 cony in Piccadilly, take a chair there, 
 
 " And sun himself in Huncamunca's eyes " ? 
 
 His business, it was said, was to watch the ankles of 
 the ladies and the conscious giggle of the serving- 
 maids. But he mixed it with wiser matter. He 
 was taking a " reverend care of his health." Stories 
 of milk baths were told by the smiling passengers, 
 of the doctor ever in attendance, and of the good 
 done to old gentlemen by the company of pleasing 
 faces and milk-maid breaths, without of necessity 
 involving anything erroneous. This old lord (the 
 Duke of Qiieensbury) had been a great turf-man in 
 his youth ; we know not what he was famous for in 
 more advanced life. In old age he was eminent for 
 sitting in a balcony and looking stupid. He was 
 immensely rich. He probably could hav'e had eighty 
 thousand beefsteaks for his dinner every day. The 
 money for these he left at his banker's, while he dab- 
 bled with a little spoon-meat, and his neighbors toiled 
 all day to get a steak for their wives and children. 
 
 We leave this point to the reader's reflection. — 
 1830. 
 
124 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 A LETTER 
 
 On, to, and By the Book-Personage known 
 
 BY THE Name of " The Reader." 
 
 DEAR Sir, or very dear Madam : Among the 
 various phenomena of the Hterary world (to 
 begin in proper book style), you have heard, doubt- 
 less, of editors who write letters to themselves, and 
 are. very much their humble servants, " Qiiidnunc," 
 and " Philalethes." In other times the highest and 
 the lowest periodical writers were equally given to 
 this species of correspondence ; the former in the 
 excess of their wit, the latter because they get nobody 
 but themselves to be their Constant Readers.* Of 
 late years, such is the exuberance of literature, in Mr. 
 Jerdan's, as well as the grammatical sense of the 
 word, that we believe the custom survives with none 
 but the very newest and worst setters-up of a publica- 
 tion. These gentlemen, here and there, are still 
 auto-epistolary. One of them is his own " Impartial 
 Observer," and differs with himself, " though with 
 
 * Mr. Spectator gleefully confesses that he is guilty of writing letters to him- 
 self. " I often choose," he says, "this way of casting my thoughts into a letter, 
 for the following reasons. First, out of the policy of those who try their jest 
 upon another before they own it themselves. Secondly, because I would extort 
 a little praise from such who jvill never applaud anything whose author is known 
 and certam. Thirdly, because it gave me an opportunity of introducing a great 
 variety of characters into my works, which could not have been done had I 
 always written in the person of the Spectator. Fourthly, because the dignity 
 spectatorial would have suffered had I published as from myself those severe 
 ludicrous compositions which I have ascribed to fictitious names and characters." 
 Spectator, No. 542. — Ed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 1 25 
 
 deference to his superior judgment." Another is 
 happy to subscribe to his own opinion, being, at the 
 same time, a subscriber to his " interesting miscel- 
 lany ; " and a third, sitting in his editor's room, and 
 despairing of success with his " widely-circulated 
 journal," is his " sincere well-wisher and admirer, 
 Thomas Jones, Appleby." A certain descrijDtion of 
 gentlemen '* about town" are said to have made great 
 use of this epistolary talent, and been half the wo- 
 men of their acquaintance ; and a tribe of doctors, 
 resembling them, have been enabled to bear such 
 grateful testimony to their own merits as to acquire 
 an extensive correspondence of the ordinary kind, and 
 write themselves into an equipage and a mansion. 
 
 But you have yet to learn that a man may write a 
 letter to himself and not be aware of it; nay, that all 
 his readers but one may join him in the correspon- 
 dence, and all be in the same predicament. You are 
 now this minute doing it, so are they ; and, what is 
 more, myself, who am the sole exception, are you 
 and they too. I am the editor and all his readers. I 
 am a lady of quality and a blaeksmith ; I am a sol- 
 dier, and at the same time a clergyman ; a dandy and 
 a quaker ; an old lady and a young one ; a man of 
 yesterda}^, and yet Martial addressed epigrams to me ; 
 an intimate friend of Sophocles, and yet Sir Walter 
 is continually bespeaking my good opinion. In short, 
 I am the little, big, slender, robust, young, old, rich, 
 plain, poor, handsome, male, female, and neuter per- 
 sonage, known by the name of '' The Reader." I 
 am you^ Reader, whatever you may think of it, and 
 you are all of us. You address your prefaces to me, 
 
126 THE VVISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 and have others addressed, for the same reason, to 
 yourself. I am the Benevolent Reader of the old 
 books ; also the Courteous, the Indulgent, and the 
 Impartial, but, above all, the Discerning. The affec- 
 tation of independence in modern writers has induced 
 them to leave off addressing me by some of these 
 epithets, yet my good v^^ord is still bespoken as the 
 Indulgent and the Candid ; and if I am not always 
 styled the Discerning, it is not the less given me to 
 understand that I am so. I should like to see the 
 author that ventured to treat me otherwise. It is 
 true, a hint is now and then ventured about '^ com- 
 monplace readers," and " readers of the ordinary 
 description : " but these are mere words. I will ven- 
 ture to afhrm, that \i the Reader ever chose to inquire 
 whether it was he that was intended by those petulant 
 appellations, the writer would infallibly say no. The 
 Reader is always treated with respect. The least 
 thing said to him, is, that he is 'Requested:" — the 
 Reader is requested to do so and so ; to " observe," 
 or to " bear in mind." It is also asked whether he 
 will be " kind enough " or " good enough" to do this 
 and that. Furthermore, being a man, he is of ne- 
 cessity a gentleman, as surely as the cobbler before 
 the hustings ; and inasmuch as he is of the female sex, 
 he is fair; — the fair Reader; — "our fair Readers 
 will do us the honor to observe," &c. 
 
 It is in this corporate character that I now address 
 you. Being The Reader^ I am everybody who reads, 
 and therefore may safely speak in the first person ; 
 for nobody quarrels with himself in the person of an- 
 other, however willing he may be to contemplate his 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 1 27 
 
 merits in him ; at least, it requires a rare stretch of 
 philosoph}^ to do so, and the modesty is sure to be 
 accompanied by something that consoles it. 
 
 As a reader of a ripe age, who was deep in the 
 gilt nursery books of the last century, it may be al- 
 lowed me to regret the cessation of those quaint old 
 dreams of wood-cuts, now confined to ballads on the 
 w alls, or only reprinted for the benefit of the curious. 
 I acknowledge the superiority of the present engrav- 
 ings, and allow our new infant self, if he has any taste 
 for the fine arts (which is not always the case), to 
 ''quiz" the stuck-up attitudes, blotted eyes, and im- 
 possible legs and arms of our old King Pepins and 
 worthy London apprentices. But there was some- 
 thing remote and ideal in those very deficiencies in 
 the likeness to things known. Such a London ap- 
 prentice as that mighty for aught you know^, thrust 
 his arms down the throat of two lions, conveniently 
 gaping on each side of him, and pluck out their hearts. 
 Such a little boy as King Pepin, all eye and flapped 
 waistcoat, might come to be a man wonderful, and 
 ride in his coach. We do not defend the rewards 
 generally promised in the infant literature of that 
 period, such as coaches and great puddings, though 
 the private taste seems to lie a good deal that way 
 still. Neither w^ill w^e stand by the morality of Master 
 Jemmy the bad boy, and Master Jacky the good one, 
 the former of wdiom is bound to be eaten by lions, 
 while the latter becomes Lord Mayor ; for it is now 
 doubted by philosophers in the city, wdiether every 
 Lord Mayor was a good little boy ; and also, whether 
 every naughty boy goes to Africa or comes to the 
 
138 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 poorhouse. Such determinations of events will nr^t 
 be allowed in this refining age, philosophers them- 
 selves being sometimes poor, and rich men not always 
 having been good. We are aware that the great eye 
 of this generation looks rather to the general good 
 than the particular example of success, and inculcates 
 a handsome prudence, which, allowing folly its ex- 
 cesses, saves it from bad blood, and encourages it to 
 grow wiser. We have nothing to say against that; 
 but still we may be allow^ed to admire the picture- 
 cuts of Master Jemmy and Master Jacky, now so 
 happy at home, playing their battledoor and shuttle- 
 cock, and then both, methinks, so unhappy after- 
 wards, — the one devoured by roaring lions, and the 
 other stuck up in his fine coach without his brother. 
 To the impressive dead bodies of " Smith, Jones, and 
 Robinson," in Mr. Dilworth's Spelling-Book (was it 
 not? ), who would swim in the water when they were 
 •told to remain on dry land, and to the awful admon- 
 itory figure of the schoolmaster in his cocked hat, 
 with one finger up, we cannot refuse our respect. It 
 is somewhat begged of us, we grant, by early habit, 
 and by the sight of those stark-naked, pale pieces of 
 stiffness on the ground ; to say nothing of the warm and 
 well-clothed teacher. " The great teacher, Death," 
 and the hardly inferior solemnity of the teacher aca- 
 demical, divide the awfulness between them. Other- 
 wise we could have wished that Death and a little 
 daring had not been brought so peremptorily together. 
 But things may have been good at a former period 
 which are not desirable at present. 
 
 As ''the reader" of the present times, nothing 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I39 
 
 comes amiss to us. We find all ages and conditions 
 agreeably lumped up together in the food provided for 
 them. The little children's books are fit for grown 
 people to read ; and the grown people are obliged to 
 be universal in their knowledge, for fear of not having 
 answers to give to the little children. Pictures also, 
 the realization of the dreams of books, abound more 
 than ever. 
 
 Even our amiable old friend, the Elements of Mo- 
 rality, rich with its " fifty copper plates," is nothing 
 to the "one hundred and fifty" in a modern volume 
 of Arabian Nights ; and then for cheapness, we have 
 the same delicious work for five and sixpence ; all 
 Shakespeare for ten shillings, and loads of acted 
 plays and farces at threepence the set, like ginger- 
 bread. As to songs, we get them at a penny the 
 hundred. I'd be a Butterfly is about the value of a 
 wafer and a half, and so is that public piece of pri- 
 vacy, O, no, we never mention Her, which piece of 
 reserve, when it first came out, we heard two fellows 
 whispering in the ear of the town along Regent Street, 
 with all the delicacy of a couple of gongs. 
 
 We are afraid there may appear some confusion in 
 this letter between the reference to our general char- 
 acter as " The Reader" and our own particular book 
 inclinations. But something of this must be pardoned, 
 if it be not of too exclusive a description. The Reader^ 
 after all, is a human being, and must sometimes be 
 content to represent particular bodies of men rather 
 than the whole fortuitous'world of perusers. Above 
 all, it is to be presumed that he is a genuine Reader; 
 — that is to say, really fond of books ; and as such, 
 9 
 
130 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 there are many feelings which he will have in com- 
 mon with the whole genus of bookworms. There is 
 sometimes a f:ilse The Reader^ — that is to sa}', one 
 who is appealed to by authors whom nobody reads, 
 or who is a mere chance taker-up of a book, in which 
 he has no more right to recognize himself under that 
 title than a fly who should walk over it. Mr. Jacob, 
 an unheard-of nan;)e in our times, was a reader of this 
 sort a hundred years ago ; and our friend Mr. Jerdan 
 is one at present. I shall, therefore, proceed to con- 
 sider myself in one light as the Reader appealed to by 
 authors ; in anotlier, as the Reader fond of reading 
 them. 
 
 And here, my dear friends, I cannot but lament the 
 cessation of those pleasing epithets of Benevolent 
 and Candid, which 1 have before mentioned, and 
 wliicli tended to keep up the good qualities they 
 spoke of. It was easy to see whether the author was 
 trying to cajole us, or only paying the proper compli- 
 ment to our virtue. If he was a good fellow, it was 
 all as it shoidd be ; if otherwise, he was only in the 
 right with regard to ourselves ; zve^ the Reader, were 
 still candid, and benevolent, and intelligent, but we 
 smiled at his endeavors to deceive us, and called to 
 mind what the philosopher says about hypocrisy, — 
 " the homage which vice pays to virtue." It is true, 
 we dismissed the man a little more charitably than 
 might have been the case had he been less civil ; but 
 charity is desirable towards everybody.* 
 
 * "Why is it that we hear no more of Gentle Readers? " asks Southey. in The 
 Doctor. " Is it that, having become critical in this age of magazines and re- 
 views, they have ceased to be gentle? But all are not critical." With what 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 13I 
 
 Lector benevole had a pretty sound in Latin ; so 
 had candide and amice. " To the Reader " is not so 
 well ; it is too unceremonious, or, at least, unsocial. 
 There is neither respect nor cordiality in it ; and, 
 somehow, to an Englishman, the Italian a chi Icgge 
 sounds worse. Neither is "Advertisement" alto- 
 gether to%be approved; — "Advertisement to the 
 Reader ; " it is too dry and official. In French it 
 looks hardly decent — Avis an Iccteur. I am aware 
 that the same words in difierent lanofuacres have dif- 
 ferent shades of meaning, but the root is the same. 
 " Advice to the Reader " is to be found in old Eng- 
 lish books. The French phrase has even passed 
 into a proverb. It means putting a man on his guard. 
 This, to be sure, is a useful proceeding with some 
 books, and would be more so if other people, instead 
 of the author, had the writing of the advice. Hov/ 
 pleasant it would be to be able to preface one's ene- 
 my's book with such a v^'arning : to forestall a criti- 
 cism, or give a notice " Sur la vie et les ozcv rages.'' 
 Every vian his ozun other man s preface would be 
 handsome dealins". 
 
 sweet reverence and loving humor Hawthorne, in the preface to The Marble 
 Faun, writes of that "friend of friends, that brother of the soul," the Gentle 
 Reader. *' The antique fashion of prefaces recognized this genial personage," 
 he says, "as 'the Kind Reader,' the 'Gentle Reader,' the 'Beloved,' the 'In 
 c'ulgent,' or, at coldest, the 'Honored Reader,' to whom the prim old author 
 was wont to make his preliminary explanations and apologies, with the certainty 
 that they would be favorably received. I never personally encountered, nor 
 corresponded through the post with this representative essence of all delightful 
 and desirable qualities which a reader can possess. But, fortunately for myself, 
 I never, therefore, concluded him to be merely a mythic character. I had 
 always a sturdy faith in his actual existence, and wrote for him year after year, 
 daring which the great eye of the Public (as well it might) almost utterly over- 
 looked my small prodi.c.io is." — Ed. 
 
132 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 During the period when Latin was the common 
 tongue of Hterature, and it required scholarship to 
 read as well as write a book, it is agreeable to see the 
 importance which the Reader bore in the mind of 
 everybody connected with the work, — author, print- 
 er, and publisher. The book was, perhaps, dedi- 
 cated to some lord or great man, some IJmstrissimo^ 
 whose light has long since disappeared ; or some Vir 
 Amplissimus of a Dutchman. He was the ostensible 
 patron. The titles were set forth in a grotesque of 
 Dutch and Latin, rich as the efflorescence of his coat 
 of arms ; and perhaps his arms themselves were 
 added, thirsty with leopard's faces, and threatening 
 with daggers. But he was not " The Reader." Not 
 he. Perhaps he could not read the work. Lords in 
 those times were not the wits and geniuses they are 
 now. Some little preface by itself was pretty sure to 
 be added lectori benevolo^ bespeaking his good opin- 
 ion with a tibi comniendo^ and reminding him of it 
 with a vale I We, " The Reader," now almost swal- 
 lowed up in that more formidable noun of multitude, 
 the Reading Public, were then one of a select portion 
 of society, like the doctors of a university ; and 
 though we acknowledge ourselves reasonahly lost 
 among the many, and, indeed, assisted in bringing 
 about the great light that has put out our college 
 lamps, we cannot but take a pleasure in turning over 
 those evidences of our old importance, and fancying 
 ourselves bowing like a polite judge on the bench to 
 the appeals of our learned brothers the Elzevirs and 
 the Giunti. This is one of the secrets of the link be- 
 tween the Bibliomaniacs and saner readers. Any 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 1 33 
 
 book was worth something in those times; and, by 
 the courtesy of scholastic habits, it remains so still. 
 But rarity made it a great deal more so, and therefore 
 nothing is so precious to the Bibliomaniac as the pos- 
 session of a rare copy. It diminishes the advantages 
 of the rest of the world ; — gives him a value in his 
 own eyes which he could not otherwise possess. We 
 do not say this invidiously. Partaking to a certain 
 degree of the Bibliomaniac ourselves, and at the same 
 time being liberal-minded towards all the world in 
 our capacity of ^/le Readc7' universal, we live, either 
 to vindicate our dusty superiority, or allow our ab- 
 sorption in the common wit, just as the whim is upon 
 us ; and as so many books are venerable in our eyes, 
 every book^ in some measure, becomes so by reason 
 of its book-nature. Bibliophllus sum; nihil biblici 
 a me alieiziim piiio. Only let a writer address us 
 handsomely, and it is hard if w^e do not find some- 
 thing to commend in his work, even sliould it be only 
 in the address. We confess that we love to respond 
 to those deferential appeals made to our wisdom and 
 good qualities. Nothing can be said out loud between 
 author and reader ; but the sympathy is not the less 
 understood. "• The Reader," says the author, "will 
 have the goodness," — we have the goodness. " The 
 Reader will undoubtedly perceive," — undoubtedly 
 we do perceive. " We need not inform the intelli- 
 gent Reader," — you certainly need not; but let us 
 have it. 
 
 Good-natured Ovid is the earliest writer we can 
 call to mind, who established a direct intercourse be- 
 tween the Reader and himself. We feel all the differ- 
 
134 ^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ence he describes between our comfortable situation 
 at hoQie, and bis cold and solitary exile ; and doubly 
 sympathize with the man, from the compliment paid 
 us by so famous a poet. It is the only instance of 
 the kind we recollect, in which Rome cuts a domes- 
 tic figure in one's imagination, instead of being the 
 great domineering city, paraded by consuls, and 
 looking warlike or Ciceronian. For Pliny, somehow, 
 does not make us enter cordially into his fine houses. 
 We, the Reader, were then a wit and fine gentleman 
 about town, under the eye of Augustus; hatless, and 
 gowned ; and, as Arbuthnot says of that prince, with- 
 out glass to one's windows or a shirt to one's back. 
 The Reader, to wit, ourself, need not be informed, 
 that ancient reading, being in manuscript, was much 
 more confined than it is at present. In Greece we 
 were a philosopher, an historian, a poet; latterly a 
 grammarian, a collector of epigrams, or a mystic. 
 What are ordinary readers now were then listeners 
 to the poet's lyrics, or audiences at an Olympic game 
 or a theatre. And it was the same in the age of chiv- 
 alry. Hence the addresses of the poets to their 
 harps and audiences. Milton covenanted with us 
 ("the Knowing Reader") for the performance in due 
 time of an epic poem ; but when lie had gloriously re- 
 deemed his promise, he spoke of us as an auditor ; — 
 " Fit audience find though few." For a long time 
 we were either a professed minstrel, or else a clerk or 
 ecclesiastically learned person, as distinguished from 
 the laity. Chaucer and others helped to extend our 
 jurisdiction. Our friend Caxton, in the reign of Ed- 
 ward the Fourth, addressed his History of Prince 
 
ESS A S AND SKETCHES. 1 35 
 
 Arthur to us, under the title of " the Christian Read- 
 er." By this time we had included the people of 
 quality, both male and female, to whom he accord- 
 ingly proceeds to address himself. These gave rise 
 to the term '' Gentle Readers," our gentleness at that 
 time consisting, not in its modern etTeminate qualities, 
 but in having high blood in us, and being qualified 
 to knock people on the head. Caxton, however, 
 judiciously distinguishes between such as " desire 
 to read " and such as " desire to hear read." By a 
 subsequent edition of this work, it may be seen how 
 we had increased our body corporate among the ple- 
 beians ; for the editor takes upon himself to be in- 
 solent. '-Thus," says he, "reader, I leave thee at 
 th)^ pleasure to read, but not to judge, except thou 
 judge with understanding. The ass" (think of that 
 said nowadaN's to ''the reading public!") ''is no 
 competent judge between the owl and the nightin- 
 gale, for the sweetness of their voices ; cloth of arras 
 or hangings of tapestry are not fit to adorn a kitch- 
 en ; no more are kettles, pots, and spits to hang in a 
 lady's bed-chamber ; neither is it becoming for a man 
 to censure that which his ignorance cannot perceive, 
 or his pride and malice prejudicate or cavil at." — This 
 fellow must have been a knight, at least. 
 
 An author who is uneasy with his readers has gen- 
 erally good reason to be so. We like him in propor- 
 tion as he is the reverse ; that is to say, provided he is 
 worthy of our company ; and more especially, if as in 
 Ovid's case, he does it honor. With what reverence 
 do we not receive those personal communications 
 vouchsafed us by such writers as Milton, and imper- 
 
136 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 tinently called impertinences by the critics ! How 
 we love them in writers of a tenderer cast, and en- 
 joy their gayet}^ in the more lively ! Scaliger. speak- 
 ing of the delightful egotism of Montaigne (would 
 that all good authors were as modest as he, and not 
 afraid of com.mitting their dignity !), asks " what the 
 devil it signifies whether he liked this wine or that?" 
 It signifies that he understood the social part of lis, 
 and that he was not an arrogant critic, who thought 
 himself too good for his readers. When Fielding 
 arrests the progress of one of his narratives to tell us 
 of the little parlor in which he was writing with his 
 children about him, how thankful do we not feel for 
 his good-natured humanity in thus letting us into his 
 domestic difficulties, — in giving the picture at once 
 the zest of a pain and the cordiality of a pleasure ! 
 How does it not make us wish, that all men, not ill- 
 inclined, could know and understand one another; 
 could see how much pain they can endure, and how 
 much pleasure bestow ! 
 
 "The Reader's" loss of consequence nowadays, 
 as we have before observed, is his gain ; that is to say. 
 " The Reader" is going out, because all are readers. 
 The newspapers and magazines speak of us as " our 
 readers." We are sometimes directly called " the pub- 
 lic," and scavengers and beadles address us, with talents 
 that used to be confined to the clergy. Still there is' 
 "The Reader" properly so called, that is to say, the 
 Reader genuine and fond of reading; and as such we 
 have still our tastes and our distinctions. We often 
 read at breakfast and tea ; are sometimes observed 
 reading even in the streets, — not out of ostentation, 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I37 
 
 but because we cannot leave our friend at home : na}^, 
 if dining alone, we like to have the book open beside 
 us, or will stick it up against the loaf, and devour 
 salad and Sir Walter at the same time. 
 
 We find no obstacles in the streets. We thread the 
 multitude as easily as a fish does the sea among his 
 fellows, or a blind bat avoids chairs and tables in a 
 room. We keep a sort of eye, without seeing it, to 
 the gutter ; and have the path down a hill before us, 
 vvithout trying to keep it.* We prefer, however, 
 green lanes, or a lane with bookstalls, stopping occa- 
 sionally to compare notes with the blackbirds, and 
 always stopping to look at the books. In the latter 
 case, we make a display of the volume in our hand, 
 lest the stall-man should confound it with one of his 
 own. If we put it in our pocket, we fancy he will 
 see it sticking out as we move ofi', and make hasty 
 search before we get out of sight. We fancy he will 
 think it a Waller, " price 9d.," or a description of the 
 German Spa, or Marcus Antoninus's Meditations, or 
 some modern writer (perhaps ourself!), "same as 
 sells at five shillings ! " 
 
 A lounge in summer against a bank or the new- 
 mown hay, has been too often described to be dwelt 
 on. In doors, if the season be fine and warm, a sofa 
 
 * Herein differing from book-loving Charles Lamb, who, in his Detached 
 Thoughts on Books andReading, says, " I am not much a friend to out-of-docrs 
 reading. I cannot settle my spirits to it. I know a Unitarian minister, who 
 was generally to be seen upon Snow Hill (as yet Skinner's Street was not), be- 
 tween the hours of ten and eleven in the morning, studying a volume of Lardner. 
 I own this to have been a stram of abstraction beyond my reach. I used to 
 admire how he sidled along, keeping clear of secular contacts. An illiterale en- 
 counter with a porter's knot, or a bread-basket, would have quickly put to flight 
 all the theology I am master of, and have left me wor&c than indifferent to the 
 five points." — Ed 
 
138 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 is the thing, after a walk, with the bahny substitution 
 of slippers for boots, and a new work to begin ; or, say, 
 the fifth chapter of a new novel, where you turned 
 down a leaf, and were at a most interesting passage. 
 The ivory knife to cut open the leaves with, is also 
 pleasing. We cannot but think there is a kind of 
 sensual pleasure in it. We must not dwell upon the 
 pleasure of reading in bed, turning first one elbow 
 and then the other, and finally lying upon one's back, 
 wondering we did not choose that happy posture at 
 once. The custom is dangerous, and conscientious 
 readers leave it off, if they are not sure the candle will 
 be put out. A book behind the pillow for morning, 
 is another thing ; or even for the chance of reading, 
 if 3''ou wish it, though you never do. But we shall be 
 reverting to particular tastes. As to winter time, we 
 believe it will be allowed by all catholic perusers, 
 that an elbow-chair, and a foot on each hob, is the 
 most luxurious enormity. 
 
 1830. "The Reader." 
 
 DR. DODDRIDGE AND THE LADIES. 
 
 THIS is another volume of the work* which ex- 
 cited so much attention and amusement, as 
 disclosing the livelier part of Dr. Doddridge's char- 
 acter, and his fuiulness for the ladies. We mean to 
 say nothing against the doctor's reputation. His 
 fondness was kept within legal bounds, and only 
 
 * The Correspondence and Diary of Philip Doddridge, D. D., &c. Edited 
 from the original MSS. by his Great-grandson, John Doddridge Humphreys, 
 Esq. Vol. IV. London, 1830. » 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I39 
 
 overflowed in a double stream of benevolence towards 
 the fair sex, — in a pleasing mixture of piety and 
 gayety, — a double wish to please and to be pleased. 
 But the public were amused to see a name, which 
 had hitherto partaken, however mildly, of the com- 
 mon gloom in which Dissenters stand with the world, 
 suddenly invested with a radiance of gallantry and 
 hilarity, as if Venus had taken an arch pleasure in 
 throwing a light upon him from the clouds, and show- 
 ing that doctors are men. 
 
 It is a pity to think that there are persons who find 
 fault with this new light, and think it unbecoming 
 the seriousness of a dissenting minister's reputation. 
 It is lamentable to see how hard men can struggle to 
 keep up painful pretensions and false notions of piety, 
 — what ingenious steps tliey take to have as little 
 comfort and to maintain as great a portion of vice as 
 possible, in order to indulge upon the one the spleen 
 which the other occasions. A great scandal was 
 lately excited among the ascetics of the Catholic 
 church (luckily a very small body now) by the dis- 
 covery that the celebrated Bossuet, the proud cham- 
 pion of the Roman faith, the St. Paul of the French 
 court, was in love, and wrote billets-doux. Thev 
 might well dislike it, for there was reason to be- 
 lieve that the poor bishop, on the strength of the aus- 
 terities exacted of him, had an actual mistress, and 
 so was made a hypocrite. If Doddridge had been 
 one of his clergy, he would very likely have been 
 a hypocrite too, though of a more charitable order. 
 The Catholic church, in this matter, is filled by its 
 tenets with lies and contradictions ; the worst and the 
 
140 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 best men are alike induced to sin, the former because 
 they are gross and double-dealing, the latter because 
 they have the strongest sympathies ; and thus all come 
 to practise hypocrisy in common, and real vices are 
 propagated by false virtues. However, these absurdi- 
 ties are diminishing every day. 
 
 Dr. Doddridge was an amiable man, of a sprightly 
 blood, and of a hectic temperament, which ultimatelj' 
 threw him into a consumption. His views were too 
 cheerful for his doctrines, which he was accused of 
 accommodating to different companies ; that is to say, 
 his charity predominated, and he found out, in his va- 
 rious texts, something to enliven ever3'body he came 
 nigh. Men of other complexions, who were uneasy 
 with themselves, preached from uneasy texts : he took 
 up the cheerful ones, and made everybody grateful 
 wherever he went, talking to the old of Methusalem, 
 and comparing the ladies to Eve in Paradise. Accord- 
 ingly he was adored by all classes and ages. Doors 
 flew open to receive him ; men pressed his hands ; old 
 ladies fell in love with him, and young ladies, who 
 were not allowed to fall in love, beatified his wife, 
 and wrought ornaments for her person. The first 
 characteristic thing we meet with in the volume be- 
 fore us is a " splendid apron " which " dear Miss 
 Scott" wrought on purpose for Mrs. Doddridge, and 
 with which the doctor felt himself "quite over- 
 whelmed." The editor speaking of it as now exist- 
 ing, says it is " one of the most costly and beautiful 
 that can be imagined. Groups of ranunculuses and 
 other flowers are represented by colored silks, re- 
 lieved with gold ; and a butterfly is introduced with so 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I4I 
 
 much skill, that it may almost deceive the eye." The 
 doctor, who was an elegant poet, addressed her the 
 following seraphical lines upon it : — 
 
 TO MISS SCOTT, 
 
 ON HER PRESENTING MRS. DODDRIDGE WITH AN EMBROIDERED APRON. 
 
 Too lovely maid, possess'd of every art 
 To charm the fancy and command the heart, 
 The bloom of Paradise thy needle paints. 
 Thy song's the echoes of celestial saints ; 
 And the blest youth, to whom thy love is given, 
 Will pass through Eden, on his way to Heaven. 
 
 Alas! noblest youth (more shame for him) took a 
 road so delightful. Miss Scott, whom her father 
 called a " Protestant Nun," from her devotion to works 
 of charity, and who was a poetess as well as a pain- 
 tress, died a maid. There were not enough Dr. Dod- 
 dridges to appreciate her. It is astonishing how^ many 
 people one longs to have married in old times, purely 
 to rescue one's sex from the disgrace of unfeelingness. 
 
 This poor girl subsequently fell into a state of re- 
 ligious gloom (owing to those infernal doctrines of 
 Calvinism, which the doctor's happier condition en- 
 abled him to throw off) ; but it does not appear to 
 have succeeded in overwhelming her. Her health 
 was bad, and she mistook the gloomy impressions 
 resulting from it for an irreligious state of mind. In 
 the present volume are some affecting letters which 
 passed between her and the doctor ; and pretty strong 
 instances of the light in which she regarded him. 
 We fear he ought to have turned Mussulman, or not 
 written verses. 
 
 The doctor was too ready an admirer of all charm- 
 ing women not to have the good wishes of any one 
 
1-^2 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 of them. Mrs. Doddridge should have secreted his 
 letters from her fair friends. At page 91, he writes 
 thus to her : " On Tuesday I dined with Mr. Faw- 
 cett's mistress: a sweet girl truly (he had said in a 
 previous letter, that her temper was like his wife's), 
 fair as alabaster, with black eyes and hair, a pretty 
 little mouth, and wantmg only a little more color in 
 her cheeks, which now and then I gave her. These 
 sons of Levi (Mr. Fawcett was a minister) take for 
 their wives the best of the flock, and it is but Jit they 
 should.'^ 
 
 Mrs. Doddridge is somewhat startled at the " pretty 
 little mouth," and musters up some correspondents in 
 his absence ; and a colonel, to give him a counter hint 
 with ; but all in great pleasantness and good humor. 
 
 " I heartily rejoice," she says, " in the prosperity 
 of all my friends ; but permit me to tell you, my 
 dear sir, that I am a little in pain for your constan- 
 cy, and think I have some reason, when you seem so 
 transported with those genteel young ladies, with 
 their black eyes and alabaster complexions ! with 
 pretty little mouths too ; indeed, I think I have much 
 more to apprehend from them than from the good 
 old lady of eighty-one you told me of some time 
 ago ; however, I will endeavor to comfort myself, 
 that notwithstanding all these powerful temptations, 
 your constancy will be as inviolably secure as my 
 own, and more I cannot wish it to be, though per- 
 haps should I tell you this is the third letter I have 
 written by this post! so extraordinary a circum- 
 stance might give you a suspicion that I am carry- 
 ing on some intrigue in your absence ; but I need 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I43 
 
 do no more to remove it than to tell you the names 
 of my correspondents." 
 
 The colonel was the famous Colonel Gardiner, 
 who from a man of pleasure became hypochondri- 
 acal, and saw a gfhost.* 
 
 * This is the story, as related by Dr. Doddridge in his biography of Colonel 
 Gardiner: "The major had spent the evening (and, if I mistake not, it was 
 the Sabbath) in some gay company, and had an unhappy assignation with a 
 married woman, whom he was to attend exactly at twelve. The company broke 
 up about eleven ; and not judging It convenient to anticipate the time appointed, 
 he went into his chamber to kill the tedious hour, perhaps with some amusing 
 book, or some other way. But it very accidentally happened, that he took up a 
 religious book, which his good mother or aunt had, wltliout his knowledge, 
 slipped into his portmanteau. It was called, if I remember the title exactly, 
 The Christian Soldier, or Heaven taken by Storm, and It wns written by Mr. 
 Thomas Watson. Guessing by the title of it that he would find some 1 hrasos of 
 his own profession spiritualized In a manner which he thought might afford him 
 some diversion, he resolved to dip into it ; but he took no serious notice of any- 
 thing, and yet, while this book was in his hand, an impression was made upon 
 his mind (perhaps God only knows how) which drew after It a train of the most 
 important and happy consequences. He thought he saw an unusual blaze of 
 light fall on the book while he was reading, which he at first imagined might hap- 
 pen by some accident in the candle. But lifting up his eyes, he apprehended, 
 to his extreme amazement, that there was before him, as it were suspended in the 
 air, a visible representation of the Lord Jesus Christ upon the cross, surrounded 
 on all sides with a glory : and was Impressed as if a voice, or something equivalent 
 to a voice, had come to him, to this effect (for he was not confident as to the very 
 words), ' O sinner ! did I suffer this for thee, and are these the returns ? ' But 
 whether this was an audible voice, or only a strong impression on his mind 
 equally striking, he did not seem very confident ; though, to the best of my 
 remembrance, he rather judged it to be the former." But, according to that 
 "shrewd, clever old carle," Rev. Dr. Carlyle of Inveresk, who knew Gardiner 
 well, Dr. Doddridge has marred this story, "either through mistake or through 
 a desire to make Gardiner's conversion more supernatural, for he says that his 
 appointment was at midnight, and introduces some sort of meteor or blaze of light 
 that alarmed the new convert." But this was not the case, adds Carlyle ; " for 
 I have heard Gardiner tell the stoi-y at least three or four times, to different sets 
 of people, — for he was not shy or backward to speak on the subject, as many 
 would have been. But it was midday, for the appointment was at one o'clock ; 
 and he told us the reason of it, which was, that the surgeon or apothecary had 
 shown some symptoms of jealousy, and they chose a time of day when he was 
 necessarily employed abroad in his business." 
 
 Carlyle nl:o maintains tht\t ns Gardiner told thestor^' there w?5 nothing super- 
 
144 "^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 At page I02 is a letter to Mrs. Doddridge in the 
 Somersetshire dialect, which shows the vivacity of 
 the doctor's spirits. Certainl}^ he was the gayest Cal- 
 vinist on record. At page 44 we find him catching 
 maids at sea. " If you consult the map (he observes), 
 you will see, by comparing the date of my last, that, 
 like the sun, which is still in the tropic of Cancer, 
 or like the crabs which I yesterday caught, I am now 
 in a kind of retrograde motion, or at least go side- 
 ways. I could not refuse the importunity of my 
 friends here (happy for me that I. was not a woman) ; 
 but came back in a chaise which they sent for me on 
 Sunday night, and preaclied (wicked worm that I 
 was) an evening lecture after my other work ; but 
 this being a singular instance, you will, I hope, excuse 
 it, especially as I was well enough to rise at five yes- 
 terday morning, and to make a voyage down the 
 river, which is ten miles to the sea : when I had the 
 pleasure of meeting thirty-five sail of ships, and of 
 catching a great number of soles, plaice, flounders, 
 and crabs, with two lobsters, and a^air Maid ! who 
 immediately threw herself into a- very natural atti- 
 tude, and frisked about with a strange kind of motion ; 
 and as far as I could judge by the strong action of the 
 muscles of her face, and especially of her mouth, made 
 a very pathetic motion in a language I did not un-- 
 derstand. The name, however, she had the honor to 
 bear, and her resemblance to your very agreeable 
 
 natural in it. It was the book, and not a supernatural appearance that con- 
 verted Gardiner. " He was so much taken with this book that he allowed his 
 hour of appointment to pass, never saw his mistress more, and from that day 
 left off all his rakish habits, . . . and the contempt of sacred things, and became 
 a serious good Chr'stinn ever after " — Ed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCPIES. . I45 
 
 sex, impressed me so far that had not my compan- 
 ions been less compassionate than myseh', I beheve 
 she had still been sporting with the river nymphs, 
 and perhaps celebrating the courtesy of that gallant 
 knight to whom she became a captive. But I must 
 assure you, my dear, that though she was detained 
 in the vessel, nothing passed between us that could 
 give you any reasonable umbrage ; and, fair as she 
 was, these lijDS have not yet touched her ! nay, so 
 insensible is my heart to the charms of her whole 
 species, that I give it you under my hand that I had 
 rather have a single shrimp, than as many of these 
 fair creatures as would stock a Turkisli seraglio." 
 
 Our gallant doctor is always paying compliments 
 to his wife, who appears to have deserved them. 
 His accounts of the compliments he receives from 
 other ladies, and the charming reception he is always 
 meeting with from the most amiable families, must 
 have put her faith in him to some test. He does 
 not spare it a handsome trial ; and yet he contrives 
 to make the trial a ground of homage. His kindness 
 seems to have been on a par with his vanity ; and 
 that is saying much for a flattered man. He says 
 at the close of the above letter about maids, — 
 " But to be serious, it was a very pleasant day, and 
 I concluded it in the company of one of the finest 
 women I ever beheld, who, though she has seven 
 children grown up to marriageable years, or very 
 near it, is herself still almost a beauty, and a person 
 of sense, good-breeding, and piety, which might as- 
 tonish one who had not the happiness of being in- 
 timately acquainted with you. 
 10 
 
146 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 " I am just returning in the vehicle in which I came 
 from Ipswich ; Providence has there also strangely 
 cast my lot in one of the most friendly and agree- 
 able families I have met with ; and absolutely, as I 
 am informed, the best in the whole town, though 
 not that which I intended to have visited. Mr. Wood 
 is extremely obliging. Everything is done that can 
 be to make me, if possible, forget you ! and yet 
 every circumstance serves a contrary purpose. The 
 more agreeable the persons I see about me, the more 
 am I reminded of her who is most agreeable ; and 
 the more pleasurable the scenes I pass through, the 
 more do I wish to share them with you, and by 
 sharing to double them. 
 
 " But I forget that a young lady has done me the 
 honor to invite me to breakfast with her ; and par- 
 don my vanity, when I tell you it is one who was 
 pleased to say that she would have gone a thou- 
 sand miles for such an interview with me as she 
 enjoyed last week. She is, I perceive, mistress of 
 a handsome house and independent fortune ; but be- 
 lieve me, that should such things as these happen 
 to me every day, I should still rejoice that I am, 
 " My dearest Love, 
 
 " Securely and entirely yours, 
 
 " P. Doddridge." 
 
 At page 50, he says, — 
 
 " I have been partaking of a most elegant supper ; 
 but I solemnly declare, that a crust of brown bread 
 and a draught of water with you had been a feast 
 far exceeding it. A thousand things which once 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I47 
 
 seemed romantic, grow plain sober sense when re- 
 ferred to you. But I can add no more. My dearest, 
 farewell. These tedious days of absence will come 
 to a conclusion, and I shall, for a while at least, 
 lose all my cares, were they a thousand times great- 
 er, in your delightful society." 
 
 The following passage, from one of the doctor's 
 scientific friends, reminds us of Buffon's theory of the 
 earth, which he thought was struck by a comet from 
 the sun. 
 
 " I do not know what use is usually assigned to 
 the sun's motion ; but we know that motion is essen- 
 tial to all terrestrial fire ; and why may it not be so 
 to the solar fire likewise? Motion produces fire, and 
 keeps it burning. And, by the way (since you are 
 upon experiments), let me hint to you a pretty micro- 
 scopical one, if you have it not already. Strike fire 
 with a flint and steel on a sheet of paper ; gather 
 up the dust and put it into your microscope, and 
 you will see round iron balls ; which shows that the 
 motion of striking heats the steel even to fusion, so 
 that every spark is a drop of melted steel, which 
 forms itself into a sphere, for the same reason that 
 the drops of rain are globular. Many of these liquid 
 spheres will be broken and thrown into irregular 
 shapes by their falling on the paper before they 
 are sufliciently cooled ; but you will see many per- 
 fect spheres. My third magnifier shows them as big 
 as peas." 
 
 Behold (as the French say) a letter from Mrs. 
 Doddridge, which shows that she is resolved not to 
 be surpassed by the doctor in loving, however she 
 yields to him in other sciences. 
 
148 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 " Dearest AND BEST OF Men : Did I know tenderer 
 epithets, I should certainly use them ; but even Mrs. 
 Evans herself cannot help me to one ; for though she 
 sa^s you are an angel, even that does not suit me 
 so well whilst I myself am quite a mortal. 
 
 " She has formed a very dangerous conspiracy 
 against me upon your return ; fatal indeed to my re- 
 pose, should it succeed ; but I make myself per- 
 fectly easy about it, .and believe, how great soever 
 your friendship for Mr. Evans may be, you would not 
 choose to change wives with him, at least not at pres- 
 ent. But, indeed, my dearest, your three last delight- 
 ful letters have made me a bankrupt in everything 
 but love ; that, however, is a stock on which you 
 may largely and freely draw ; and give me leave to 
 tell you, dear sir, you shall not, nor cannot, exhaust 
 it ; for, though I most readily yield you the superi- 
 ority in everything else, here I must and will con- 
 tend with you, at least for an equality, and could 
 you see my heart, you would there behold it written 
 in characters which neither time nor age can erase. 
 But, alas ! so great at present is our unhappy distance, 
 that, as Mr. Pope observes upon a like occasion, were 
 even the scheme of having a crystal placed in the 
 breast to take place, it could be of no service to us ; 
 and therefore we must, in this instance, as well as in 
 many others, content ourselves with believing what 
 we cannot perceive." 
 
 Hallo! At page 182 we find Dr. Doddridge, the 
 grave divine, the Family Expositor, reading the 
 Wife of Bath's Prologue " to Nancy, this afternoon," 
 and taking his share " in the laugh it raised." 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 149 
 
 " I slept last night as comfortable as I ever did in 
 my life, and my cold is so well to*day, that, whereas 
 I could scarcely speak five words together eight-and- 
 forty hours ago, I have been able, without any diffi- 
 cult}^, to read the Wife of Bath's Tale (Prologue, he 
 means) to Nancy this afternoon, and to take my share 
 in the laugh it raised. My fair auditor was particu- 
 larly edified with those lines : — 
 
 There swims no goose so Rray, but soon or late 
 She finds some honest gander for her mate. ' 
 
 But of that by the way." * Nancy (a Miss Ann 
 Moore) good-humoredly disdains the application of 
 this couplet in a postscript. We hope she was 
 the lady who boxed his ears at page 253. The 
 doctor w^as certainly very provoking sometimes, be- 
 twixt the severity of his doctrines and the gayety of 
 his conversation. He was bound, we think, either to 
 have preached other doctrines, or not have been so 
 lively. The above anecdote is a curious instance of 
 the freedom of our pious ancestors, with regard to the 
 books they would read in company. Do we think 
 their descendants more virtuous in not reading them? 
 Not a jot. We think them apparently more consis- 
 tent with their doctrine, but more hypocritical in prac- 
 tice ; though we see a preferment in the preceding, 
 which it certainly does not look for. The truth is, 
 their doctrines are not so fixed as they used to be ; 
 
 * It was Pope's version of the Wife of Bath's Prologue that the doctor read 
 to Miss Nancy. Here is the original of the lines quoted above : — 
 " Ne non so grey goos goth ther in the lake, 
 (As sayst thou) that wol ben withoute a make." — Ed. 
 
150 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 anti they do not know whither such freedom might 
 lead those, who are as Httle certain as they are. 
 
 In a letter from Warburton to Doddridge, we have 
 the opinion of that celebrated robustious divine on the 
 amount of happiness in human life. It is expressed 
 with his usual force. " Though I be extremely cau- 
 tious," he says, " what sect I follow in religion, yet 
 any in philosophy will serve my turn, and honest 
 Sancho Panza's as well as any ; who, on his return from 
 an important commission, when asked by his master 
 whether they should mark the day with a black or a 
 "white stone, replied, ' Faith, sir, if you will be ruled 
 by me — with neither, but with good brown ochre* 
 What this philosopher thought of his commission, I 
 think of human life in general : good brow7i ochre 
 is the complexion of it." 
 
 Warburton had been living at his friend Allen's, 
 and living too well. His blood w^as getting too but- 
 tery and episcopal. We recollect mentioning to the 
 late Mr. Hazlitt, that a celebrated living writer had 
 declared his belief in the predominance of evil in the 
 world, calling it "an awful fact." — "He had just 
 lost his money," said that shrewd observer. The 
 French have a phrase of seeing things "in rose- 
 color." We have no such phrases in this country : 
 we eat and drink too much, and get too much money, 
 and think that evil predominates. There is enough 
 evil, surely, to mend, particularly in our system ; but, 
 for our part (and we have had care enough too), we 
 no more beheve that evil predominates, compared 
 with good, than we believe the sensations of ordinary 
 health to be disagreeable instead of pleasant. Man- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I5I 
 
 kind, generally speaking, enjoy a great deal of good, 
 and all their best impulses press them forward to the 
 attainment of more and better. The cheerful French 
 have found out these secrets, and we cannot do better 
 than follow them in promoting the discovery. Hear, 
 as one step towards it, Warburton's opinion of 
 Young's Night Thoughts. The book, to be sure, curi- 
 ously enough, is not so popular with us as in France ; 
 but the French can afford to like melancholy books. 
 A luxurious contrast is furnished to their vivacity. 
 In England, a melancholy thought gets hold of us, 
 and worries us like a dog hanging at a bull's nose. 
 " I hope," says Warburton, '' the MS. poem you 
 mentioned in your last, will be more in the Chris- 
 tian spirit than Dr. Young's ' Night Complaint,' — a 
 dismal rhapsody, and the more dismal for being full 
 of poetical images, all frightful, without design or 
 method ; so that I have thought, as Mr. Pope's motto 
 to his Essay on Man was, — Know yours el-f: so the 
 motto to this should be, — Go hang youi' self ; for 
 what has any man to do else under that perturbation 
 of mind the author seems to be in? Yet one does 
 not know what to think of him. He appears rather 
 to be under a poetical than a religious dilemma, by 
 the straining and heaving of his thoughts." The 
 secret was, that Young was a parasite and a prefer- 
 ment-hunter, who failed in his views, and only had 
 too much ! He was melancholy for want of a mitre. 
 We now come to the story of the Box on the Ear. 
 " While the doctor," says his editor, " was ever ready 
 to yield the chastening charms of female society their 
 proper influence, he was far from abrogating the just 
 
152 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 prerogative of masculine swiiy — an amusing instance 
 of which occurred in a mixed company, when the 
 superior authority of the ' lords of the creation' was 
 duly vindicated, as the following anecdote will 
 avouch. 
 
 " Dr. Doddridge and a lady of his acquaintance 
 were once disputing before a large company concern- 
 ing the authority of the husband over his wife, when 
 the doctor overcame in the argument ; and the lady, 
 unable to restrain herself on being vanquished in so 
 tender a point, arose from her chair, and going up to 
 the doctor, half in jest, half in earnest, gave him a 
 stroke with her fan. The doctor, on receiving this 
 rough treatment, looked a little grave, and after a 
 silence of a few minutes, spoke the following lines, 
 to the visible confusion of his blushing antagonist : — 
 
 •Fidelio once most unhappily said, 
 However, such nonsense came into his head, 
 That the Sex he had loved and studied so long 
 Had their fancies and passions a little too strong. 
 Sabrina grew warm at a charge so unjust ; 
 To plead for the Fair she was ever the first ; 
 And their wisdom at once in her anger appears, 
 When to answer his Reasons she boxes his ears.' " 
 
 We have said the doctor was a provoking man ! 
 There was more in his provocations than appears on 
 the face of them, and the present case was probably 
 no exception. It is necessary to know who the lady 
 was, before we can pronounce her conduct so unfeini- 
 nine as it appears to have been. Was she married 
 or unmarried? Was she rich or poor, healthy or 
 sick, happy or unhappy ? Considerations connected 
 with any of these circumstances might have mingled 
 with the aro;ument, and warmed her blushes with 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I53 
 
 more glows than one. We will not condemn her till 
 we know, even though the flap of her fan was some- 
 thing equivocal ; nor can we allow the justice of the 
 doctor's triumph, till we see what right- he had to be 
 so very argumentative and superior. It was too bad, 
 in a man so amiable and so well off, to have the best 
 of an argument, as well as a charming wife, and heaps 
 of admiring friends, fair and brown. He should not 
 have overthrown the ladies in a dispute, and set him- 
 self to making verses, while they were getting up. 
 
 The heretical doubt respecting the lady of sixty, in 
 the following letter, would have perplexed poor Miss 
 Scott. " I had on Saturday," the doctor writes to his 
 wife, " the pleasure of seeing Shakespeare's tomb and 
 epitaph, as also the monument of a celebrated person 
 who died at sixty, and a maid, if her tombstone Jibs 
 not. She came from Nonsuch (the Italics of this 
 word are the doctor's own), in Surrey, and is buried 
 at the feet of the Lady Carew, whose waiting-woman 
 she was, and who, that she (Lady C.) might continue 
 a maid no longer, is said to have jumped out of a 
 window three stories high/' In the chancel of Strat- 
 ford church the doctor meets with " a charming lady," 
 with whom he " would have been glad of further con- 
 versation," and who was " indeed a woman of sur- 
 prising sense," though not equal to Mrs. Doddridge. 
 He is always meeting with ladies so charming, and 
 welcomes so delicious, and lives in such a world of 
 love, festivity, religion, and locomotion, that he re- 
 minds us of the famous John Buncle. We should 
 have thought John's character drawn from him, if he 
 had married five wives, and been a Unitarian. 1830. 
 
154 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 CONFECTIONERY. 
 
 ONE cannot open this book * without fancying 
 that one scents all the good things that we see 
 mentioned in it, — the cakes, candies, creams, ices, 
 preserved fruit, — the raspberry tarts, and the sirups 
 of violet. Mr. Gunter, whom " the gods have made 
 poetical," and who quotes Greek, Latin, and Italian 
 for his purpose, justly claims for his art something of 
 a superior elegance to that of all others connected 
 with the table. We except the Fruiterer; but his is 
 not more of an in-door than an out-of-door art. The 
 Fruiterer belongs to all times of the day, and all 
 places except the high street ; wiiereas pastry and 
 confectionery must be eaten housed. There is a 
 sort of sophistication connected with them which 
 does not do for pure nature. The little boy is the 
 only person that can eat his bunn in the face of heaven 
 and not be ashamed. And we suspect, that with all 
 the helps of Mr. Gunter, no masticator of jelly cakes, 
 or meringues, eats his felicity with half the satis- 
 faction that he did his bunn when he was a little 
 boy. 
 
 The superiority of confectionery and pastry over 
 other cookery consists in its association with fruits 
 and grain. A cookery-book reminds one of the 
 
 * The Confectioner's Oracle, containing Receipts for Desserts, &c., with others 
 for Pastry-Cooks, and an Elucidation of the Principles of Good Cheer. Being 
 a Conipanion to Dr. Kitchener's Cook's Oracle. By VV. Gunter. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I55 
 
 shambles. The Confectioner talks to ns of sugars, and 
 oranges, and violets. He lives in quite another world. 
 He is of the garden and the dairy. Eve, who " tem- 
 pered dulcet creams," was the mother of his pretty 
 girls in the pastry shops. Cookery did not begin 
 till after the fall. We confess, if our bad habits 
 would let us, we would never eat joint more, but 
 stick to this paradisiacal eating, and have blood 
 made up of raspberries and the rose. It is not 
 moral weakness that prompts us to the wish, any 
 more than bodily weakness would follow it. To 
 get out of the necessity of beef eating, would be to 
 get out of the necessity of excitement and clouded 
 energy. The weakest stomachs are those which 
 assimilate best with flesh already made. To take 
 to a sudden course of living upon fruits and farina 
 might endanger it ; but he that had never lived on 
 anything else would probably beat us all. The late 
 General Elliott, whose picture, by Sir Joshua, may be 
 seen in Pall Mall, stout, military, with a nose as 
 energetic as his cocked hat, lived entirely on fruit 
 and vegetables. 
 
 But to our author. Mr. Gunter seems to be two, 
 if not '* three gentlemen at once," in his book. There 
 is, first, the gay, bantering, scholarly Gunter, superior 
 to his trade, and tossing his quotations about him, 
 from the Greek and Latin ; there is the professional 
 Gunter, important in his undertaking, and piquing 
 himself on the patronage of his lords and ladies ; 
 and, finally, there is the Gunter of the frontispiece, 
 sitting beside a table with a fowl on it, and looking 
 as melancholy as the first is gay. He seems to have 
 
156 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 no appetite to his dish, but rather to be deploring the 
 bad digestion of some previous one, one of his hands 
 being in his waistcoat, and his face looking incredu- 
 lous of the pleasures of this world. This Gunter 
 may be the second, but he ought not to have been so 
 candid in his lemon peel. Great men cannot always 
 afford to be seen in their simplicity. He should 
 have given us a head of himself in its smartest con- 
 dition, like Mr, Ude or Mr. Farley, and not have led 
 the reader to suppose that a Confectioner can look 
 mortal. 
 
 To the Gunter in his professional state we have 
 nothing to object. We take it for granted that his 
 cakes and jellies are made after the most exquisite 
 fashion, otherwise the f^icetlous Gunter could not 
 have introduced " Earl Fowls " making a speecli in 
 his favor. In the Advice to Confectioners, we have 
 a sketch of the history of the science, more smart 
 than satisfactory ; and in the ajDpendix we are pre- 
 sented, in a most unexpected and disinterested man- 
 ner, with remarks on digestion, and earnest advice to 
 take care of one's health, by air, temperance, and 
 exercise. Such Is the march of intellect, like those 
 of the white ants, over one's very table, and so 
 thoughtful does an eater of pastry become in spite 
 of the vivacity of his set-to. Tins reminds us that 
 Mr. Gunter may say what he pleases against cooks, 
 as distinguished from pastry-cooks, but of all the 
 substances taken Into the daring stomachs of men, 
 the physicians tell us (and we believe them) that 
 there is none so difficult to conquer, and so provoca- 
 tive of horror in the struggle, as the compound of 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 157 
 
 flour and fried butter, known to the unsuspecting 
 under the innocent name of pie-crust. The boy goes 
 on bearing it for a long time, but, as he grows older, 
 " shades of the prison house" begin to close in upon 
 him, as Mr. Wordsworth says, — that is to say, of 
 pie-crust; for it is clear, by the speculative melan- 
 choly of that poet, that he has been a large eater of 
 it in his time. -'The child," he says, "is father to 
 the man," — that is, begets all the habits of the grown 
 person ; and pie-crust, he may depend upon it, is the 
 origin of much melancholy blank verse and theologi- 
 cal dilemma.* We except this from the innocencies 
 of our pastry, unless our readers are fox-hunters, or 
 run about as they did in the days when pie was bliss. 
 In that case they may eat anything. 
 
 But we have another objection to make to the ele- 
 gant Gunter, which is, that in endeavoring to exalt 
 his art into new regions of the sweet, he becomes 
 profane, and talks of love and the ladies ! • Now, we 
 must never have two such things as love and the love 
 of eating brought together. If eating, in its most 
 innocent shape (as no doubt may be the case), is 
 found in connection with love, care must be taken to 
 distinguish one love from the other, and not confound 
 their metaphors and their sympathies. Here is Dr. 
 
 * Holmes's Autocrat, you may remember, once took more of his landlady's 
 pie than was good for him, and had an indigestion in consequence. " While I 
 was suffering from it," he says, "I wrote some sadly desponding poems and a 
 theological essay, whicli took a very melancholy view of creation. When I got 
 better, I labelled them all ' Pie-Crust, ' and laid them by as scarecrows and solemn 
 warnings. I have a number of books on my shelves that I should like to label 
 with some such title ; but as they have great names on tl^eir title-pages, — Doc- 
 tors of Divinity some of them, — it wcu dn't do." — Ed. 
 
158 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Kitchener, in the introduction, represented as talking 
 of the " epicurism of the sex," and recommending 
 Mr. Gunter to give " a sort of electrical and thrilling 
 impulsion " to all the ladies ! We hope they will be 
 on their guard the next time they see him. He is an 
 accomplished but dangerous man. In the same place 
 we are told that the eating of a delicate confection, 
 compared with that of a ragout, is like the finer feel- 
 ing of a "second love" compared with "the undis- 
 tinguishing ardor of a first attachment ;" and in 
 the appendix, an appetite, which requires exciting, is 
 likened to " the lukewarm heart of a husband" made 
 warmer by the " caresses of his wife." We beg the 
 lady patronesses of Mr. Gunter to put a stop to these 
 profane images. There is an elegance in the pleas- 
 ures of confectioner}', which does not extend to every 
 sort of eating ; but the grosser part of both sexes 
 have already a notion that eating and loving are 
 entertainments of the same family ; and if those who 
 understand the matter do not interfere, we shall have 
 horrid women — or, rather, no women — laying 
 down the laws of beef and afiection over the dinner 
 table, and making out that people have no mind to 
 anything but body. Miserable creatures ! Nobody 
 can have a mind to theirs. They never bring to- 
 gether the two ideas of love and woman. They are 
 women and lobster sauce, and fit only to be loved by 
 cannibals. They are '"'' fond''^ of fish! An ogre 
 would be "fond" of them. 
 
 Ladies and sweetmeats may undoubtedly be brought 
 together, and there are occasions when love and sweet- 
 meats may be so. There is a pretty instance of it in 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 59 
 
 a scene In La Fontaine's love-making novel, called 
 the Family of Halden. Mr. Gunter tells us, that 
 "English Meringues" are an especial favorite with 
 
 the Marchioness of C ; in whose praises, and 
 
 those of her lovely daughter, he could " almost" write 
 
 a poem out of gratitude ; that Lady De R was 
 
 the first who introduced into high life the artificial 
 jelly candy, which " melts in the mouth, leaving a 
 charming titillation on the tongue ; " and that jelly 
 
 cakes owe their celebrity to Lady Julia H d, of 
 
 whom it is said that " the change of her maiden name 
 of C. arose from the very elegant manner in which a 
 plate of them was pointed out to her by her present 
 lord, and the few words of his musical voice which 
 accompanied the foUtesse of the moment. 
 
 " What great events from, &c., &c." 
 
 and then our author signs his initials to the note that 
 conveys this Interesting Information, — " W. G." — 
 This is innocent, but we should protest against hear- 
 ing of the jelly cakes afterwards, and finding them 
 turned Into Images of bliss. 
 1 .830. 
 
l6o THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 A TREATISE ON DEVILS.* 
 
 IT is much easier to conceive a good spirit than a 
 bad one, not only because the latter is useless 
 and his sufferings absurd (nature refusing to allow of 
 suffering beyond a certain pitch, and no infliction of 
 ill warranting or making reasonable a further and 
 worse infliction, except for the good of all parties), 
 but because malignity, which is a devil's character- 
 istic, and which is understood to mean the love of 
 injuring another for the injury's sake, is found, upon 
 a due knowledge of evil and its causes, to be a thing 
 altogether fictitious and impossible. The worst of 
 men does not injure another because, abstractedly, he 
 would do him a mischief, but in order to get rid of 
 some pressure of evil upon himself. Take the envi- 
 ous man, the revengeful, the murderer for the sake of 
 gain, — or what seems worst of all, the murderer for 
 the sake of murder, — and, tracing the causes of his 
 offence with a humane and a thoughtful eye, we shall 
 find that it is out of some imaginary disadvantage, 
 some sense of infelicity or inequality, or some morbid 
 want of excitement, frightening the poor inconsider- 
 ate wretch himself even more than he frightens others, 
 
 * This treatise was published soon after the appearance of Sir Walter Scott's 
 Letters on Demonology and Witchcraft, with the following preface or introduc- 
 tion : " Humbly submitted to those who require something more on the subject 
 than is to be found in the late work upon Demonology, and particularly to such 
 of them as are zealous for the extirpation of unworthy notions of God and 
 man." — Ed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. l6l 
 
 that induces him, under the notion or the impulse of 
 procuring relief to his own desires, to thrust his evil 
 upon the head of another. And the worse and more 
 wicked we could suppose a creature to be, the more 
 (not to speak it profonely) woula be his excuse ; be- 
 cause the more dreadful would be the disadvantage 
 under which he lay, the more tormenting his infe- 
 licity, and the more grievous (if it could never be 
 made smooth for him) his wrong. Pain, like a heap 
 of brambles, shows us our departure from a right 
 path ; and melancholy it seems that pain should be 
 necessary, even supposing it to exist only in the 
 younger period or first renewals of a world, after 
 some catastrophe interrupting its bliss, and before 
 the new wilderness can be cleared ; but as all evils 
 are not so evil as we suppose them, so we know from 
 all that we can know (and nothing gives us a right 
 to pronounce further, especially in contumely of what 
 is good) that the worst evils are fugitive, and the 
 greatest crimes are mistakes. For all these reasons 
 (the world feeling them more and more as it grows 
 enlightened), there comes up by degrees a suspicion 
 that it is better to say as little as possible, in a serious 
 way, of such anomalies as devils: — in a little while 
 people are allowed to doubt them, then to laugh at 
 them, and finally, except among the grossly ignorant 
 or superstitious, devils remain fit subjects for notliing 
 but jests, and caricature, and the voluntary gravity of 
 the black-lettered. 
 
 As to those writers and others, who continue to 
 preach a doctrine which they despise, out of a notion 
 that the delusion is necessarjto mankind, — that men 
 II 
 
l62 THE WiSHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 are so wicked as to require terrors to keep them in 
 awe, — and other half reasonings of that sort, it is a 
 great presumption in them, in the first place, to as- 
 sume a privilege of exemption from those duties of 
 veracity to which they would fain tie the rest of the 
 world ; and, secondly, they harm their own natures 
 by it, and maintain themselves in an ill opinion of 
 the world in which they take themselves to be the 
 wisest persons. They rule it (as they think) by false- 
 hood, and yet are weak enough to lament that it is as 
 bad and false as it is, and a " vale of tears." Now, the 
 world is neither so bad nor so unhappy as many sup- 
 pose it, though, assuredly, there is sorrow enough in 
 it to make us anxious to wipe the tears out of its 
 eyes ; but this is not to be done by the use of the 
 very falsehood we lament, by adding to what is al- 
 ready evil in the world, — melancholy and perplex- 
 ing ideas of things beyond it, and all this at a time 
 when, the delusion being discovered, the signal is 
 given for its destruction. As men, let us think none 
 of us exempt from the virtues and sincerity of men ; 
 nor, by taking ourselves for the gods of the foolish, 
 imagine v^^e must have devils to keep the peace for 
 us. Truth will do very well without them, if we 
 suffer it to take its course. Are we to suppose our- 
 selves better and wiser than all which it may find 
 out for us? Who has given us the clew to discover 
 that? 
 
 With regard to the existence of one supreme devil, 
 or conscious and wilful Principle of Evil (which has 
 been doubted by the most orthodox, upon a due con- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 163 
 
 sideration of texts and Scripture),* it is not only con- 
 tradictory to the received opinions respecting the 
 omnipotence and beneficence of the Deity, but is a 
 superfluity in common reasoning ; for as it is a maxim 
 in logic, that when anything can be accounted for on 
 one principle, it need not have recourse to another, 
 and as it ought equally to be a maxim in common 
 sense to choose the more agreeable principle of the 
 two, it is much better to refer the origin of evil to 
 that inert and insensible part of matter of which Plato 
 speaks, and the hardness of v^hich causes a difficulty 
 in the working it, than to set up, for the amusement 
 of sluggish imaginations, the terrors of feeble ones, 
 and the poor views of the worldly, a gratuitous ma- 
 lignant spirit, equally absurd whether we consider 
 the attributes of God or the necessities of common 
 reason. And herein the celebrated living writer, who 
 is as delightful in fiction as he appears shallow in phi- 
 losophy, and who has addressed a book to a little 
 child in which he condescends to preach the horrible 
 doctrine of hell torments, ought, we think, to have a 
 
 * As in the very word devil, which is a translation of the Testament, is 
 assumed to be the meaning of the Greek word diabolos, though the letters signify 
 ^n accuser, and admirably fit the passage in that sense. For instance, — "Be 
 sober, be vigilant," says the Apostle, "for your adversary the acc^iser walks 
 about, seeking whom he may devour." What can be better than this construc- 
 tion, or more natural in addressing a letter to an infant communitj', bound to be 
 on their good behavior ? and why should the word be translated devil'? So in 
 the famous passage in Isaiah, where the King of Babylon is so nobly apostro- 
 phized under the title of Lucifer, or the light-bringer, son of the morning. Why 
 should this be tortured into a prophecy of the devil, and the morning star be 
 made synonymous with an imaginary infernal being ? It appears to us that a 
 book written expressly on the subject, with the proper requisites of learning and 
 philosophy, might now settle the pretensions of this infernal personage forever. 
 We should envy the composer of such a work, and would do our utmost to 
 second his benefaction to mankind 
 
164 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 deep sense of his shame and humihation : for it is 
 cither a great weakness in hi in or a great insincerity. 
 He says, in the preface to one of his novels, with an 
 escape of cunning, brought upon him by the morti- 
 fied vanity of a failure, that he will never go counter 
 to public opinion ; or, to use his own words, will 
 never " sail against the stream." * We need not say 
 whether it is becoming in a man of genius to talk in 
 this manner, for whatever reason ; but it is one thing 
 not to sail against the stream, and another to go 
 down with it in the company of the small craft of 
 ignorance and hypocrisy. Imagination, however, 
 carries a blessing with it in its own despite ; and the 
 magic vessel, in this instance, while the captain is 
 thinking of nothing but the flag he has hoisted in favor 
 of old prejudices, has a stock of humanities on board 
 that shall still benefit the world. 
 
 It hardly need be observed, at this time of day, that 
 Milton's devil is no real devil, any more than his 
 divinity is really divine. The divine things in Para- 
 dise Lost are the poetry and the humanity. As far 
 as his devil partakes of these, the devil himself be- 
 comes divine ; and as far as his Deity wants them, 
 we feel that nothing can be flatter or more ungodly. 
 Milton laughed at the vulgar idea of the devil, and 
 disdained to degrade his fallen Archangel into horns 
 
 * In Captain Clutterbuck's Introductory Epistle to the Rev. Dr. Dryasdust, 
 prefixed to the Fortunes of Nigel, the author of Waverley is made to say, in 
 speaking of the failure of the White Lady in The Monastery, that no one shall 
 find him " rowing against the stream." " I care not," he adds, " who knows it, — 
 I write for general amusement ; and though I never will aim at popularity by 
 what I think unworthy means, I will not, on the other hand, be pertinacious in 
 the defence of my own errors against the voice of the public." — Ed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 1 65 
 
 and a tail. Had he delayed writing his poem some 
 years longer, there is reason to believe that he would 
 have disdained to degrade his Deity into a " school 
 divine" and a sorry tyrant,* or to think that spirits 
 in a state of perfect bliss and virtue could fall.j Such 
 a god is not the natural God of a great poet ; and 
 from some remarkable evidences, not only in his later 
 works, but that transpired on proving of his will, it 
 appears certain that he retired more and more from 
 the vulgarities that had been palmed upon his infancy 
 into the sacred recesses of his own thought, and 
 found there no longer an unworthy deity. He had 
 "■ edified" a chapel to himself; I and the music of 
 his own organ now ascended into a nobler sky, giv- 
 ing to his sightless eyeballs a right to look tranquil. 
 
 No; the only genuine devil now extant is the 
 proper old woman's devil, with horns and a tail, and 
 he begins exceedingly 
 
 " To pale his ineffectual fire." 
 
 * " And God the Father turns a school-divine." — Pope. 
 
 t " What to me is more wonderful," says the author of Robinson Crusoe, 
 " and which, I think, will be very ill accounted for, is : — How came seeds of 
 crime to rise in the angelic nature, created in a state of perfect, unspotted holi- 
 ness? How was it first found in a place where no unclean thing can enter? 
 How came ambition, pride, or envy to generate there ? Could there be offence 
 where there was no crime ? Could untainted purity breed corruption ? Could 
 that nature contaminate and infect which was always drinking in principles of 
 perfection '' 
 
 "Happy it is to me that writing the histoiy, not solving the difficulties of 
 Satan's affairs, is my province m this work : that I am to relate fact, not give 
 reasons for it or assign causes : if it was otherwise, I should break off at this 
 difficulty, for I acknowledge I do not see through it : neither do I think that the 
 great Milton, after all his fine images and lofty excursions upon the subject, has 
 left it one jot clearer than he found it." — History of the Devil, p. 41. edit. 
 
 1777- 
 
 $ "A littel wyde 
 There wa<! an holy chipprl edifyd?." — Spekser. 
 
l66 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 The old women themselves desert him. He loses 
 his believers by wholesale ; is a very sorry and poor 
 devil, and people quote Burns, and wish him out of 
 his durance. Formerly he was identified with em- 
 perors and archangels ; he was called the Prince of 
 the Air; he had all the spirits of the terrestrial world 
 given him for subjects ; the whole Pagan mythology 
 was turned over to him, and when gods were forgot- 
 ten, devils were made out of the fairies. He is now 
 '' himself alone," deprived of his property, like Job, 
 and sits amidst the ashes of his ruin in shabby misery. 
 He has lost even his power to joke, which w^as one 
 of the ghastliest things about him. He no longer 
 laughs, and says, //o.^ //o! like another Henry the 
 Eighth. He has nothing to say it for. If he is still 
 black as a coal, with talons and saucer eyes, he is also 
 lean as a rake ; no longer fat, as when he used to 
 have those delicious dinners with the old wives, like 
 a favored Methodist parson. His talons are of no 
 use to him but to serve him like Job's ; and his saucer 
 eyes now, indeed, for the first time, 
 
 " Witness huge affliction and dismay," 
 
 rolling about like a starved owl's in a trap, who has 
 been caught there at noonday. 
 
 Formerly he and his ministers were everywhere 
 round about us, tempting us to ill, doing us all sorts 
 of mischief, and laughing at it, and now and then 
 raising storms of wind and rain, and thunder and 
 lightning (which, not having been to school, they did 
 not know were good things for us). . The powers 
 granted him were no less prodigious than odd. If 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCPIES. lO^J 
 
 you wished anything at the devil, he took it. He 
 disputed possession of you with your good angel ; 
 and a silly old woman, in whom indigestion con- 
 founded dreaming with waking, and who went fly- 
 ing on the wings of her head vapors, had the power 
 of making him a present of an immortal soul. 
 What is more extraordinary, and shows us the dan- 
 ger of giving an inch of ground to assumptions and 
 things unproved, is, that old women, both male 
 and female, having much to do with education, they 
 habituated some of tlie most exalted understandings 
 to believe in these rascalities of superstition, and we 
 should infallibly have all believed in them to this 
 day had not the excess of the demand upon their 
 credulity in some other matters roused men of spirit 
 and genius to vindicate the invaluable right of doubt- 
 ing and inquiring, some of them (Luther for one) 
 being all the while fastened with the grossest chains 
 of superstition by the one hand, while they wrote 
 against them triumphantly with the other. Let us 
 be modest when we think of these things, but do not 
 let us prove our modesty by adhering to errors upon 
 which we have been enlightened. Let us reflect, 
 rather, upon how many points we may still be mis- 
 taken, and resolve to carry on the good work of im- 
 provement in which those illustrious men set us so 
 noble an example. 
 
 We lay before our readers some amusing extracts 
 from an old writer, both serious and comic, which 
 will show them what was thought of devils by the 
 contemporaries of Shakespeare. Not that he believed 
 in any such nonsense, though he knew how to turn 
 
l6S THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 the poetical parts of it to account ; and in matters of 
 speculation, as well as practice, was doubtless the 
 most undogmatical of men. He and the other great 
 poets of that time were accused of being exceedingly- 
 sceptical, and there is evidence in them to show that, 
 in a proper sense of the word, the opinion was true. 
 We do not make an exception of old Heywood, who 
 was author of some beautiful simple dramas, and 
 from whom the chief number of extracts are taken : 
 for though a touching writer, he was little of a poet. 
 He had great feeling, but no imagination ; and it is 
 not paradoxical to affirm, that if he had finer eyes for 
 fiction, he would have seen farther into truth.* And 
 so it is, vice versa^ of the mechanical philosophers. 
 But to the passages in question. The first is very 
 ghastly, on account of the quiet familiarity of shape 
 in which the alleged devil makes her enU'ee. This 
 is a great secret in horrid stories. 
 
 " In the easterne part of Russia," saith Heywood, 
 " about harvest time, a spirit was seen to walk at 
 midday, like a sad, mourning widow ; and whoso- 
 ever she met, if they did not instantly fall on their 
 knees to adore her, they could not part with her 
 without a leg or an arm broken, or some other as 
 great mischiefe." — Hierai'chie of Angels, 
 
 The chief of these noon-devils, according to the 
 Rabbis, is a very singular personage. He has a head 
 like that of a calf, with a horn shooting out of his 
 
 * Thomas Heywood, who, says Charles Lamb, in his Specimens of English 
 Dramatic Poets, "is a sort of prose Shakespeare. His scenes are to the full as 
 natural and affecting. P.ut we miss the poet, that which in Shakespeare always 
 appears out and abore tiio sur.ace of the nature^ — Ed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 169 
 
 forehead ; is all over ox's hair, full of eyes, and rolls 
 along like a tub.^ We shall take this opportunity of 
 observing that, according to the Jews, all male devils 
 have plenty of hair on their heads, while, on the 
 contrar)-, female devils are bald. This is the reason, 
 they say, why Boaz laid his hand on the head of 
 Ruth. It was in order to assure himself that he had 
 not a female devil in his chamber.f With us the 
 shock w^ould be great, but we should certainly ac- 
 quit the lady of enchantment. No Christian would 
 say, "Eh, you little devil!" to a girl with a bald 
 head. ^ 
 
 A STORY OUT OF NIDERIUS. 
 
 "Niderius telleth this story: In the borders of 
 the kingdom of Bohemia lieth a valley, in wdiich 
 divers nights together was heard clattering of ar- 
 mour and clamours of men, as two armies had met 
 together in picht battel. Two knights that inhab- 
 ited near unto this prodigious place agreed to arm 
 themselves and discover the secrets of this invisible 
 army. The night was appointed, and, accommo- 
 dated at all assayes, they rode to the place, where 
 they might descry two battels ready ordered for 
 present skirmish ; they could easily distinguish the 
 colours and prevant liveries of every company ; but 
 drawing neere, the one (whose courage began to re- 
 lent) told the other that he had scene sufficient 
 for his part, and thought it good not to dally with 
 such prodigies ; wherefore, further than he was, he 
 would not go. The other called him coward, and 
 
 * Rabbinical Literature., Vol. II., p. 118. t Id., p. 104. 
 
170 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 prickt on towards the armies, from one of which a 
 horseman came forth, fought with him, and cut off 
 his head. At which sight the other fled, and told the 
 sight the next morning. 'A great confluence of people, 
 searching for the body, found it in one place, and the 
 head in another ; but neither could discern the footing 
 of horse or man, only the print of birds' feet, and 
 those in miry places." — Hierarchie of Angels. 
 
 This reminds us of the Tempter's Feast, in Mil- 
 ton, which vanishes, 
 
 •'With sound of harpies' wings and talons heard." * 
 
 Birds' and goats' feet were thought to be unalterable 
 accompaniments of devils, and rendered the boldest 
 of them coy in their extremities. 
 
 The following illustration, out of Heywood, of 
 the promptitude of devils to avail themselves of any 
 expression in their favor is one of the best stories 
 abojut them we ever read. The reason is, that it is 
 domestic, and touches upon the affections. The peril 
 of the innocent and unconscious child in the hands 
 of the swarthy visitors, furnishes a striking picture 
 of contrast. 
 
 THE BLACK DINNER. 
 
 ". In Silesia, a nobleman having invited many guests 
 to dinner, and prepared a liberal and costly feast for 
 their entertainment, when all things were in great 
 
 * Paradise Regained, Book II., v. 403. Warton observes upon this passage, 
 "that the sound of the wings and talons is much finer than if the harpies had 
 been seen, because the imagination is left at work, and the surprise is greater 
 than if they had been mentioned before." 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I7I 
 
 forwardness, instead of hi^ friends whom he expected, 
 he only received excuses from them that they could 
 not keep his appointment. Whereat the inviter, being 
 horribly vexed, broke out into these words, saying, 
 ' Since all these men have thus failed me, I wish that 
 so many devils of hell would feast with me to-day, 
 and eat up the victuals provided for them ; ' and so 
 in a great rage left the house, and went to church, 
 where was that day a sermon ; his attention to which 
 having tooke away the greatest part of his choler, 
 in the interim there arrived at his house a great 
 troupe of horsemen, very blacke, and of extraordinary 
 aspect and stature : who, alighting in the court, called 
 to a groome to take their horses, and bade another 
 servant run presently to his master and tell him his 
 guests were come. The servant, amazed, runneth to 
 church, and with that short breath and little sense 
 he had left, delivers to his master what had hap- 
 pened. The lord calls to the preacher, and desiring 
 him for that time to break off his sermon, and ad- 
 vise him by his ghostly counsel what was best to 
 doe in so strict an exigent, hee persuades him, that 
 all his servants should with what speed they can 
 depart the house. In the mean time, they, with the 
 whole congregation, come within view of the man- 
 sion : of which all his servants, as well men as maids, 
 had with great affright delivered themselves, and for 
 haste forgotten and left behind a young child, the 
 nobleman's sonne, sleeping in his cradle. By this 
 the devils were revelling in the dining-chamber, mak- 
 ing a great noise, as if they had saluted and wel- 
 comed one another : and looked throusfh the case- 
 
172 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ments, one with the head of a beare, another a 
 wolfe, a third a cat, a fourth a tygre, &c., filling 
 bowls and quaffing as if they had drunke to the 
 master of the house. By this time the nobleman, 
 seeing all his servants safe, began to remember his 
 Sonne, and asked them ' what had become of the 
 child'? These words were scarce spoke, when one 
 of the devils had him in his arms, and shewed him 
 out of the window. The good man of the house 
 at this sight being almost without life, spying an old 
 faithful servant of his, fetched a deep sighe, and 
 said, ' O me, what shall become of the infant! ' The 
 servant, seeing his master in that sad extasie, replied, 
 ' Sir, by God's help I will enter the house, and fetch 
 the childe out of the power of yon devils, or perish 
 with him.' To whom the master said, ' God prosper 
 thy attempt, and strengthen thee in thy purpose.' 
 Whereon, having taken a blessing from the priest, he 
 enters the house, and coming into the next room 
 where the devils were then rioting, he fell upon his 
 knees, and commended himself to the protection of 
 heaven. Then pressing in amongst them, he beheld 
 them in their horrible shapes, some sitting, some 
 walking, some standing. Then they all came about 
 him at once, and asked him what business he had 
 there. He, in a great sweat and agonie (yet re- 
 solved in his purpose), came to that spirit which 
 held the infant, and said, ' In the name of God, de- 
 liver this child to mee.' Who answered, ' No, but 
 let thy master come and fetch him, who hath most 
 interest in him.* The servant replied, ' I am come 
 to do that office and service which God hath called 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I73 
 
 me, by virtue of which, and by his power, loe, I 
 seize upon the innocent: and snatching him from the 
 divell, took him in his arms and carried him out of 
 the roome. At which they clamoured and called 
 after, ' Ho, thou knave, ho, thou knave, leave the 
 childe to us, or we will teare thee in pieces.' But 
 he, unterrified with their diabolical menaces, brought 
 away the infant, and delivered it safe to the father. 
 After some few daies the spirits left the house, and 
 the lord re-entered into his antient possession. In 
 this discourse is to be observed, with what familiaritie 
 these Familiar Spirits are ready to come, being in- 
 vited." — Hiei'archie of Aiigels. 
 
 Chaucer has a pleasant story to similar purpose, 
 which is too long to repeat: but we cannot resist 
 giving an abstract. A summoner (a bailiff of the 
 ecclesiastical court) riding out on his vacation, over- 
 takes a yeoman under the trees, in a green cloak, 
 also on horseback. He bids him good-morrow, and 
 the yeom.an asks him whether he means to go far 
 that day. 
 
 "This sompnour him answered, and said, ' Nay : — 
 Here, fast by, ' quoth he, ' is mine intent 
 To riden, for to raisen up a rent, 
 That longeth to my lord his duety.' 
 * Ah ! art thou then a bailiff? ' quoth he 
 (He durst not, for very fillh and shame, 
 , Say that he was a sompnour for the name), 
 
 ' De par Dieux I ' quoth this yeoman, ' leve brother, 
 Thou art a bailiff, and I'm another.' " 
 
 The two horsemen get social, and the summoner 
 asks the yeoman where he lives, in order that he 
 may know how to find him. The yeoman, " in soft 
 speech," tells him that he lives " far in the North 
 
174 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Countree " (the supposed quarter of the devils) : and 
 adds, that he hopes to see him there shortly, and 
 will give him such directions as he cannot possibly 
 miss. 
 
 After comparing notes, and agreeing that it is idle 
 to have a conscience, the sompnour, who is very 
 curious, requests to know his fellow's name. 
 
 " This yeoman gan a little for to smile ; 
 
 'Brother,' quoth he, 'wilt thou that I thee tell? 
 
 / am. a fiend ; my dwelling is in hell : 
 
 And here ride I ahout my purchasing, 
 
 To wot whether men will give vie atty thing.'' " 
 
 " Benedicite ! " cries the sompnour ; " what say 
 ye?" — The frightened church officer recovers him- 
 self, and after some conversation, they agree to stand 
 by one another in their callings. The yeoman is to 
 take whatever people give to him ; the summoner 
 what he can get; and if there is an overplus on either 
 side, they are to share it. 
 
 They come into a town, where a carman is swear- 
 ing at his horses for not getting on with a load of 
 hay : 
 
 " Heit, Scot ! heit. Brock ! what, spare ye for the stones ! 
 The fiend (quoth he) you fetch, body and bones : 
 The dev'l have all, both horse, and cart, and hay." 
 
 The summoner wonders that his friend does not 
 take the man at his word, and seize on the team ; but 
 the devil tells him that he does not mean what he 
 says, as he will see presently. 
 
 " This carter thwacketh his horse, upon the croup. 
 And they began to drawer and to stoop, 
 Heit, now ! (quoth he) there — Jesus Christ you bless, 
 And all his handy work, both more and less I 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 1 75 
 
 That was weil twitch' d, mine own Hard* boy : 
 I pray God save thy body, and Saint Eloy." 
 
 " There," said the devil, " you see ! " — The com- 
 panions quit the town, and arrive at the hut of a poor 
 widow, against whom the summoner has a warrant. 
 He agrees to compound the matter, if she will give 
 him twelve pence (a good sum in those days) : the 
 poor woman protests that she could not raise such a 
 sum in the whole world : the summoner gets enraged, 
 says he will take away her "• new pan," and calls her 
 names : upon which the woman gets angry in turn, 
 and wishes him at the devil. 
 
 "Unto the devil, rough and black of hue, 
 Give I thy body, and my pan also. 
 And when the devil heard her cursen so 
 Upon her knees, he said in this mannere : 
 ' Now, Mabily, mine own mcither dear; 
 Is this your will in earnest that ye say ? ' 
 'The devil,' quoth she, ' so fetch him ere the day, 
 And pan and all, but he will him repent.' 
 ' Nay, old stot, that is not mine intent,' 
 Quoth this sompnour, ' for to repenten me 
 For anything that I have had of thee : 
 I would I had thy smock and every cloth.* 
 ' Now, brother,' quoth the devil, 'be not wroth : 
 Thy body and this pan be mine by right. 
 Thou shalt with me to helle yet to-night, 
 Where thou shall knowen of our privity 
 More than a master of divinity. ' 
 And with that-would the foule fiend him hent : 
 Body and soul he with the devil went." 
 
 The devils formerly in request may be divided into 
 ten classes : First, the old Oracular Devil, or Devil 
 Pagan, who took upon himself to be Apollo or Jupi- 
 
 * Liard, a name for a gray horse. 
 
176 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ter, and is said to have occupied the shrines of those 
 deities; an opinion which good old Plutarch (who 
 was, in fact, the Reverend Mr. Plutarch, clergyman 
 at Delphos) would have thought a blasphemy too 
 horrible to be endured. 
 
 Second, the Devil Vagabond, just mentioned, who 
 went about seeking what he might devour, from a sum- 
 moner down to a sauce-pan. He has since turned out 
 to be a common shoplifter or thief; that is, when he 
 taken a sauce-pan ; when he takes a summoner, he is 
 an apoplexy. 
 
 Third, the Possessing Devil, or Devil of the Exorcist, 
 who was fond of inhabiting people's bodies, and made 
 himself famous among the nuns. This turned out to 
 be the chaplain. 
 
 Fourth, the Amatory Devil, or Incubus, who par- 
 took of the natin-Q of the second, and who, according 
 to Chaucer, had disappeared in his time, being dis- 
 placed by the Friar ; at which period perhaps the 
 word Incubus was first rendered Incumbent. He is 
 still clerical sometimes, but oftener a layman ; and 
 may be seen haunting milliners' apprentices down Re- 
 gent Street, in the likeness of a foolish youth ; or 
 standing at a tavern door, sly and stupid, eying the wo- 
 men's ankles as they pass. He is also the Nightmare. 
 
 Fifth, the Devil Grim, or General Devil, wdio ap- 
 peared in a proper diabolical shape, or was at least 
 black and swarthy, and often went in a company, as 
 may be seen in the story of the Black Dinner. He 
 has totally disappeared. 
 
 Sixth, the House Devil, or Devil Pranksome, with 
 .whom the Fairies were confounded. He was a minor 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 1 7/ 
 
 kind of class the second, and contented himself with 
 knocking and making a noise, displacing furniture, and 
 making the good people " knowe not what to think." 
 He has been discovered to be a maid-servant. 
 
 Seventh, the Wayside, or Out-of-Door Devil, also 
 confounded with Fairies. He was a kind of Satyr. — 
 " They sit," quoth Burton, " by the highway side, to 
 give men falls, and make their horses stumble and 
 start as they ride (if you will believe the relation of 
 that hoh' man Ketellus, in Nubrigensis, that had an 
 
 especial grace to see devils) If a man curse 
 
 or spur his horse for stumbling, they do heartily re- 
 joice at it ; with many such pretty feats." * 
 
 Eighth, the Necromancer's or Astrologer's Devil, 
 who came up when he was called by art ; explained 
 the mysteries of the universe ; was a great statesman ; 
 and promised riches and power. Some of his tribe 
 (to use the libellous language of those days) were 
 " mighty Dukes" and " Princes," having brute heads, 
 and riding on horseback. f 
 
 Ninth, the Attendant Devil, or Familiar, who was 
 of various degrees of rank, from the accomplished 
 imps that waited on Faustus and Agrippa, down to 
 the cat of the old crone. See Goethe's and Marlowe's 
 tragedies, and The Witch of Middleton. 
 
 * Anatomy of Melancholy, Part I., Section 2. 
 
 t See Reginald Scot's Discovery of Witchcraft, p. 229. 
 
 " Thair first and principal king (which is of the power of the East) is called 
 Baell ; who, when he is conjured up, appeareth with three heads ; the first like a 
 toad, the second like a man, the third like a cat ; he speaketh with a hoarse voice. 
 He maketh a man to go invisible : he haih under his obedience and rule sixty and 
 six legions of devils. 
 
 "The first duke under the power of the East is named Agares. He comeih 
 12 
 
I7S THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Tenth and last, the Devil Proper, or devil himsell', 
 the Apollyon of John Bunyan. He was " the black 
 man " of the nursery and the coal-hole ; and used to 
 be called upon to take away children or swallow them 
 up.* To his friends the witches, he used to appear 
 either as a satyr or sort of clergyman, in black clothes, 
 very reverend, dressed at it were for the evening. 
 But his proper establishment consisted of a tail with 
 a sting to it, " horns on his head, fire in his mouth, 
 eyes like a bason, fangs like a dog, claws like a bear, 
 a skin like a nigger^ and a voice roaring like a lion ; 
 whereby (quoth Reginald Scot), we start and are 
 afraid when we hear one cry Bough." f ^ face- 
 tious churchman, being asked why the devil took such 
 
 up mildly in the likeness of a fair old man " (there is something striking in this) 
 "riding upon a crocodile, and carrying a hawk on his fist. He has under him 
 thirty.-one legions. 
 
 " Valefer, alias Malephar, is a strong duke, cometh forth in the shape of a lion 
 and the head of a thief. He is very familiar with them to whom he maketh him- 
 self acquainted, till he hath brought them to the gallows ; he ruleth ten legions. 
 
 " Ftirfuris a great earl, appearing as an Hart with a fiery tail. Hehethin 
 everything. 
 
 "■ Ftircas is a knight, and cometh forth in the similitude of a cruel man, with 
 a long-beard and hoary head. He sitteth on a pale horse. 
 
 " Gamigin is a great marquess, and is seen in the form of a little horse. 
 
 "Another marquess is a liar and horse-stealer. ' Zepar, a great duke,' makes 
 women incontinent and barren. Berith is a 'great and a terrible duke,' and 
 'also a liar.' " 
 
 * According to the author of Mallezis MaJeficarwn, and " the residue of that 
 crew," says Scot, in j^peaking of the etymology of the word devil, '^ Dia is Duo 
 and Bohis is Morcellus ; whereby they gather, that the devil eateth up a man, 
 body and soul, at two morsels." — A Discourse concerning Devils and Spirits, 
 Book I., Chapter 32. 
 
 t Discovery of Witchcraft, page 85. ["From him who had not lost all his 
 original brightness, to this dirty fellow who leaves a stench, sometimes of brim- 
 stone, behind him, the descent is a long one," says Lowell, in the learned 
 paper on Witchcraft, in Among My Books. — Ed.] 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 1 79 
 
 a strange Hieing to old women, quoted a passage, 
 in which it had been said of him, that he " loved to 
 walk in dry places." * Another wag, undertaking to 
 show the people the devil himself, "" to the satisfac- 
 tion," as Swift terms it, " of the beholders," held out to 
 them an empty purse I A solider account of him has 
 never been given. An Italian poet makes mention 
 of a devil who dwelt in the smoke of roast meat, f 
 
 * "That the prince of the powers of darkness, passing by the flower and pomp of 
 the earth, should lay preposterous siege to the weak fantasy of indigent eld — has 
 neither likelihood nor unlikelihood, a priori to us, who have no measure to guess 
 at his policy, or standard to estimate what rate those anile souls may fetch in the 
 devil's market." — Charles Lai7ib. — Ed. 
 
 t Berni, Orlando Innamorato, Canto 51, st. 49. For a thorough knowledge of 
 devils and all that has been said of them, the curious reader may consult Glan- 
 ville on Witches, Wierus, De PrcBstigiis Dcetnottum, Steheiia's Rabbinical Liter- 
 ature, the Lives of the Saints, and above all, Reginald Scot's Discovery of Witch- 
 craft, the title of which ought to be given at large to do honor to the writer who 
 could produce such a work at a period so early : for it was printed in 1584. But 
 the sapient Scotch monarch had not then come to England to encourage people to 
 be as sottish and half-witted as liimself Scot's book is entitled "The Dis- 
 covery of Witchcraft, — proving that the compacts and contracts of witches with 
 devils and all infernal spirits or familiars are but erroneous novelties and imagi- 
 nary conceptions, &c. Wherein likewise the unchristian practices and inhumane 
 dealings of searchers and witch- tryers, upon aged, melancholy, and superstitious 
 people, in extorting confessions by terrors and tortures, and in devising false 
 marks and symptoms, are notably detected ; and the knavery of jugglers, con- 
 jurers, charmers, soothsayers, figure-casters, &c., fully opened and decyphered ; 
 all which are very necessary to be known for the undeceiving of judges, justices, 
 and jurors, before they pass sentence upon poor miserable and ignorant people : 
 who are frequently consigned, condemned, and executed for witches and wizards. " 
 It was avowedly to confute these " damnable opinions, " as he calls them, that 
 King James wrote his DejnoKologie. Reginald Scot was a learned and spirited 
 English gentleman, one of the most worthy of that title that ever existed, and 
 ought to be held in eternal honor by those who feel interested in the cause of 
 humanity. Think of a king putting forth the strength of his authority amidst bow- 
 ing courtiers and churchmen, in order to retain a superstition by which it has been 
 calculated that twenty thousand people were burnt in the course of one hundred 
 and fifty years ; and then figure to yourself this gallant English gentleman (whose 
 book it is said was burnt by the hangman) disdaining in secret these attempts of 
 
l8o THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Before the devil's existence was denied, people be- 
 gan to perceive that considerable doubts might be 
 entertained as to the extent of his operations, and 
 how far King James and others had a right to palm 
 upon him the offences of their ^' corrupted flesh." * 
 We speak in courts of law of criminals being " moved 
 and instigated by the devil ; " but nobody but a Meth- 
 odist doubts nowadays that the real instigators are 
 folly and bad education, or poverty, or disease. The 
 sight of injustice is also a great instigation. Whit- 
 field, in his Life, attributes his aberrations from virtue 
 to the devil ; who watched for him, he said, and "• took 
 his usual advantage : " — upon which Bishop Laving- 
 ton observes, that the man was only excusing himself 
 at the devil's expense, and that Satan had reason to 
 complain, and to look upon liimself as an ill used 
 gentleman. To be serious ; — why should we set up 
 
 the royal driveller, and looking forward to a time when his book would be quoted 
 in favor of common sense and feeling, and with the gratitude of posterity. We 
 should take care to bear the names of such men in golden preservation ; for it is 
 sometimes the lot of the most precious labors to become obsolete and unremem- 
 bered by reason of the very good they have done us. We are too apt to fancy, that 
 what is a commonplace to us, was the same to our benefactors. 
 
 * Demonologie, Book TIL, Chapter 2. The King says, that those who deny the 
 power of a devil, would likewise deny the power of God, if they could for shame ; 
 that is to say, those who deny the existence of the worst contradiction to good, 
 must deny the power of the good itself; for such is really his argument. '' Since 
 a divel, " he says, "is the very contrarie opposite to God, there can be no better 
 way to know God, than by the contrarie, as by the one's power (though a creature) 
 to admire the power of the great Creator, by the falsehood of the one to consider 
 the truth of the other ; by the injustice of one to consider the justice of the other : 
 and by the cruelty of the one, to consider the mercifulness of the other: and so 
 forth in all the rest of the essence of God, and qualities of the Divell." — Id., 
 Book II., Chapter 7. What a contempt must Scot have felt for such logic as 
 this ! There is one point founded upon it that might have been granted to the 
 king; viz., that by reading his book you may know by contraries v. hat a book 
 ought to be. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. l8l 
 
 an imaginary malignant being to warn our mistakes 
 and our anger with ; to learn how to hate and perse- 
 cute in behalf of the very doctrines that protest against 
 hatred and persecution ; and to endanger a confusion 
 in all our notions of justice, benevolence, and com- 
 mon sense? Sterne, in his Tristram Shandy, has 
 copied a form of excommunication once in use against 
 thieves and malefactors, and by which their eyes, 
 limbs, and every particle of them, body and soul, were 
 damned forever and ever in the name of all that was 
 held sacred and good.* Dr. Slop was employed to 
 read it out loud ; Uncle Toby whistled lillibullero all 
 the while in ecstasy of astonishment ; observing at one 
 
 * A translation is to be found in Scot, who proceeds to make the following re- 
 mark : "This terrible curse with Bell. Book, and Candle, added thereunto, 
 must need work wonders : howbeit, among thieves it is not much weighed, among 
 wise and true men it is not well Hked, to them that are robbed it bringeih small 
 relief: the priest's stomich miy well be eased, but the goods stolen will never 
 the sooner be restored. Hereby is bewrayed both the malice and folly of Popish 
 Doctrine, whose uncharitable impiety is so impudently published, and in such 
 order uttered, as every sentence (if opportunity served) might be proved both 
 heretical and diabolical. But I will answer this cruel answer with another cure 
 far more mild and civil, performed by as honest a man as he that made the 
 other, whereof mention was lately made. 
 
 "So it was that a certain Sir John, with some of his company, once went 
 abroad a jetting, and in a moonlight evening robbed a miller's weir, and stole all 
 his eels. The poor miller made his moan to Sir John himself, who willed him to 
 be quiet : for he would so curse the ihief and all his confederates, with Bell, Book, 
 and Candle, that they should have small joy of their fish. And therefore the 
 next Sunday Sir John got him into the pulpit, with surplice on his back and his 
 stole about his neck, and pronounced these following in the audience of the 
 people : — 
 
 " All you that stole the miller's Eelfes, 
 Laiidatc Domiman de Coeiis ; 
 And all they that consented thereto, 
 Beuedicamus Domino. 
 
 " Lo, (saith he) there is sauce for your eeles, my master." 
 
iSz THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 passage, " our armies swore terribly in Flanders, but 
 nothing to this : — for my own part I could not bear 
 to treat and curse my dogs so ! " Dr. Slop continues : 
 " May St. John the Precursor, and St. John the Bap- 
 tist, and St. Peter, and St. Paul, and St. Andrew, and 
 all other Christ's Apostles, curse him. May the holy 
 and worshipful company of martyrs and confessors, 
 who by their holy works are found pleasing to God 
 Almighty, curse him. May the holy choir of the 
 Holy Virgin damn him. May all the saints who 
 from the beginning of the world and everlasting ages 
 are found to be beloved of God, damn him. May he 
 be damned wherever he be, whether in the house or 
 stables, the garden or the field, or the highway, or 
 in the path, or in the wood, or in the water, or in the 
 church. May he be cursed in living, in dying. 
 May he be cursed in all the faculties of his body. May 
 he be cursed inwardly and outwardly. May he be 
 cursed in the hair of his head. May he be cursed in 
 his brains, and in his vertex." (That is a sad curse, 
 quoth my father.) " In his temples and in his fore- 
 head, — in his ears, in his eyebrows, in his eyes, in 
 his cheeks, in his jaw-bones, in his nostrils, in his 
 arms, in his hands, in his fingers. 
 
 '' May he be damned in his mouth, in his breast, in 
 his heart and purtenance ! down to the very stomach. 
 
 " May he be cursed in all the joints and articula- 
 tions of his members, from the top of his head to the 
 sole of his foot. May there be no soundness in him. 
 
 " May the Son of the living God, with all the glory 
 of his majesty " — (here my Uncle Toby, throwing 
 back his head, gave a monstrous long, loud whew — 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I S3 
 
 iv — w, something betwixt the inteijectional whistle 
 of hey-day ! and the word itself) — '• curse him," con- 
 tinued Dr. Slop, " and may Heaven, with all the pow- 
 ers which move therein, rise up against him, curse 
 and damn him, unless he repent, and make satisfac- 
 tion. Amen. So be it, — so be it. Amen." 
 
 " I declare," quoth my Uncle Toby, " my heart 
 would not let me curse the devil himself with so much 
 bitterness." " He is the father of curses," replied 
 Dr. Slop. " So am not I," replied my uncle. " But 
 he is cursed, and damned already, to all eternity," re- 
 plied Dr. Slop. 
 
 " I am SORRY FOR IT," quoth my Uncle Toby. 
 
 " Dr. Slop drew up his mouth, and was just begin- 
 ning to return my Uncle Toby the compliment of his 
 ivhu — w — w, or interjectional whistle, when the 
 door hastily opening in the next chapter but one — 
 put an end to the affair." — Tristram Shandy, Book 
 III., Chap. xi. 
 
 But the affair was not put an end to. It has flour- 
 ished, and brought forth good fruit. When people 
 were led to consider that Jews had organs and dimen- 
 sions like themselves, they first began not to loathe 
 them, then they pitied them, and at last they did 
 them justice. A similar process of reflection took 
 place in behalf of birds and beasts : it was discovered 
 that horses and dogs liad limbs to be hurt, as well as 
 ourselves ; and it is now doubted by some whether 
 we ought to shut in a cage a winged animal, whose 
 region is the air. (By and by we shall begin to have 
 commiseration for fish, and anglers will cease to think 
 themselves the humanest of men.) At length the 
 
THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 devil himself was done justice to ; and noble-hearted 
 Burns finally wished him out of his coal-hole. So 
 
 830. 
 
 ' Fare you well, auld Nickie-ben ! 
 O wad ye tak a thought and men' 1 
 Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 
 
 Still hae a "Stake — 
 I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 
 Even for your sake ! " 
 
 A FEW WORDS ON ANGELS. 
 
 AS we have said so much about Devils, we 
 thought we could not complete these super- 
 natural discussions better, nor leave off with a pleas- 
 anter " taste in the mouth," than by adding what we 
 know of Angels. We hope it will prove like a 
 dessert after the "' hot dishes." 
 
 Angel comes from the Greek word Aggelos (pro- 
 nounced Angelos), and signifies a messenger. Mer- 
 cury in Hesiod is called the Angel of Jupiter. Any 
 messenger, literally speaking, is an angel. A ticket- 
 porter might write on his card, '' Thomas Jones, 
 Angel." A beautiful woman, coming to us with 
 an errand of peace or jo)^, is literally, as well as 
 metaphorically, an angel. But in modern language 
 (and herein we desi-«-e to speak with a seriousness be- 
 coming the idea of " the sweet and loving angels," 
 as Luther calls them *) the word signifies one of the 
 multitudes of those winged spirits, who, according 
 to the Jews and Christians, enjoy the beatitude of the 
 
 * Table-Talk. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 1 85 
 
 divine presence, are eternally glorifying it with hymns 
 and harpings, and are occasionally despatched to us 
 on messages or with aid. Luther is of opinion, that 
 while occupied in heaven, they are, nevertheless, 
 fighting for us on earth ; " for," says he, in his home- 
 ly way, and with that vein of familiarity in his re- 
 spect, which does not diminish the real reverence of 
 enthusiasm, '^ the angels have long arms." * But it 
 has been the general opinion of the churches, that 
 every man has a guardian angel assigned him, 
 who helps him in his ways, encourages his virtues, 
 and supplies proper trouble on occasion to turn 
 him from his vice. This is the Good Demon of the 
 Platonists ; nor is it possible to make inquiry into the 
 nature of the one spirit without hearing of the other. 
 Nothing is here meant to be insinuated against the 
 existence of myriads of heavenly creatures. We have 
 
 * " And is there care in heaven ? And is there love 
 In heavenly spirits to these creatures base, 
 That may compassion of their evils move? 
 There is : — else much more wretched were the cace 
 Of men then beasts : But O ! th' exceeding grace 
 Of Highest God that loves his creatures so, 
 And all his workes with mercy doth embrace, 
 That blessed Angels he sends to and fro, 
 To serve to wicked man, to serve his wicked foe I 
 
 " How oft do they their silver bowers leave 
 
 To come to succour us that succour want ! 
 
 How oft do they with golden pineons cleave 
 
 The flitting skyes, like flying pursuivant, 
 
 Against fowle feendes to ayd us militant ! 
 
 They for us fight, they watch and devvly ward, 
 
 And their bright squadrons round about us plant : 
 
 And all for love and nothing for reward: 
 O, why should Heavenly God to men have such regard ? " 
 
 So Spenser beautifully sings in The Faerie Queene, Book II., Canto viii. — Ed. 
 
1 86 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 the same hope of their existence as we have of 
 thousands of other things, good and lovely, and the 
 same tendency to disbelieve in their useless oppo- 
 nents. But the most orthodox believers may, accord- 
 ing to the divines, be too anxious and too peremptory 
 on these points ; and therefore we shall not follow 
 them in their flights with St. Dionysius, who pretended 
 to draw up a peerage of the angelic noblesse. We 
 shall not venture to say with the great poet (who, after 
 all, made a bad business of it), — 
 
 " Into the heaven of heaven I have presumed 
 An earthly guest ; " 
 
 neither shall we discuss with the churchmen whether 
 angels have or have not bodies ; whether they are 
 always exercising their understandings ; how long it 
 would take them to come down from the eighth heav- 
 en, reckoning at the rate of a thousand miles an 
 hour ; or how many of them could dance on the point 
 of a needle without jostling. A Jesuit, of the name 
 of La Cerda, informs us that a single angel whirls the 
 heavens, and all the orbs about with it, at the rate of 
 26,000 German miles an hour.* We cannot take his 
 word for it ; and, indeed, the greater and more angel- 
 ical the hopes of mankind become, the less will they 
 take people's words for anything, a dogma by its 
 essence containing the principles of falsehood, which 
 is the reason why so many fine ones come to nothing, 
 aiid endanger the virtues they pretend to support. f 
 
 * De Excellejitia. Spirituum Ccelestmm, Cap. 2. 
 
 t The learned reader need not be informed that the word angel, like a great 
 many other words in Scripture, is capable ox having other interpretations put 
 upon ii than that of a winged messenger from above. See a work entitled the 
 Oriental Missionary. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 187 
 
 Yet, on reflection, we give a list of the alleged 
 hierarchy of angels, and of some of their names. 
 The poets, having made use of them, have rendered 
 them a warrantable part of fiction ; and there is a 
 music in the sound. Milton, in the addresses of Sa- 
 tan, does not observe the due order of the hierarchy, 
 which stands as follows : — 
 
 The Seraphim . . . who excel in love. 
 
 Cherubim knowledge. 
 
 Thrones superiority to sin, and in influence 
 
 upon those below them. 
 
 Dominations freedom of service and the regula- 
 tion of the divine glory. 
 
 Virtues execution of the divine will. 
 
 Powers subjection of evil spirits. 
 
 PRiNCiPALiTiEsarethe . . . chief governors of the divine mes- 
 sengers. 
 
 Archangels chief messengers. 
 
 Angels messengers. 
 
 These are the " trinal triplicities " of which Spenser 
 talks ; the whole hierarchy consisting of three classes, 
 and every class of three sections. Upon the subject 
 of their employment round the " throne " of the di- 
 vine being, we would rather not dwell ; our respect 
 for the mystery of the Deity being too great, and not 
 choosing to degrade it even to the heights of poet'y. 
 We may remark, however, that the placing Seraphim 
 before Cherubim, — or love before knowledge, — can 
 hardly be thought unworthy of anything divine, and 
 is a fine moral. The distinction of offices and facul- 
 ties in these lists of angels is, it must be confessed, 
 not always very distinct. It is not so in the one be- 
 
l88 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 fore us ; and they differ in various authors.* Of the 
 names of angels, the following comprise the most 
 received and the most musical. There are four cele- 
 brated archangels : — 
 
 Michael, who is said to preside over the East Wind, and the 
 Nations in that quarter. 
 
 Raphael the West. 
 
 Gabriel the North. 
 
 Uriel • the South. 
 
 Whether by accident or system, this assignment of 
 quarters is very suitable to the characters given to the 
 respective archangels, Michael being the fierce and 
 more dictatorial virtue, Raphael " the affable arch- 
 angel," and Uriel the angel of the sun. It has been 
 observed, on a similar ground, that the names of the 
 two princes of painting, Raphael and Michael An- 
 gelo (the most visible angels ever possessed by the 
 Romish Church, and very lucky ones for her) were 
 singularly expressive of their different qualities, as 
 well as of the rank they held in their paradise. Co- 
 relli's name of Arcangelo was a like felicity ; no 
 
 * See Heywood's Hierarchic of Angels ; a Treatise of Angels, by John 
 Salkeld, London, 1613 ; a Theological Discourse of Angels and their Ministries, 
 by Benjamin Camfield, &c. ; and for matters relative to angels in general, consult 
 also La Cerda, before mentioned, and a work entitled Rabbinical Literature, by 
 the Rev. J. P. Stehelin, in two vols., 8vo., 1748. La Cerda contains a number 
 of celestial anecdotes ; and Mr. Stehelin's work is a curious compilation of 
 things fantastic, but, upon the whole, showing a kindliness of imagination which 
 Christians would hardly expect from Jews, and which they would be more Chris- 
 tian in some points if they would imitate. The Jews, for instance, like our sect 
 of Universalists, believe that the devils themselves may be saved. There is 
 one very grand notion in this book. The Jews believe that there are three voices 
 constantly going through the world, unheard of inortal ears : the Voice of the 
 globe of the stm, the Voice of the sotd departing from the body, and the Voice 
 0/ the imirvniriiig of Rome. This is the most magnificent idea of the Roman 
 capital ever conceived. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 189 
 
 musician, except Handel, touching forth a more an- 
 geHcal note than he did, with his air-drawn bow. 
 Handel, in addition to this, fairly sets the angels float- 
 ing, with his wafting symphonies ; and, when he con- 
 cludes, you lose their feet in heaven. Let the reader 
 allow me to mention in this place, as no unsuitable 
 one, the divine air of " Waft her, angels," and the 
 still diviner one, " There were shepherds abiding 
 in the fields," with its Raphaelesque recitative. 
 Nothing can be simpler, more touching, more sin- 
 cere. You are conscious of the innocent shepherds 
 keeping their flocks in the cool night. Their very 
 looks are painted in the artless notes, and the angels 
 speak to them in a few others, equally simple and 
 beautiful. 
 
 Other names of angels : — 
 
 Hamabiel. 
 
 Maion. 
 
 Ophaniel. 
 
 Ambriel. 
 
 Malthidiel. 
 
 Arcan. 
 
 Zamiel. 
 
 Jeremlel. 
 
 Zuriel, and 
 
 Varchiel. 
 Jurabatres. 
 
 Ariel. 
 
 Muriel. 
 
 *' El " is a termination, denoting God. Thus, Uriel 
 signifies the Light of God ; Raphael, the Medicine of 
 God, — the Celestial Healer. These and other angels 
 were supposed to preside over the zodiac, the planets, 
 the elements, &c., and indeed over everything that 
 could be presided over, down to a weed in the grass. 
 The Rabbis were of opinion that they made them- 
 selves bodies to appear in, out of the snow under the 
 Throne of Glory ; and that if they were absent from 
 heaven seven days in succession they were unable to 
 return. 
 
190 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 It is not our intention to speak of the Fallen Angels 
 or of their '^ Loves." It is much easier to conceive a 
 loving than a fallen angel ; but our present object is 
 to describe the happy winged spirit, as he appears to 
 the eye of innocence and imagination. Infants, when 
 they smile without an apparent cause, are supposed 
 to see angels.* It is these whose faces we would 
 behold. 
 
 Our guesses as to the nature of any being may be 
 unlimited ; but we can paint images of him only from 
 what we know, and hence we draw happy spirits in 
 the happiest human shape. 
 
 •'To whom the angel with a smile that glowed 
 • Celestial rosy red, love's proper hue." — Milton. 
 
 "Her angel face 
 As the great eye of heaven shined bright, 
 And made a sunshine in the shady place." — Spenser. 
 
 "Ocelli aveaneri, e chioma crespa d'oro, 
 Angel parea di quel del sommo coro." — Ariosto. 
 
 " Black eyes he had, and sunny curls of hair ; 
 He seem'd an angel, newly from the air." 
 
 Ariosto's heroine, who is a personification of Beau- 
 ty, is named Angelica. So we call a beautiful boy a 
 cherub ; and though sophisticate ladies may find 
 fault with being called angels, and not think it very 
 sincere, it is still one of the best and most natural 
 appellations which the rapture of love can bestow 
 on beauty and goodness. 
 
 * "Some," says delightful old Thomas Fuller, "admiring what motives to 
 mirth infants meet with in their silent and solitary smiles, have resolved (how 
 truly I know not) that then they converse with angels, as indeed such cannot 
 amongst mortals find any fitter companions. " — Epistle Dedicatory to A Pisgah- 
 Sight of Palestine. — En. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I9I 
 
 Our friend the Jesuit, above quoted, makes mention 
 indeed of old angels. He describes one, who ap- 
 peared to the mother of St. Eucherius, and who 
 told her that she was about to be brought to bed of 
 an archbishop.* This venerable anticipation looks 
 as much like an old angel as anything well can ; but 
 still we cannot fancy an elderly seraph, or a cherub 
 of two-and-sixty. Jesuits are famous for having odd 
 notions of things divine. They are celebrated in par- 
 ticular for not understanding the exact limits of what 
 may be feigned and what not: and accordingly, in 
 our friend's book w^e have a story of an angel, who 
 imposed himself upon a farmer for one of his plough- 
 men, in order that the latter might cultivate his love 
 of the truth at chapel.f Yet in the same book we 
 have an account of another pious person, who, being 
 extremely addicted to angels (" addictissimus an- 
 gells"')^ would never tell a lie, not even to save his 
 life ; that is to say, would not do what the angels 
 w^ould. The bestx^story in La Cerda is one which 
 Massinger made the ground of his Virgin Martyr. 
 An extract or two from the tragedy we keep for the 
 conclusion of this article, as the best part of it, and 
 as boys keep the sunny side of their apple for the last 
 relish. The angel proper, as the heralds would call 
 him, is neither old nor false, but young, beautiful, 
 ingenuous, rosy bright, with wings, and a white vest. 
 La Cerda gives us to understand (and here he is inno- 
 cent enough) that he is " sometimes clothed in blue, 
 rarely in purple." Some of the poets have made 
 
 * Ln Cerda, Cap. 43. + La Cerda, Cap. 2. 
 
192 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 his wings to be put on and off at pleasure, and many 
 have painted them as of gorgeous color. 
 
 " Of silver wings he took a shining pair, 
 Fringed with gold, unwearied, nimble, swift." — Fairfax's Tasso. 
 
 Cowley, in the Davideis, is still more particular to 
 this point, but the passage is in his worst style, and 
 therefore must not be quoted. It is doubtful whether 
 the word wore in the following passage of Milton 
 does not imply the same thing. Speaking of Ra- 
 phael, when he came down on his message to Adam, 
 he says, — 
 
 " Six wings he •wore, to shade 
 His lineaments divine : the pair that clad 
 Each shoulder broad, came mantling o'er his breast 
 With regal ornament ; the middle pair 
 Girt, like a starry zone, his waist ; and round. 
 Skirted his loins and thighs with downy gold. 
 And colours dipt in heaven : the third his feet 
 Shadowed from either heel with feather'd mail, 
 Sky-tinctur'd grain. Like Maia's son he stood. 
 And shook his plumes, that heavenly fragrance filled 
 The circuit wide." —Par. Lost, Book V. 
 
 Which last image is taken from a beautiful couplet of 
 Fairfax, never to be too often repeated : — 
 
 " On Lebanon at first his foot he set, 
 And shook his wings with rosy may-dews wet." 
 
 Again, in the passage where Milton describes Satan 
 in the likeness of a cherub : — 
 
 " And now a stripling cherub he appears 
 Not of the prime, yet such as in his face 
 Youth smiled celestial, and to every limb 
 Suitable grace diffused, so well he feigned. 
 Under a coronet, his flowing hair 
 In curls on either cheek play'd ; wings he wore 
 Of many a coloured plume, sprinkled with gold ; 
 His habit fit for speed succinct, and held 
 Before his decent steps a silver wand." 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I93 
 
 This description has been much admired ; and indeed 
 Milton cannot dilate into any description in which 
 something admirable is not to be found. In gor- 
 geousness of color his angels are not to be surpassed ; 
 yet we cannot help thinking that there is something 
 too princely, and conscious, and full-dressed : not 
 native enough to the sweetness and simplicity of 
 heaven. They do not announce themselves so much 
 by the delightfulness of their presence as the dazzling 
 of it, which is surely the inferior thing. It is doubt- 
 ful whether Raphael has not too much bird-coating; 
 and there is something in the " silver wand " which 
 the youthful Cherub bears before him, which, to our 
 minds, is positively poor and in the way. Milton 
 seems to have had a regard for a stick. He has given 
 one to Satan to support his uneasy steps over the 
 burning soil of Hell ; and here he gives him another 
 in heaven to look becoming with. Princes in those 
 times walked with a stick, — perhaps the poet him- 
 self did ; and he has, unquestionably shown more 
 regard for the kingly character in heaven than he did 
 on earth. His angelic notions are full of " regal 
 ornament," of " coronets," and kingly state. 
 
 " He, kingly, from his state 
 Inclined not" 
 
 says he, speaking of Michael. But they have worse 
 moral failures than these. To say nothing of the 
 contradictions into which his story compelled him ; 
 and to sum up in one specimen all the faults to which 
 polemics had rendered his divinity liable, what are 
 we to think of his making his angels guilty of posi- 
 tive," gratuitous malignity.^ Satan, travelling towards 
 
194 ^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 earth, comes to a sea of jasper, on which is a stair- 
 case wliich descended from heaven. 
 
 " The stairs were then let down, whether to dare 
 The fiend by easy ascent, or aggravate 
 His sad exclusiottfrojn the doors of bliss." 
 
 Book III., V. 553- 
 
 This is a piece of malignity more worthy of hell than 
 heaven; if, indeed, hell could be imagined capable 
 of at once being in a state of bliss and desirous of 
 giving sorrow. In fact, this is the most infernal pas- 
 sage in Paradise Lost. Luckily, it is mere talking: 
 no being could be guilty of a mockery so inhuman ; for 
 there is, in reality, no such thing as malignity for its 
 own sake. The most wilful inflictors of suffering are 
 themselves in a state of suffering, which they think to 
 alleviate by thrusting a part of it on others ; and an- 
 gels, having no suffering at all, would be the only 
 true devils, if they would act as the poet's slip of the 
 pen has here made them. 
 
 There is a pretty passage of an angel in Spenser ; 
 and there the heavenly creature is at his proper work : 
 he is doing good. The poet has given him pied 
 wings like a jay, which is perhaps not so well. They 
 would better have suited a Cupid. But the picture 
 is in his happiest manner. It is attended with those 
 circumstances of verisimilitude which make the most 
 supernatural things appear natural. On turning to 
 the passage, I find that Spenser has compared his 
 angel to Cupid, and this too in a stanza which is the 
 more displaced by reason of the very perfection of its 
 paganism. It is as if Poussin had lumped together 
 a Scripture piece and a Bacchanal. A pilgrim finds 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 195 
 
 Guyon sleeping in " a shady delve," and somebody 
 sitting by him. 
 
 ' ' Beside his head there satt a faire young man, 
 Of wondrous beauty and of freshest yeares, 
 Whose tender bud to blossome new began, 
 And flourish faire, above his equall peares ; 
 His snowy front, curled with golden heares, , 
 
 Like Phoebus' face adorned with sunny rayes, 
 Divinely shone ; and two sharpe winged sheares, 
 Decked with divers plumes like painted jayes, 
 
 Were fixed at his back, to cut his ayery wayes." 
 
 Faerie Queen, Book II., Canto 8. 
 
 There are the wings of Titian's Cupid, in the picture 
 where his mother is blinding him. Perhaps it was a 
 consciousness to that effect which led the poet into 
 his comparison. We omit the latter as unsuitable ; 
 but we must not omit what follows. The sti^anger 
 delivers up his charge to the pilgrim ; and then,- says 
 the poet, — 
 
 " Eftsoones he gan display 
 His painted nimble wings, and vanisht quite away. 
 The palmer seeing his left empty place, 
 And his slow eies beguiled of their sight, 
 Waxe sore affraid, and standing still a space 
 Gaz'd after him, as fowle escapt by flight." 
 
 Where the "blessed bird" goes to (as Dante calls 
 him), we do not presume to say; nor what he does 
 when he has ended his journey. 
 
 " What know we of the blest above 
 But that they sing, and that they love ?" 
 
 says Waller. To say we know it, is to say a little 
 too much ; but to imagine it is reasonable enough, 
 considering that singing and loving (provided they 
 be genuine of their sort) are two of the highest pleas- 
 ures on earth, and may be fancied to touch upon 
 
196 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 heaven. Milton has said some fine things about the 
 loves of angels, to which we content ourselves with 
 referring: the reader. Taken out of their context, and 
 of that " celestial colloquy sublime," we might do 
 them an injustice- The angel, in this article of ours, 
 may be said to become our property, as soon as we 
 can descry him with earthly eyes, and no sooner ; or 
 we may fancy we hear before we see him. 
 
 " And now 'tis like all instruments, 
 Now like a lonely flute ; 
 And now it is angel's song, 
 
 That bids the heavens be mute." 
 
 Coleridge's A ncieni Mariner. 
 
 We must humanize everything before we can love it. 
 To fancy an angel rising in the east like a star, is 
 making him too potent and gigantic. He must come 
 near to us, and in our own shape ; must be guarding 
 innocence or consoling adversity, or suggesting wis- 
 dom and sweeter thoughts to those w4io fancy them- 
 selves wicked, or conversing with the glad eyes and 
 inarticulate raptures of infancy ; for infants, when 
 smiling and babbling to themselves, are supposed to 
 be talking with angels. Even those beautiful gorgeous 
 wings, in which he is invested by the poets, hardly 
 seem to be an apparel in which he is to stay with us. 
 They are for a sudden vision, a stoop out of the lus- 
 tre of heaven. It is remarkable that the painters 
 have never given colored wings to their angels. The 
 temptation would seem to be great, — the palette looks 
 like a wing ready made, — and yet they have not 
 given way to it. No : t/ie angel is the angel of one's 
 infancy, the blooming white-vested boy with the spot- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. I97 
 
 less wings ; and thus is he painted by the Guides and 
 Correggios. 
 
 We think we see him now, looking out of one of 
 their divine pictures, young, blooming, innocent, nat- 
 ural as unconscious perfection, beautiful as truth. He 
 is a boy on a noble scale, but still human ; and his 
 large curls are tawny with the noons of Paradise. 
 
 An angel is the chorister of heaven, the page of 
 martyrdom, the messenger from the home of moth- 
 ers. He comes to the tears of the patient, and is in 
 the blush of a noble anger. He kisses the hand that 
 gives an alms. He talks to parents of their departed 
 children, and smooths the pillow of sickness, and 
 supports the cheek of the prisoner against the wall, 
 and is the knowledge and comfort which a heart has 
 of itself when nobody else knows it, and is the play- 
 fellow of hope, and the lark of aspiration, and the 
 lily in the dusk of adversity. All this we believe 
 him, even should we hold his appearance to be a 
 fable, and though we deny the letter of a thousand 
 things out of which we would extricate the spirit ; 
 for wherever there is goodness and imagination, there 
 of necessity are thoughts angelical, winged indestruc- 
 tible hopes. The dryest line of the geometer, if he 
 knew all, were a wand of as much wonder as Pros- 
 pero's ; or if it were not so, Prospero's itself were 
 none, and our most exalted aspirations would still be 
 as warrantable as the earth we touch. If anything 
 unwise could be unpardonable, the only fault not to 
 be forgiven were dogmatism ; and yet where could 
 an angelical thought exist, and forgiveness not be 
 discovered? 
 
198 
 
 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 We conclude with the lovely scene out of Massui- 
 ger. Drayton gives us to understand that angels 
 converse in poetry. We know not how that may be ; 
 but if ever a blooming, angelical boy was visible in a 
 book, and talked on paper, it is here. 
 
 JVngelo, an Angel, attends Dorothea as a Page. Angelo, Dorothea. 
 The time midnight. 
 
 Dor. My book and taper. 
 
 Ang. Here, most holy mistress. 
 
 Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never 
 
 Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound. 
 
 Were every servant in the world like thee, 
 
 So full of goodness, angels would come down 
 
 To dwell with us : thy name is Angelo, 
 
 And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest : 
 
 Thy youth with too much watching is opprest. 
 A ng. No, my dear lady. I could weary stars. 
 
 And force the wakeful moon to loose her eyes, 
 
 By my late watching but to wait on you. 
 
 When at your pray'rs you kneel before the altar, 
 
 Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven, 
 
 So blest I hold me in your company. 
 
 Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid 
 
 Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence ; 
 
 For then you break his heart. 
 Dor. Be nigh me still, then. 
 
 In golden letters down I'll set that day. 
 
 Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope 
 
 To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, 
 
 This little, pretty body, when I, coming ^ 
 
 Forth of the Temple, heard my beggar-boy, 
 
 My sweet-fac'd godly beggar-boy, crave an alms, 
 
 Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand ; 
 
 And when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom 
 
 Methought was filled with no hot wanton fire, 
 
 But with a holy flame, mounting since higher. 
 
 On wings of cherubims, than it did before. 
 A ng. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye 
 
 So likes so poor a servant. 
 Dor. I have offer' d 
 
 Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. 
 
 I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some, 
 
 To dwell with thy good father ; for the son 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 1 99 
 
 Bewitching; me so deeply with his presence, 
 He that begot him must do't ten times more. 
 I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents ; 
 Be not ashamed. 
 
 Ani;: I am not : I did never 
 
 Know who my mother was ; but by yon palace, 
 
 Filled with bright heav'nly courtiers, I dare assure you. 
 
 And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand. 
 
 My father is in heav'n ; and, pretty mistress, 
 
 If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand 
 
 No worse than yet it doth, upon my life, 
 
 You and I both shall meet my father there, 
 
 And he shall bid you welcome. 
 
 Dor. A bless' d day ! * 
 
 We had a great mind to conclude v^ith this scene, 
 but there is another in the same ph^y which presents 
 us with so beautiful a picture of the angel, — some- 
 what between the gorgeousness of the poets in gen- 
 eral and the simplicity of the painters, — that we 
 cannot resist copying it. Theophilus, the persecutor, 
 who has been the cause of the martyrdom of Doro- 
 thea, and who is converted and becomes a martyr 
 himself, is soliloquizing upon the torture he will wreak 
 upon those who differ with him, when Angelo comes 
 in with a basket of fruit and flowers. The Roman 
 does not see him at first, and so continues talking. 
 
 * "This scene," says an excellent critic, "has beauties of so high an order, 
 that with all my respect for Massinger, I did not think he had poetical enthusiasm 
 capable of furnishing them. His associate. Decker, who wrote Old Fortunatus, 
 had poetry enough for anything. The very impurities which obtrude themselves 
 among the sweet pieties of this play (like Satan among the sons of heaven), and 
 which the brief scope of my plan fortunately enables me to leave out, have a 
 strength of contrast, a raciness and a glow in them, which are above Massinger. 
 They set off the religion of the rest, somehow, as Caliban serves to show Mi- 
 randa." — Specitnetis of English Dramatic Poets, by Charles Lamb. 
 
 Thus it is that fine natures know how to turn fugitive or imaginary evil to 
 account, instead of thinking themselves called upon to show that they cannot 
 think too much evil about it ; as some critics have done, whom It were a poiW 
 thing to name in so sweet a place. 
 
200 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Theoph. This Christian slut was well, 
 
 A pretty one : but let such horror follow 
 The next I feed with torments, that when Rome 
 Shall hear it, her foundation at the cound 
 May feel an earthquake. How now I [Music. 
 
 Afio^. Are you amazed, sir ? 
 
 So great a Roman spirit, and doth it tremble ? 
 
 Theoph. How cam'st thou in ? To whom 
 Thy business ? 
 A ng: To you : 
 
 I had a^jnistress, late sent hence by you 
 
 Upon a bloody errand ; you entreated, 
 
 That when she came in to that blessed garden 
 
 Whither she knew she went, and where now happy, 
 
 She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you 
 
 Some of that garden fruit, and flowers ; which here, 
 
 To have her promise saved, are brought by me. 
 
 Theoph. Cannot I see this garden ? 
 A ng. Yes, if the master 
 
 Will give you entrance. \He va-rtisheth. 
 
 Theoph. 'Tis a tempting fruit — 
 
 And the most bright-cheeked child I ever viewed, — 
 Sweet smelling, goodly fruit. What flowers are these ? 
 In Dioclesian's gardens the most beauteous, 
 Compared with ihese, are weeds : is it not February, 
 The second day she died? frost, ice, and snow, 
 Hang on the beard of winter : where's the sun 
 That gilds the summer? Pretty, sweet boy, say, 
 In what country shall a man find this garden ? 
 My delicate boy, — gone! vanished! Within there, 
 Julianus ! Geta ! 
 
 Enter Julianus and Geta. 
 
 Both. My lord. 
 Theoph. Are my gates shut ? 
 
 Geta. And guarded. 
 Theoph. Saw you not a boy ? 
 
 Jul. Where? 
 Theoph. Here he entered; a young lad ; 
 
 A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes, 
 A smooth-faced, glorious thing, that brought this basket. 
 Geta. No, sir ? 
 Theoph. Away — but be in reach, if my voice calls you. 
 
 {Exeunt. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 20I 
 
 We need not point out to our readers the " bright- 
 cheeked child," the " smooth-faced glorious thing," 
 that brings a basket, — a thousand blessings dancing 
 upon his eyes; — but we notice the words that we 
 may enjoy them in their company. — And so with this 
 perfect taste of the angel and his Eden fruit, we con- 
 clude. 1830. 
 
 CHILD-BED. 
 
 A PROSE POEM. 
 
 AND is child-bed among the graces, with its 
 close room, and its unwilling or idle visitors, 
 and its jesting nurse (the old and indecent stranger), 
 and its unmotherly, and unwifely, and unlovely lam- 
 entations? Is pain so unpleasant that love cannot 
 reconcile it; andean pleasures be repeated without 
 shame, which are regretted with hostile cries and re- 
 sentment ! 
 
 No. But child-bed is among the graces, with tlic 
 handsome quiet of its preparation, and the smooth 
 pillow sustaining emotion, and the soft steps of love 
 and respect, and the room in which the breath of the 
 universe is gratefully permitted to enter, and mild 
 and venerable aid, and the physician (the urbane se- 
 curity), and the living treasure containing treasure 
 about to live, who looks in the eyes of hiin that caused 
 it and seeks energy in the grappling of his hand, and 
 hides her face in the pillow that she may save him a 
 
202 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 pain by stifling a greater. There is a tear for what 
 may have been done wrong, ever ; and for what may 
 never be to be mutually pardoned again ; but it is 
 gone, for what needs it? Angelical are their whis- 
 pers apart ; and Pleasure meets Pain the seraph, and 
 knows itself to be noble in the smiling testimony of 
 his severity. 
 
 It was on a May evening, in a cottage flowering 
 with the green-gage, in the time of hyacinths and 
 new hopes, when the hand that wrote this, took the 
 hand that had nine times lain thin and delicate on 
 the bed of a mother's endurance ; and he kissed it, 
 like a bride's. 1827-1837. 
 
 ROUSSEAU'S PYGMALION. 
 
 WE are not aware that this piece of Rousseau's 
 has hitherto appeared in English. It is a 
 favorite in France, and very naturally so, on all ac- 
 counts. To our countrymen there will perhaps ap- 
 pear to be something, in parts of it, too declamatory 
 and full of ejaculation ; and it must be confessed, 
 that if the story alone is to be considered, the illus- 
 trious author has committed one great fault, which 
 was hardly to be expected of him ; and that is, that 
 he has not made the sentiment sufficiently promi- 
 nent. The original story, though spoiled by the rake 
 Ovid, informs us, that Pygmalion, with all his warmth 
 towards the sex, was so disgusted at the manners of 
 his countrywomen, that instead of going any longer 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 303 
 
 into their society, he preferred making images, in 
 his own mind, and with his chisel, of what a wo- 
 man ought to be; informing her looks, of course, 
 with sentiment and kindness, as well as with the 
 more ordinary attractions. It appears to us, there- 
 fore, that instead of making him fall in love, almost 
 out of vanity, as Rousseau has done, it might have 
 been better, in the abstract point of view above men- 
 tioned, to represent him fashioning the likeness of 
 a creature after his own heart, lying and looking at 
 it with a yearning wish that he could have met with 
 such a living being, and at last, while indulging his 
 imagination with talking to her, making him lay his 
 hand upon hers, and finding it warm. The rest is, 
 in every respect, exquisitely managed by Rousseau. 
 But now we must observe, that while the charge of 
 
 o 
 
 a certain prevailing air of insincerity over the French 
 style in these matters appears just in most instances, 
 a greater confidence is to be put in the enthusiasm 
 of the Genevese ; for he was a kind of Pygmalion 
 himself, disgusted with the world, and perpetually, 
 yet hopelessly, endeavoring to realize the dreams of 
 his imagination. This, after all, is perhaps the most 
 touching thing in his performance. Pygmalion's self 
 predominates over the idea of his mistress, because 
 the author's self pressed upon him while he wrote. 
 The only actual difference between the fabulous soli- 
 tary and the real one was, unfortunately, that Pyg- 
 malion seems to have been willing enough to be 
 contented, had he found a mistress that deserved 
 him ; whereas Rousseau, when he was really beloved, 
 and even thought himself so, was sure to be made 
 
204 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 the ruin of his own comfort ; partly by a distrustful 
 morbidity of temperament, and partly, perhaps, by a 
 fastidious metaphysical subtilty, which turned his eye 
 with a painful sharpness upon the defects instead of 
 humanities of his fellow-creatures, and made the in- 
 dividual answer for the whole mass. 
 
 The scene represents a sculptor's work-shop, in 
 which are several blocks of marble, sculptured groups, 
 and sketches of statues. In the midst of these is an- 
 other statue, concealed under a drapery of a light and 
 shining stuff, ornamented with fringes and garlands. 
 
 Pygmalion is sitting, supporting his head with his 
 hand, in the attitude of a man who is uneasy and 
 melancholy. On a sudden he rises ; and taking one 
 of his tools from a table, gives some strokes of the 
 chisel to several of the sketches ; then turns from them, 
 and looks about him with an air of discontent. 
 
 Pygmalion. There is neither life nor soul in it ; it 
 is but a mere stone. I shall never do anything with 
 all this. 
 
 O, my genius, where art thou.? What has become 
 of thee? All my fire is extinguished, my imagina- 
 tion is frozen ; the marble comes cold from my hands. 
 
 Make no more gods, Pygmalion ; you are but a 
 common artist — ye vile instruments, no longer in- 
 struments of my glory, ye shall dishonor my hands no 
 more. 
 
 (He throws away his tools with disdain, and walks 
 about with his arms crossed, as in meditation.) 
 
 What am I become } What strange revolution has 
 taken place in me.'^ — Tyre, proud and opulent city, 
 your illustrious monuments of art no longer attract me. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 205 
 
 I have lost my taste for them. All intercourse with 
 artists and philosophers has become insipid to me : 
 the society of painters and poets has no attraction for 
 me ; praise and renown have ceased to elevate me ; 
 the approbation of posterity has no interest for me ; 
 even friendship has to me lost all her charms. 
 
 And you, yoiuig masterpieces of nature, whom my 
 art has presumed to imitate, you, in whose train the 
 pleasures ever led me, you, my charming models, 
 who consumed me at once with the flame of love and 
 genius, — since I have surpassed you, you are all be- 
 come indifferent to me. 
 
 (He seats himself, and contemplates the figures 
 around him.) 
 
 Detained in this room by an inconceivable charm, I 
 know not what to do here, and yet I cannot leave it. 
 I wander from group to group, from figure to figure, 
 my weak and uncertain chisel no longer acknowledg- 
 ing its master. These rude sketches are left un- 
 touched by the hand which should have given them 
 life and beauty — 
 
 (He rises impetuously.) 
 
 It is over, it is over: I have lost my genius! So 
 young — and yet I have survived it ! 
 
 And what, then, is this internal ardor which con- 
 sumes me? What is this fire which devours me? 
 Why, in the languor of extinguished genius, should I 
 feel these emotions, these bursts of impetuous passion, 
 this insurmountable restlessness, this secret agitation 
 which torments me? I know not ; I fear the admi- 
 ration of my own work has been the cause of this 
 distraction.* I have concealed it under this veil — 
 
2o6 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 my profane hands have ventured to cover this mon- 
 ument of their glory. Since I have ceased to behold 
 it, I have become more raelanchoh^ and absent. How 
 dear, how precious, this immortal work will be to 
 me ! If my exhausted mind shall never more pro- 
 duce anything grand, beautiful, worthy of me, I will 
 point to my Galatea, and say, " There is my work." 
 O my Galatea ! when I shall have lost all else, do 
 thou alone remain to me, and I shall be consoled. 
 
 (He approaches the veiled statue ; draws back ; 
 goes, comes ; stops sometimes to look at it, and 
 sighs.) 
 
 But why conceal it? What do I gain by that? 
 Reduced to idleness, why refuse myself the pleasure 
 of contemplating the finest of my works? Perhaps 
 there may yet be some defect which I have not per- 
 ceived ; perhaps I might yet add some ornament to 
 the drapery : no imaginable grace should be want- 
 ing to so charming an object. Perhaps the contem- 
 plation of this figure may re-animate my languish- 
 ing imagination. I must see her again ; I must ex- 
 amine my work. What do I say? Yes; I have 
 never yet examined it ; hitherto I have only admired 
 her. 
 
 (He goes to raise the veil, and lets it fall, as if 
 alarmed.) 
 
 I know not what emotion seizes me when I touch 
 this veil. 
 
 I feel a tremor, as though I were touching the 
 sanctuary of some divinity. — Pygmalion, it is but a 
 stone; it is thine own work — what can it mean? 
 In our temples, they serve gods made of the same 
 material, and formed by the same hand as this. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 20*J 
 
 (He raises the veil trembling, and prostrates him- 
 self before the statue of Galatea, which is seen placed 
 on a pedestal, raised by semicircular steps of marble.) 
 
 O Galatea ! receive my homage. I have deceived 
 myself. I thought to make you a nymph, and I 
 have made you a goddess. Even Venus herself is 
 less beautiful. 
 
 O vanity, human weakness ! I am never weary 
 of admiring my own work ; I am intoxicated with 
 self-love ; I adore myself in that which I have made. 
 
 — No, never was there anything in nature so beau- 
 tiful ; I have surpassed the work of the Gods. — 
 What ! so many beauties formed by my hands ; my 
 hands then have touched them ; my mouth has — I 
 see a defect. This drapery too much conceals it. 
 I must slope it away more ; the charms which it 
 shades should be more displayed. 
 
 (He takes his mallet and chisel, and advancing 
 slowly, begins with much hesitation to ascend the 
 steps towards tlie statue, which, it seems, he dares 
 not touch. He raises the chisel, — he stops.) 
 
 What is this trouble — this trembling? I hold 
 the chisel with a feeble hand — I cannot — I dare not 
 
 — I shall spoil everything. 
 
 (He endeavors to conquer his trouble, and at last, 
 raising the chisel again, makes one stroke, and lets 
 it fall, with a loud cry.) 
 
 Gods ! I feel the quivering flesh repel the chisel ! 
 
 (He descends, trembhng and confused.) 
 
 — Vain terror, blind folly ! — No — I will not touch 
 her — the Gods aftright me. Doubtless she is al- 
 ready deified. 
 
2o8 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 (He contemplates her again.) 
 
 What would you change, Pygmalion ? Look ! what 
 new charms can you give her ? Alas ! her only fault 
 is her perfection. — Divine Galatea ! less perfect, noth- 
 ing would be wanting to thee. 
 
 (Tenderly.) 
 
 Yet a soul is wanting. That figure should not be 
 without a soul. 
 
 (With still increasing tenderness.) 
 
 How fine should be the soul to animate that body ! 
 
 (He stops a long time; then returns to his seat, 
 and speaks with a slow and changed voice.) 
 
 What desires have I dared to form ! What sense- 
 less wishes ! 
 
 What is this I feel.? — O Heaven ! the illusion van- 
 ishes, and I dare not look into my heart. I should 
 have too much to reproach myself with. 
 
 (He pauses a long time, in profound melancholy.) 
 
 This, then, is the noble passion which distracts me ! 
 It is on account of this inanimate figure that I dare 
 not go out of this spot! — A figure of marble! — a 
 stone! — A hard and unformed mass, until worked 
 with this iron ! — Madman, recover thyself, see thine 
 error, groan for thy folly — But no — 
 
 (Impetuously.) 
 
 No, I have not lost my reason ; no, I am not 
 wandering ; I reproach myself with nothing. It is 
 not of this marble that I am enamoured ; it is of 
 a living being whom it resembles ; the figure which 
 it presents to my eyes. Wherever this adorable 
 form may be, whatever body may bear it, whatever 
 hand m.ay have made it, she will have all the 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 309 
 
 VOWS of my heart. Yes, my only folly is in the 
 power of discerning beauty; my only crime is being 
 sensible to it. There is nothing in this I ought to 
 blush for. 
 
 (Less livel}^, but always with passion.) 
 
 What arrows of fire seem to issue from this object 
 to burn my senses, and to carry away my soul unto 
 their source ! Alas ! she remains immovable and 
 cold, while my heart, consumed by her charms, longs 
 to quit my own body to give warmth to hers. I 
 imagine in my delirium that I could spring from 
 myself, that I could give to her my life, that I could 
 animate her with my soul. Ah, let Pygmalion die, 
 to live in Galatea ! — What do I say, O Heaven? If 
 I were she, I should no longer see her ; I should 
 not be he that loves her ! — No, let my Galatea live ; 
 but let not tne become Galatea. O ! let me always 
 be another, always wish her to be herself, to love 
 her, to be beloved — 
 
 (Transported.) 
 
 Torments, vows, desires, impotent rage, terrible, 
 fatal love — O! all hell is in my agitated heart — 
 Powerful, beneficent Gods ! — Gods of the people, 
 who know the passions of men, ah, how many mir- 
 acles have you done for small causes ! Behold this 
 object, look into my heart, be just, and deserve your 
 altars ! 
 
 (With a more pathetic enthusiasm.) 
 
 And thou, sublime essence, who, concealing thy- 
 self from the senses, art felt in the heart of men, 
 soul of the universe, principle of ail existence, thou 
 who by love givest harmony to the elements, life to 
 
2IO THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 matter, feeling to bodies, and form to all beings ; 
 sacred fire, celestial Venus, by whom everything is 
 preserved, and unceasingly reproduced ! Ah, where 
 is thy equalizing justice? Where is thy expansive 
 power? Where is the law of nature in the senti- 
 ment I experience? Where is thy vivifying warmth 
 in the inanity of my vain desires? All thy flames 
 are concentrated in my heart, and the coldness of 
 death remains upon this marble ; I perish by the 
 excess of life which this figure wants. Alas ! I ex- 
 pect no prodigy ; already one exists, and ought to 
 cease ; order is disturbed, nature is outraged ; restore 
 to her laws their empire, re-establish her beneficent 
 course, and equally shed thy divine influence. Yes, 
 two beings are left out of the plenitude of things. 
 Divide between them that devouring ardor which 
 consumes the one without animating the other. It 
 is thou who hast formed by my hand these charms, 
 and these features, which want but life and feeling. 
 Give to her the half of mine. Give all, if it be 
 necessary. It shall suffice me to live in her. O 
 thou ! who deignest to smile upon the homage of 
 mortals, this being who feels nothing, honors thee 
 not. Extend thy glory with thy works. Goddess 
 of beauty, spare this affi'ont to nature, that a form 
 so perfect should be an image of which there is no 
 living model ! 
 
 (He gradually re-approaches the statue with an air 
 of confidence and joy.) 
 
 I resume my senses. What an unexpected calm ! 
 What unhoped courage re-animates me ! A mortal 
 fever burned my blood, a balm of confidence and 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 211 
 
 hope flows in my veins, and I feel a new life. Thus 
 the sense of our dependence sometimes becomes our 
 consolation. However unhappy mortals may be, 
 when they have invoked the Gods, they are more 
 tranquil. — And yet this unjust confidence deceives 
 those who form senseless wishes. — Alas ! in the con- 
 dition I am in, we call upon every one, and no one 
 hears us ; the hope which deceives is more senseless 
 than the desire. 
 
 Ashamed of so many follies, I dare no more to con- 
 template the cause of them. When I wish to raise 
 my eyes towards this fatal object, I feel a new trouble, 
 a sudden palpitation takes my breath, a secret tremor 
 stops me — 
 
 (With bitter irony.) 
 
 O, look, poor soul ! summon courage enough to 
 dare behold a statue. 
 
 (He sees it become animated, and turns away with 
 alarm ; his heart oppressed with grief.) 
 
 What have I seen? Gods ! what have I imagined 
 that I saw ? A color on the flesh, a fire in the eyes, 
 even movement. — It was not enough to hope for a 
 miracle ; to complete my misery, at last I have seen — 
 
 (With expressive melancholy.) 
 
 Unhappy creature, all is over with thee — thy de- 
 lirium is at its height — thy reason as well as thy 
 genius abandons thee. Regret it not, Pygmalion, for 
 the loss will conceal thy shame. 
 
 (With indignation.) 
 
 The lover of a stone is too happy in becoming a 
 visionary. 
 
 (He turns again, and sees the statue move and de- 
 
212 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 scene! the steps in front of the pedestal. He falls on 
 his knees, and raises his hands and eyes towards 
 heaven.) 
 
 Immortal Gods ! Venus, Galatea ! O, illusion 
 of a furious love ! 
 
 (Galatea touches herself and says) Me ! 
 
 (Pygmalion transported) — Me ! 
 
 (Galatea touching herself again) — It is myself. 
 
 (Pygmalion) — Ravishing illusion, wdiich even 
 reaches my ears ! O, never, never abandon me. 
 
 (Galatea moves towards another figure and touches 
 it) — Not myself. 
 
 (Pygmalion in an agitation, in transports which he 
 can with difficulty restrain, follows all her movements, 
 listens to her, observes her with a covetous attention, 
 which scarcely allows him to breathe. Galatea ad- 
 vances and looks at him ; he rises hastily, extends his 
 arms, and looks at her with delight. She lays her 
 hand on his arm ; he trembles, takes the hand, presses 
 it to his heart, and covers it with ardent kisses.) 
 
 (Galatea, with a sigh) — Ah ! it is I again. 
 
 (Pygmalion) — Yes, dear and charming object — 
 thou worthy masterpiece of my hands, of my heart, 
 and of the Gods! It is thou, it is thou alone — I 
 have given thee all my being — henceforth I will live 
 but for thee. 1820. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 213 
 
 ON THE SUBURBS OF GENOA AND THE 
 COUNTRY ABOUT LONDON.* 
 
 DEAR N. : I could bear my large study t no 
 longer ; so I have mounted into my third 
 story, and intrenched myself, as usual, in a little 
 corner room. It is about the size of the study in 
 
 , where we all adjourned on the morning of 
 
 Twelfth Night, to take breakfast. Do you remember 
 that night? how we sung "To ladies' eyes a round, 
 boys ; " and how the eyes were as sparkling and tri- 
 umphant at six o'clock in the morning, as they were 
 at six in the evening? " Can I forget it.?" say you : 
 '* Can anybody forget it?" I think not. The very 
 walls must remember it. A living poet, whom we 
 were near killing with laughter at two in the morn- 
 ing, has doubtless w^ritten his best things upon eyes 
 since the appearance of that ocular constellation. I 
 am sure a living novelist would have made his hero- 
 ines equal to the rest of his characters, and done 
 himself a world of good into the bargain, had he not 
 
 ♦ This essay was carefully corrected for republication by the author, who 
 ruthlessly drew his pen through many of its graceful sentences. Though we 
 gladly avail ourselves of most of his verbal emendations, we have not the heart to 
 omit the pleasant passages which he marked for suppression, and therefore re- 
 print the article in its entirety, without the loss of a paragraph. We do not 
 think the reader will blame us for retaining the anecdote of Shelley, and the 
 description of the suburbs of Genoa. — Ed. 
 
 t There is a description of this study in the chapter on My Books, in the Indi- 
 cator. The "dear N." to whom this article is addressed is Vincent Novello, 
 " my good CathoHc friend Nov.," of Elia's Chapter On tars. — Ed. 
 
214 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 had that extra-judicious hackney coach call for him at 
 one. Be assured, that pleasant spirits have haunted 
 that house ever since. I know^ (without the maid 
 servants informing me) that a noise of crystal ring- 
 ings and sweet voices is heard every Twelfth Night 
 through the rooms ; and that the gallant occupier 
 and his wife cannot sleep for the life of them, for 
 exquisite imaginations. 
 
 But you must know I have another reason for 
 mounting into this nest of mine, in addition to those 
 I have given to B. It lifts me above a sense of the 
 lanes and stone walls of this suburb of Genoa. Al- 
 baro is a pretty name, and a very pretty looking hill 
 at a distance. It has also some fine retreats and 
 gardens, for those who can afford them. But for a 
 place to walk about in, and enjoy one's neighbor's 
 goods (to which you know I have a propensity), it 
 only shows me how very pre'tty some hills as well as 
 women can look at a distance, and what stony-hearted 
 creatures they turn out upon inspection. When you 
 behold Albaro from the sea, you cry out, " What a 
 delicious place to live in ! " Imagine a gentle green 
 hill, full of olive trees, vineyards, and country seats, 
 beheld from a blue sea, glittering under a blue sky, 
 and with the Apennines at the back of it. Enter it, 
 and the charm is dissolved. Eternal lanes, with 
 eternal stone walls, intersect it in all directions. The 
 best are paved like the carriage part of the London 
 streets, with a stripe of smoother walk in the middle, 
 made of tiles laid edgewise. The worst are com- 
 pounded of bits of broken walls, stones, and occa- 
 sional pushings forth of the native rock. Some are 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 215 
 
 merely the beds of torrents : but all are lanes, lanes, 
 lanes, — all stone, brick, and . mortar, with seldom 
 even a hole to look through. Your only resource, as 
 in the worst passages of human life, is to imagine 
 what may be on the other side ; but then the tanta- 
 lization is in proportion. In the summer, the vines 
 look over the walls, here and there, and aflbrd a re- 
 lief; but the lanes, for the most part, are then hot and 
 close, and in those that lead down to the sea the foot- 
 ing is still a nuisance. Furthermore, the sea has no 
 beach. In winter (which is quite severe enough in 
 this quarter of Italy to make you feel it) the prome- 
 nade is intolerable. Sometimes a wind comes down 
 from the snowy mountains, sharp set as a wolf, and 
 more searching than any east wind with us. Besides, 
 Genoa being situate between the sea and the moun- 
 tains, is famous for wind ; and Albaro, I suppose, 
 is the rtiost famous place for wind about Genoa. 
 Last winter one would have thought the whole army 
 of tempests had come by sea to pass over the moun- 
 tains, and go and trample down some incorrigible 
 tyranny. The whole cavalcade seemed to sweep over 
 us with their " sightless horses," their whistling hair, 
 and mad outcries. 
 
 It is little better, for the most part, in the rest of 
 the suburbs ; in some of them, not so good. There 
 is one good road, which circles the hill ; and on the 
 other side of Genoa, there is a wider piece of plain 
 to get footing upon. But, generally speaking, your 
 path lies up and down hill, through the stoniest of ail 
 stony alleys. Even the road which I speak of, round 
 Albaro, and which would make a beautiful figure in 
 
2l6 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 a picture, presenting depths of olive grounds below, 
 and the sea in the distance, tantalizes you with the 
 sight of pleasant places in which it is impossible to 
 enter, and which, if you did enter, it would be im- 
 jDOSsible to walk in. The olive grounds are all walled 
 in, as usual, and all raised upon terraces of artificial 
 earth, lest the torrents should wash them away. But 
 w^hat care the Genoese? Nature, with them, is but 
 a slave in the hands of the slave merchant. All her 
 beauties consist in what they will fetch. Their olive 
 trees produce nothing but quattrini and rainestra ; 
 their bunches of grapes are but so many purses of 
 soldi. They care for nothing but care itself, and a 
 good oleaginous dinner to make it worse. 
 
 Now, tell it not in Scotland, lest the cocknies of 
 the Canongate rejoice; but give me, dear N., before 
 all the barren suburbs in the world (bits of mountain 
 included) the green pastures and gentle eminences 
 round about glorious London. There we have fields : 
 — there one can walk on real positive turf; there 
 one can get trees that are of no use, and get under 
 trees, and get among trees ; and have hedges, stiles, 
 field-paths, sheep and oxen, and other pastoral amen- 
 ities : — 
 
 "Sometimes walking, not unseen, 
 By the hedge-row elms on hillocks green ; 
 While the ploughman, near at hand, 
 Whistles o'er the furrowed land, 
 And the milkmaid singeth blithe, 
 And the mower whets his scythe, 
 And every shepherd tells his tale 
 Under the hawthorn in the dale." 
 
 How pleasant it is to read one of our poets in a 
 foreign country ! I pass from page to page, as I 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 2l7 
 
 used from meadow to meadow, not omitting to enjoy 
 the style by the way. 
 
 "Straight mine eye hath caught new pleasures, 
 While the landscape round it measures ; 
 Russet lawns and fallows gray," 
 
 Observe the coloring ! 
 
 " Where the nibbling flocks do stray: " 
 
 Mark the nicety ! 
 
 "Mountains — " 
 
 Mountains ! what does he mean by that? 
 
 " Mountains on whose barren breast 
 The laboring clouds do often rest." 
 
 Genoa pitched in tiie vale of Thames ! He must 
 have seen Genoa by a sort of unnatural second sight. 
 I beg you to look upon this as an impertinent vision, 
 foreign to the subject, or only brought in to show the 
 beauty of the rest by the force of contrast. 
 
 " Meadows trim, with daisies pied," 
 
 There he comes home again. 
 
 " Shallow brooks and rivers wide : 
 Towers and battlements it sees, 
 Bosomed high in tufted trees, 
 Where perhaps some beauty lies, 
 The Cynosure of neighboring eyes : 
 Hard by a cottage chimney smokes 
 From betwixt two aged oaks." 
 
 Complete justice is never done to a fine passage in a 
 poet, if yoy do not know the one that preceded it : 
 just as a new key in a musician demands a compari- 
 son with that of the previous air. How admirably 
 
2l8 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 contrasted, and yet with the properest and mellowest 
 gradation, is the richness and elevation of this pas- 
 sage about the tufted trees and the high-born beauty in 
 their turrets, with the " two aged oaks," and the peas- 
 ant's habitation that smokes between them ! — Alas, 
 there are no such oaks here, and no such tufted trees I 
 — Do you remember our picnics on the grass in the 
 Hampstead Fields? Do you remember our books, 
 our lounges, our trios, our crowns of field flowers for 
 heads " not our own "? Do you recollect that strange 
 Centaur of a squire, who came riding in his meadows 
 with a monster of a footman behind him, and could 
 not help being delighted at seeing our dinner tres- 
 passing on his premises? 
 
 I fancy you discern to what all this leads, — the 
 sketch that I promised you a long while back, of 
 pleasant memories connected with the country about 
 London ; similar to those which I have touched upon 
 in a former Indicator, connected with the inside of 
 it. You are right. I could not delay it longer, if I 
 would. 
 
 " All, happy hills 1 ah, pleasing shade ! 
 
 Ah, fields beloved in vain I 
 Where once my careless childhood strayed, 
 
 A stranger yet to pain I 
 I feel the gales that from ye blow 
 A momentary bliss bestow, 
 
 As waving fresh their gladsome wing, 
 My weary soul they seem to soothe, 
 And redolent of joy and youth, 
 
 To breathe a second spring." 
 
 And yet the fields are not " beloved in vain ; " neither 
 was my childhood a stranger to suffering. My life 
 has had strong lights and shades upon it from its 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 219 
 
 commencement ; but, upon the whole, I am grateful ; 
 and the pleasures I have enjoyed make me love even 
 the memory of some of the pains. 
 
 "A dram of sweet is worth a pound of sour." 
 
 How could Gray say that his fields were " beloved in 
 vain," when the sight of them, in pain and melan- 
 choly, could still please him in this manner ; and when 
 he cultivated flowers in his college window to the 
 last.? Nature is never beloved in vain. Shakespeare, 
 after running the whole round of humanity, went to 
 live and to die among his native fields. Rousseau's bot- 
 any never forsook him. The oaks are firm friends ; 
 and we can love the most blooming of roses in our 
 old age. 
 
 In taking my circuit round London, I will begin 
 with the east, in order that I may end with the north. 
 It is the least pleasant side, yet two out of our four 
 greatest names in poetry are connected with it, — 
 Spenser and Milton. I have already noticed that 
 Spenser was born in East Smithfield. Bunhill Fields 
 has the most unromantic of sounds, and yet there 
 Milton not only lived, but seems to have delighted to 
 live. It is probably the " noble suburban spot," of 
 which he speaks in his Latin poems, and contained 
 the elm trees of which he was so fond. I do not re- 
 member whether I have mentioned before, that Steele 
 amused himself with a laboratory at Poplar, which 
 is still extant. You may gather from some of the 
 works of De Foe, who was a hosier in Cornhill, that 
 he was a great walker about the neighborhood of the 
 river. An unaccustomed eye, suddenly emerging from 
 
220 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 the narrow streets upon Tower Hill, is met by a crowd 
 of grand and tragical recollections, — by murdered 
 patriots and heroes, infants, lovers, and kings. There 
 breathed out the souls of the Raleighs and Sydneys. 
 There Hutchinson prepared himself to die in patient 
 endurance ; and Guilford Dudley and Jane Grey went 
 one after the other to the scaffold, instead of the re- 
 tirement that suited their innocence. The death of 
 another Jane is said to have given its name to Shore- 
 ditch. This was Jane Shore, the life of the volup- 
 tuous retirements of Edward the Fourth, who was seen 
 there in her old age, wrinkled, and gathering water- 
 cresses. What a difference from the picture of her, in 
 which she is described as having risen " out of her bed 
 in the morning, having nothing on but a rich mantle 
 cast under one arm over her shoulder, and sitting in a 
 chair, on which her naked arm did lie ! " This por- 
 trait, by the way, argues a taste, and an eye for col- 
 oring, which one should hardly have looked for in the 
 paintings of those times. It was, perhaps, the work 
 of an Italian. But I shall never get out of town. Of 
 Hackney, and all that region, famous for giving a 
 name to Hackney coaches, I know nothing more illus- 
 trious than what is said of it in some quaint period- 
 ical work ; — namely, that 
 
 " Homerton and Clapton do declare, 
 'J he many country seats that there are there." 
 
 They tell me, however (is this true?), that I am to 
 like a place a little more to the north, the name of 
 which I shall not allow myself to be sure of till I hear 
 further advices. Let it be as good a name as you 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 321 
 
 can, for I shall " like it most horribly." I remember 
 now that I used to go that way to bathe. Besides, 
 you have C. L. The great men of the court of Eliza- 
 beth must have resided much about the neighborhood 
 of Stoke Newington and Highbury, for every old 
 mansion thereabout is dignified with the title of one 
 of her palaces. A house is still shown at Islington, 
 for Raleigh's. At Stoke Newington lived the late 
 Dr. Aikin, who was a clever man and did good ; 
 though he should not have said, that Spenser's Epi- 
 thalamium " wants only judicious curtailment to 
 make it a very pleasing piece." I would as lief have 
 had the bride curtailed, had I been the hero of it. Dr. 
 Aikin's sister, Mrs. Barbauld, still renders the place 
 interesting by her residence. Here lived Dr. Watts, 
 whose logical head did not hinder his little frail per- 
 son from being hypochondriacal, and whose hypo- 
 chondria, unfortunately, drove him into Calvinism 
 instead of the Bowling-green. But I believe he extri- 
 cated himself at last. There wants a good account 
 of the last years of men who get rid of their super- 
 stitions, as well as of those who are said to have been 
 overcome by them. 
 
 To return to the river's side, and cross the water. 
 At Greenwich, famous for its green woods and white 
 sails, — for its old weather-beaten pensioners, who sit 
 eying the placid stream, — and for lasses who kiss 
 their mother earth all the way down hill in fair time, 
 and their cousin John at the bottom of it, — Qiieen 
 Elizabeth held her court ; such a court, as princes 
 and courtiers can seldom contrive to muster up. Flat- 
 tery there had a sort of right ; and, accordingly, the 
 
223 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 old Qiieen was a "nymph" to the last, scorching up 
 the Hattons and Raleighs with the retrospective 
 beauties of seventy. Furthermore, she walked abroad 
 among them with a wrinkled face, black teeth, little 
 sparkling gray eyes, a hand and arm so white that 
 it transported even Dutchmen, and a new gown 
 for every day in the year. How she contrived to 
 maintain her charms, while dancing and playing on 
 the lute, in order to convince a Scotch ambassador 
 of her juvenility, who was to look through a crevice, 
 none but a Scotchman can say ; and, accordingly, I 
 leave it to Sir Walter. If he discovers something to 
 venerate in the fumbling of King James, he w^ill sure- 
 ly not be at a loss in the tumbling of old Elizabeth. 
 At Redrifl' (vainly spelt Rotherhithe) some story-book 
 hero cuts a figure ; but I cannot remember his name. 
 Down the Kent Road, Chaucer's pilgrims took their 
 way to Canterbury, telling stories that have outlasted 
 St. Thomas's shrine, and will outlast a thousand 
 others. I think I see him now, looking downwards ; 
 the Wife of Bath grinning ; the Friars and Summon- 
 ers in all their varieties of hypocrisy and impudence; 
 the Squire dancing on his horse, conscious of the 
 Prioress ; the experienced Knight, his father ; the 
 busy Sergeant at Law, who seemed still " busier than 
 he was ; " the reckless Sailor ; the unhealthy Cook ; 
 the lean meek Scholar, upon his lean horse ; the lean 
 choleric Steward, upon his plump one ; the bull of a 
 Miller, &c., &c., and Harry Baillie, the host, venting 
 his admiration of a pathetic story in a volley of oaths. 
 Kent Street derives a minor lustre from Goldsmith's 
 Madame Blaze. Newington Butts, as its name de- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 223 
 
 notes, was famous for archery. With the suburb 
 fields, that now contain prisons and bedlams, the 
 great poets and wits of Shakespeare's time must have 
 been conversant, owing^ to the neighborhood of the 
 theatre in the Borough. Their club, at the Mermaid 
 in Cornhill, was as convenient a spot as they could 
 well choose, between the theatre on one hand, and the 
 court and country seats of Elizabeth on the two sides of 
 the water on the other. Cambervvell was lately remark- 
 able for the proud villa of a Qiiaker physician. Clap- 
 ham looks unnatural, with its bankers' houses on a 
 bit of wild common. Armstrong, in his poem upon 
 preserving health, recommends Dulwich as " yet un- 
 spoiled by art." I believe it still retains its character, 
 though more houses have come, and the gypsies gone 
 away. It touches upon Norwood. Here is Dulwich 
 College, founded by one of Shakespeare's fellow-play- 
 ers, Allen, — a name which seems to belong to people 
 of worth. I know one myself. The original of 
 Fielding's Allworthy was another : and the first coun- 
 tenence I remember at school was an Allen's, — so 
 good and handsome that an old stall-woman, against 
 wdiom he happened to run in the street, and to turn 
 round upon in the course of her abuse, exclaimed, 
 
 " Confound your great, ugly, driving sweet face, 
 
 God bless it ! " Poor Allen ! he died aboard ship, a 
 surgeon, vainly forewarned by Roderick Random. 
 What had his blushing maiden face to do in a gang- 
 way.'* And yet what would the hard places of the 
 world become, if such faces never shone on them ! 
 — To Didwich College Sir Francis Bourgeois be- 
 queathed his collection of pictures, which it is a holi- 
 
224 ^^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 day to go and see. Between Dulwich and Becken- 
 bam is a pretty, rustic, out-of-the-way spot, called 
 Penge, which an acquaintance of yours thinks the 
 charmingest place in the world. Her first child was 
 born at BecJ-ienbam. The white spire of Beckenham 
 church, issuing out of the trees, is a truly English and 
 sylvan spectacle. I think Johnson was in the habit 
 of visiting somebody at Beckenham. In the church 
 is Gray's epitaph on Mrs. Clarke, " Lo ! where the 
 silent marble weeps." Sydenham, another pretty vil- 
 lage with a greeny has long been the residence of Mr. 
 Campbell. Lewisham was immortalized by Queen 
 Elizabeth in a strain of alliterative abuse, which, not 
 being a queen, I have not the face to repeat. Retm^ning 
 westward, we come to Thrale and Johnson at Streat- 
 ham. There Mrs. Thrale encouraged his bile with 
 good dinners, and soothed it with gay curtains ; and 
 there, it seems, he had a desk on each side a win- 
 dow, upon which he used to write his Lives of the 
 Poets, — a "mechanical operation of the spirit" 
 somewhat too prophetic of the point of criticism at 
 which he would stop short. But admiration ever be 
 paid to the hero of Boswell, and reverence to the 
 good Samaritan who took up the female in the street, 
 and put her to bed while other people were chatter- 
 ing! At Merton, a pretty place with a pretty appel- 
 lation (so at least it seemed to me, when I spent my 
 holidays there) lived the illustrious little withered 
 lion, Nelson. But it once contained a personage much 
 more interesting in my eyes ; to wit, an aunt of mine ; 
 a true West Indian of the best sort, somewhat wilful, 
 very idle and generous, and a lady to the heart of 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 325 
 
 her. If the mention of these two personages together 
 looks like an anticlimax, take the following out of a 
 master of the " bon gout," which I think beats it 
 hollow. It is Chaullen addressing the Countess of 
 Staflbrd : — 
 
 " Vous n'aurez jamais besoin 
 De Muse qui vous anime, 
 Ni qu' Apollon prenne soin 
 De vous montrer le sublime ; 
 Car vous trouverez chez vous 
 Dans wi Oiiclefort aintable, 
 Un maitre plus que capable 
 De vous former au bon gout." 
 
 But what has this impertinent Frenchman to do 
 with one's young days and one's natural affections? 
 Talking of Queen Elizabeth and her Nymphals, I 
 remember writing an elegy on the death of this kins- 
 woman, in which I called her a " nymph " also, though 
 she was between fifty and sixty. Why did she not live 
 to be called a damsel.? There was such an elegance 
 about her in my eye that I never thought her wrinkled 
 face old. And where are you, dear cousin F., that in 
 the pride of your tuckers and dressed locks you are 
 not still calling me '"'' -petit garqon^' and throwing 
 down peaches from the trees to my adoring eyes? 
 What had trouble to do with your warm strip of 
 West Indianism, that it did not dance and flutter all 
 its life in perpetual youth? She had the cruelty to 
 give me a little ciystal heart, as if it signified noth- 
 ing to the '•' petit garc.on ;'' and I wore it next my 
 own at school, with an infinite mixture of pride and 
 pensiveness. Few things are better than these fan- 
 cies, or even the recollections of them ; and those 
 that are, partake of the same character. Let me try 
 15 
 
226 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 as I may, I feel I have nothing greater, much less 
 happier in me, than I had when a boy ; nor can I do 
 anything better than draw out, as it were, what was 
 in me then. Business has only made me uneasy to 
 others, and remorseful to myself. My tasks take 
 another direction. I am formed by nature to suffer 
 and imagine alone, or in company with some friend ; 
 and in public to do nothing but impart a sense of the 
 joys which love and patience reward me with. 
 
 But what have the peach trees done w'ith me, that 
 I stand here in a dream, when I have to make half 
 the circuit of London ? Yet I must not forget the little 
 River Wandle, wdiich runs b}^ Merton, and in which I 
 once saw a vision bright and ideal as any in a picture. 
 It was nothing, too, but a girl with long flaxen hair 
 and blue eyes, washing some linen with naked feet 
 among the pebbles. Her hair was flaxenest of the 
 flaxen ; her eyes blue as sapphire ; — it was August ; 
 and. the 
 
 " Cjerule stream, rambling in pebble-stone, 
 Crept under moss as green as any gourd." 
 
 What she must have thought of me in my school 
 petticoats I know not ; but her surprise had the ad- 
 vantage of fixing her in a beautiful posture, and 
 making her open all her blue eyes. I wish Mr. 
 Wordsworth had flourished then, and set " us youth " 
 upon attempting to write naturally. I made " a copy 
 of verses " afterwards upon the Wandle, which might 
 have been a little better for it. When I met with the 
 lines upon it in Drayton's Polyolbion, the vision came 
 upon me again in all its beauty, only not quite so 
 "plump." 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 327 
 
 " Then Wandal cometh in, the Mole's beloved mate. 
 So amiable, so fair, so pure, so delicate. 
 So plump, so full, so fresh, her eyes so wondrous clear ; 
 And first unto her lord at Wandsworth doth appear. 
 That in the goodly court of their great sovereign Thames, 
 There might no other speech be had amongst the streams 
 But only of this nymph, sweet Wandal, what she wore, 
 Of her complexion, grace, and how herself she bore." 
 
 Polyolb., Song 17. 
 
 At Wimbledon, when a child, I was taken to see 
 Home Tooke, who patted me on the head, and gave 
 me a very different benediction from the bishop. In 
 a wood near the same place I saw, many years after- 
 wards, one of the most successful of ministers, who 
 seemed one of the most miserable of men. I have 
 pitied him ever since. 
 
 At Putney Gibbon was born, and at Battersea lived 
 Bolingbroke. A pretty infidel neighborhood ! I 
 think I see Bolingbroke and Swift sitting at the open 
 window over the Thames, waiting for Arbuthnot and 
 Gay to come from London, and Pope from Twicken- 
 ham. Bolingbroke is lounging, with an end of his 
 peruke over his shoulder. Swift is fidgeting with 
 the girdle of his cassock, or cutting his nails to the 
 quick with a penknife. All the banks of the Thames 
 upwards are classic ground. At Richmond, in that 
 lazy undress of a fat body, called Thomson, lived one 
 of the freest, most cordial, and most unexclusive of 
 poetical spirits, the most un-Scotck of Scotchmen. 
 He was seen eating peaches oft" a tree with his hands 
 in his waistcoat pockets ; which is what he ought to 
 have done. Out of his enjoyments have come ours. 
 Garrick must not be passed by at Hampton, nor old 
 Jacob Tonson at Barn Elms, since Congreve and 
 
228 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Vanbrugh used to dine with him ; * nor Horace 
 Walpole, with his toy-shop and his two-penny no- 
 tions, at Strawberry HilL He would have been a 
 man, if he had not been a lord. But Twickenham 
 and Pope ! What a burst of beauty and wit is there ! 
 
 ' ' What lady's that, to whom he gently bends ? 
 
 Who knows not her ? Ah, those are Wortley's eyes, 
 The sweet-tongued Murray near her side attends ; 
 
 Now to my heart the glance of Howard flies ; 
 Now Harvey, fair of face, I mark full well, 
 With thee, youth's youngest daughter, sweet Lepell. 
 
 *' I see two lovely sisters hand in hand, 
 
 The fair-haired Martha, and Teresa brown ; 
 Madge Bellenden, the tallest of the land. 
 
 And smiling Mary, fair and soft as down. 
 Yonder I see the cheerful duchess stand 
 
 For friendship, zeal, and blithesome humors known : 
 Whence that loud shout in such a hearty strain? 
 Why, all the Hamiltons are in her train." — Gay. 
 
 We fancy Pope always reading or waiting ; at in- 
 tervals entertaining Bolingbroke, Swift, or Arbuthnot, 
 or all three ; or undergoing his pleasing provocations 
 betwixt the humors of 
 
 " The fair-haired Martha, and Teresa brown." 
 
 * See a pleasant parody by Rowe, on the Dialogue between Horace and 
 Lydia. The speakers are Tonson and Congieve. Tonson says, — 
 
 " I'm in with Captain Vanbrugh at the present, 
 A most sweet-natured gentleman, and pletisant ; 
 He writes your comedies, draws schemes and models, 
 And builds duke's houses upon very odd hills." 
 
 Yet he ends with saying, that he would ,t;ive up even Vanbrugh to be reconciled 
 with Congreve, and would set up a bed for him in his dining-room at Bow Street 
 if he would come and see him. Jacob cuts a better figure here than when he in- 
 serted bad money among his payments to poor Dryden for his Virgil. — See the 
 letters at the end of Walter Scott's edition of Dryden. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 229 
 
 Further up, at Chertsey, died good-hearted and 
 fine-headed Cowley, — Pope says, of a fever, which 
 he caught in consequence of having been drinking 
 too freely, and lying out all night in the fields, with 
 Dean Sprat. The story is in Spence's Anecdotes, 
 but was omitted by Johnson, less out of tenderness, 
 I dare say, to the Tory poet, than to the Tory bishop, 
 whom he was anxious to exalt. Pope added, that 
 " the parish still talked of the dyunkeii DeanT 
 
 Brentford, as Sir Hugh Evans would have said, 
 " hath strange reputations." It was celebrated in the 
 wars of the Kins^ and Parliament. The " two kinsrs" 
 of it are renowned in the Rehearsal. A poet, who 
 lived at Richmond, records it as " a town of mud ;" * 
 and a king, who lived at Kew, chose it for his pros- 
 pect from the other side of the river. At Hammer- 
 smith Richardson had a country box. He used to 
 bring unexpected nosegays from his garden there to 
 his printing office in the city, in order to tempt his 
 compositors to be early at their work. 
 
 Kensington is eminent for the heaviest part of the 
 gossipping history of courts ; but there are one or two 
 literary anecdotes connected with it, which I cannot 
 refer to for want of books. There is a poem on the 
 Gardens by Tickell. I believe Kent first displayed 
 his genius in improving them. There was once some 
 
 * Castle of Indolence, the last stanza. 
 
 " Ev'n so, through Brentford's town, a town of mud, 
 An herd of bristly swine is prick'd along," &c. 
 
 Gay records, — 
 
 " Brentford's tedious town, 
 For dirt>' streets and white-legged chickens known." 
 
230 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 inconvenience, perhaps, in walking in them at late 
 hours ; but all the rest of the time it was as it should 
 be. Now, for " satyrs and sylvan boys," they have 
 beadles, who take care that you cultivate nature with 
 propriety, and remind you at every turn of the Board 
 of Green Cloth. Who can dine on the grass with 
 beadles looking at them ? Eating their veal pie under 
 favor, and merry by authority? 
 
 At Holland House, still in becoming hands, lived, 
 loved, and died Addison ; none of them very happily, 
 though much is said about the death. I do not use 
 the word '' happy " in a physical sense, but as a ques- 
 tion of good taste. Christians can die well undoubt- 
 edly : so can good people of all religions ; especially 
 if their blood is in a state for reasonable circulation, 
 and they are not haunted with fears for others. I do 
 not know^ how Steele died. Very pleasantly, I dare 
 say, if he had his wits about him ; for Young said, 
 that " in his worst state of health, he seemed to desire 
 nothing but to please and be pleased." But at all 
 events, his last years are preferable to those of Addi- 
 son, even though he had given up his property to his 
 creditors and retired into Wales. He used to amuse 
 himself there with sitting out of doors in a chair, and 
 giving prizes to be contended for by the village dam- 
 sels. His more prudent friend, who put executions 
 in his house to instruct him (which was about as 
 good-natured, as Steele thought it, and about as wise 
 as damming up a torrent for a fortnight), flourished 
 and faded in his grand house under the contempt of 
 his wedded countess, and resorted to consolations, 
 which, in such a man, and such a man only, provoke 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 23 1 
 
 one to forget the charity which he lost sight of. It is 
 a tradition, I believe, in Holland House, that Addison 
 used sometimes to compose while pacing up and 
 down a long room that had a window at each end, 
 and in each window a bottle. What the bottle con- 
 tained, more or less, stronger or weaker, is matter of 
 speculation. If he thought of poor Steele, I beg his 
 pardon ; but why did he not say something about it.'* 
 Addison's tavern habits were too much for Pope, who 
 w^as obliged to leave off sitting up with him. Dennis, 
 according to Spence's Anecdotes, said, that Dryden 
 " for the last ten years of his life was much acquainted 
 with Addison, and drank with him more than he ever 
 used to do ; probably so far as to hasten his end." 
 Addison was then a young man. This was beginning 
 betimes for the great moralist of the circles. When 
 the story of his death-bed is told, it should be added 
 (and doubtless would obtain equal admiration) that, 
 a fortnight before, he sent for Gay, and told him with 
 much penitence, that he had '' injured him greatly," 
 but would make it up to him, if he lived. What the 
 injury was, does not appear. " Better late than nev- 
 er ; " but did he husband this good thing all the while 
 he was writing the Spectator, and the charming Satur- 
 day articles? The lecture which he wrote to the lady 
 who made love to him, and which somehow or other 
 transpii'ed^ is of a piece with the rest. Little did 
 Calista know of him. Addison had wit at will, a 
 delightful style, little things of all sorts in profusion, 
 especially when he was in his cups : but he wanted 
 greatness of every kind. His virtue, even in its hum- 
 blest moment, was but a species of good breeding, 
 
232 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 equally useful to him, he thought, in and out of the 
 presence ; a mixture of prudence, egotism, and sub- 
 mission. He was perplexed neither by his sympa- 
 thies nor his wisdom (at least he has not suffered an}^ 
 such misgivings in the long room to transpire) ; and 
 he went to heaven, as he would have gone to court, 
 dressed in his most becoming graces a la mode^ and 
 preparing himself for a good reception, if not by the 
 consciousness of his rank, by the smiling zeal of his 
 deference, and the politeness of his securitv. 
 
 In the burying-ground between Bayswater and 
 Oxford Street lies " poor Yorick." 
 
 Paddington, '' base, common, and popular" as it 
 may now seem, is a very old village, that once had an 
 abbey with a flourishing abbot, famous for his pomp 
 and hospitality. One side of the road still belongs to 
 the church. I have had many reasons for loving it, 
 man and boy: — but here begins the ground of mv 
 affections, continuing through mead and green lane 
 till it reaches beyond Hampstead. In the church- 
 yard, by the green, with the fine trees on it, lie two 
 of the most irritable spirits that ever disseminated lib- 
 eral opinion, — Curran and Dr. Geddes. The tomb 
 of Geddes has an epitaph upon it worth a Christian's 
 going to see. In front of one of the houses between 
 Paddington and Oxford Street, is an almond tree ; 
 not " on top of green Pelinis," but " all alone " never- 
 theless, and in its due season 
 
 " With blossoms brave bedecked daintily." 
 
 Proprietor of that house and tree, and occupier of 
 the house next door, was an old lady, whom I recol- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 233 
 
 lect, or think I recollect, in my childhood, as a sort 
 of perpetual thin-visaged old girl. In vain she walked 
 out with a lap-dog, a hood, and an umbrella that was 
 also a walking-stick. Her lap-dog, a jealous cur, was 
 the only unpleasant thing about her. Her merry 
 voice " piped as though it should never grow old." 
 And yet, whether I know her best from my own ex- 
 perience, or those of my brothers, I forget. At all 
 events, her image appears as vivid to me as if I saw it 
 carved at the top of lier stick. She was the terror 
 and delight of all children ; alternately frightening 
 them to death with goblin tricks, and putting them in 
 Paradise with indescribable dumplings. What a dif- 
 ference between her and another old lady whom I 
 knew, who lived in a great house by Paddington 
 Church, and was herself frightened to death, and 
 worse, by Calvinism! She was one of the kindest 
 women in the world ; but she " lived v/ell," and did 
 not move about like the other, which would have 
 kept her blood from stagnating in that infernal lake. 
 I know not to which of the houses it was, but I think 
 to the smaller one that belonged those divine green 
 rails, which used to dance before me by anticipation 
 all the way from home, like a fairy prospect. There 
 are no such rails now, as the old gentleman in Gil 
 Bias said of the peaches. And yet I have a pleasure 
 in seeing hnitations of them too, especially in a poor 
 suburb. 
 
 I know not which is the pleasanter way to Hamp- 
 stead, the one up Kilburn Lane through West End, or 
 the one over the beautiful meadows that ascend to the 
 church. Upon the whole, however, I am for the 
 
234 ^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 latter, and you generally go that way ; so here is a 
 vade-meai77i to read agai7t^ as you take your journey ; 
 for that you 77221st read it in the fields, and in those 
 identical fields, is certain. If you are obliged to read 
 it aloud, I shall not quarrel ; nor even if you are all 
 happy in hearing it ; since I shall only gnash my teeth 
 with impatience, when I receive the news, which is 
 what I am inclined to do every week when I think of 
 every friend I have ; so it does not much signify. Out 
 of forty tliousand impatiences comes patience. I am 
 '' used to it," like the eels. B. shall write me an ac- 
 count of it, and put me at my worst ; when I shall, 
 of course, grow better. 
 
 Kilburn (the Kele or Cold Bourne) had its ab- 
 bey, as well as Paddington. It is said to have stood 
 on that pretty green slope on the right hand, as you 
 enter the village from London. The Bourne runs 
 at the foot of it, and forms afterwards the sheet of 
 water facetiously called the Serpentine River. Out 
 of the left side of Kilburn runs a lane to a little 
 rustic hamlet called Wilsdon, one of the most se- 
 cluded spots about London, and celebrated in the 
 Literary Pocket Book with a due and united gusto of 
 alehouse and pastoral. I dined there one time in 
 company with an elegant living poet, whose fancy 
 retreated from the " cakes and ale " into a contem- 
 plation of the white-curtained room up stairs, which 
 he thought very amiable. White-curtained rooms are 
 amiable. There are no such little draperied simplici- 
 ties here, with woodbine and diamond windows j 
 though there are heads of hair that would look well, 
 looking out. Another time I had a delightful dinner 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 235 
 
 with W. C, in a room hung with Honbracken's en- 
 gravings of the poets. There was a '' niece" to wait 
 on us (may nobody make her look less happy and 
 pretty than she did then !), and a considerable appe- 
 tite on both sides. C. acknowledged it was '• the sort 
 of thing." 
 
 The lane leading on the right hand up to Hamp- 
 stead winds pleasantly through tliick hedges and fer- 
 tile fields, and opens at West End upon a beautiful 
 view of Hampstead and the Church. From the re- 
 tirement of West End, fate once pitched me into a 
 very different sort of seclusion in IIorsei7io7iger Lane 
 (think of the name !), as if I had been no better than 
 a quoit. It was a quoit, however, that had shattered 
 some very hyacinthine locks. 
 
 We have now entered Hampstead, the region of 
 all suburban ruralities, of paths leading upward and 
 downward, of groves, of prospects, of meadows and 
 wood, of remote-looking lanes, of a remnant of wild 
 nature, of classical recollections. When I returned 
 from the very different lane just mentioned, I hastened 
 to re-occupy a bench that stood in a delightful slope, 
 and overlooked West End. I found it pushed away 
 by the fantastic house that now stands there, mystify- 
 ing the fields, and mocking antiquity. C. L. could not 
 have been more startled when he saw the chimney- 
 sweeper reclining in Richmond meadows. Had the 
 chimney-sweeper found the wonderful lamp he might 
 have raised just such a structure. 
 
 " With twenty murders of good taste upon it. 
 To push us from our stools." 
 
236 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Near this alarming fact (not the tenement next to it, 
 but the first one on the right hand as you look up the 
 lane) is a white house, in which Dr. Johnson took 
 lodgings for his wife, crossing the fields to come to 
 her of an evening. The road leads straight on from 
 here to the heath. Let me leave the church on my 
 right, with my usual reverence and silence. Every 
 spot from this place is sacred to me for some recol- 
 lection. Good God, how clearly I see everything ! 
 how vividly every corner turns upon me, with its 
 trees, its gateways, or its mounds ! On the right, in 
 the first floor of a cottage, lived the last of the Mul- 
 sos, — at least, so I fancy her, for she was a maiden 
 lady, and ought to have been the last, if she was not. 
 (Not that I have any objection to the Mulsos, but 
 Richardson and a continuation of the species some- 
 how do not agree ; though Pamela thought other- 
 wise.) On the left I stood with dear S. and M. S., 
 drawing ideal pictures of housekeeping. On the right 
 again I kissed somebody that shall be nameless. Here 
 I read; there I wrote something; there I used to 
 turn down on horseback ; and there I was thrown 
 from my horse, to the great displeasure of a lady's 
 maid, who, upon my assuring her I was not hurt, 
 was angry that I had made her so nervous. Let me 
 rest a while in the grove overlooking the heath, and 
 fancy I am. reading my Spenser. — I'll get up and 
 cross to North End. At North End, across the heath, 
 under the wing of his friend Dyson, lived Akenside. 
 He calls the slope leading into the Llendon Road, 
 Goulder's Hill; and altogether made as much of his 
 suburb as the greatest cockney of us all. Milton could 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 237 
 
 not have said more for his " noble suburban spot," or 
 for the boarding-school girls whom he used to deify. 
 " Hampstead's airy summit" anybody may speak of, 
 but none but a lover could have talked of " climbing " 
 its " steep aerial way," especially on the north. He 
 was then, however, weak and sick, — sick, too, in the 
 lungs ; though so fond was he of the place, that even 
 the north wind did not come amiss to him. See his 
 Odes ; where, amidst a great deal of what is prosa- 
 ical, and nothing that is lyrical, the real poet occa- 
 sionally looks forth. 
 
 "Thy verdant scenes, O Goulder's Hill, 
 
 Once more I seek, a languid guest ; 
 
 With throbbing temples, and with burdened breast, 
 
 Once more I climb thy steep aerial way. 
 
 O faithful care of oft-returning ill ! 
 
 Now call thy sprightly breezes round, 
 
 Dissolve this rigid cough profound, 
 And bid the springs of life with gentler movement play. 
 
 " How gladly, 'mid the dews of dawn, 
 
 My weary lungs thy healing gale. 
 
 The balmy west, or the fresh north, inhale ! 
 
 How gladly, while my musing footsteps rove 
 
 Round the cool orchard or the sunny lawTi, 
 
 Awaked I stop, and look tojiiid 
 
 What shrub perfumes the pleasant wind. 
 Or what wild songster charms the Dryads of the grove." 
 
 All this reminds me, but too painfully, of another 
 and greater poet, a lover of Hampstead, of whom 
 more presently. North End, seen from the heath 
 above it on the south-east, presents one of the prettiest 
 village pictures I am acquainted with, — trees, gar- 
 dens, and smoking cottages, with a mansion here 
 and there. The road that runs over the heath be- 
 tween this and the Vale of HeaUh is a remnant of 
 
238 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 the old Roman Road or Watling Street, and is praised 
 by Camden for the beauty of its prospects. You can 
 see from it to Windsor, and the borders of Bucking- 
 hamshire. The clumps of pines before the place 
 where Lord Erskine lived, are of Italian origin, hav- 
 ing been, in fact (as I understand), brought from 
 Italy by the person who built the mansion that looks 
 down them. Nearly opposite, on the other side of 
 the road, are nine elms, under which it is recorded 
 that Pope and Lord Mansfield used to sit. It must 
 not be omitted, to the eternal honor of Mr. Coxe, 
 poet and auctioneer, and also of Lord Mansfield's 
 eminent successor, that the noble lord having an in- 
 tention of cutting down these nine elms, Mr. Coxe 
 made a becoming petition in the name of the Nine 
 Muses, which it was impossible for an* Erskine to 
 resist. So the elms are where they used to be, with, 
 I hope, a better seat under them. At Caen Wood, 
 the fine seat of the Mansfields, there is a portrait of 
 Betterton the player, which is said to be from the 
 hand of Pope. On the right of the Highgate Road, 
 pleasant meadows lead over to pleasant phices, — 
 Plendon and Finchley ; on the left a lane turns off' to 
 Highgate and Kentish Town, justly christened Poet's 
 Lane, both on account of its rural beauty and the 
 walks here enjoyed by Mr. Coleridge, Mr. Keats, and 
 others. There is a beautiful cottage and farm in it 
 (only the cottage is too near the lodge) that belonged 
 to Lord Southampton. The path over the fields to 
 Highgate, or back again to the Vale of Health or the 
 Heath, is quite lovely. Who knows it better than 
 yourself? But you like me to repeat it. It was from 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 239 
 
 a house on the eastern part of the heath that Keats 
 took his departure to Italy. MeLancholy as it was, 
 and the more so from his attempt to render it cahn 
 and cheerful, it was not the most melancholy circum- 
 stance under which I saw him there. I could not 
 hinder him one day from going to visit the house, in 
 which, though he was himself ill and weak, he at- 
 tended with such exemplary affection his younger 
 brother that died. Dead almost himself by that time, 
 the circumstance shook him beyond what he expected. 
 The house was in Well Walk. You know the grove 
 of elms there. It was in that grove, on the bench 
 next the heath, that he suddenly turned upon me, his 
 eyes swimming with tears, and told me he was " dy- 
 ing of a broken heart." He must have been wonder- 
 fully excited to make such a confession ; for his spirit 
 was lofty to a degree of pride. Some private circum- 
 stances pressed on him at the time; and to these he 
 added the melancholy consciousness, that his feeble 
 state of health made him sensible of some public an- 
 noyances, which no man would sooner otherwise have 
 despised. His heart was afterwards soothed where 
 he wished it to be ; and when he took his departure 
 for Italy he had hope, or he would hardly have gone. 
 Even I had hope. — My weaker e3^es are obliged to 
 break off. He lies under the walls of Rome, not far 
 from the remains of one, who so soon and so abruptly 
 joined him. Finer hearts, or more astonishing facul- 
 ties, never were broken up than in those two. To 
 praise any man's heart by the side of Shelley's, is 
 alone an extraordinary panegyric. 
 
 You l:now what I must think of Hampstead. when 
 
240 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 the memories of two such men come in aid of all that 
 endeared me to it before. Its beauty and its classical 
 associations are enough to render it interesting to 
 everybody ; but love and friendship of all sorts have 
 also hallowed it to me. It pleases me to think, that 
 kindred hearts with these have delighted in the place 
 before. A little after you enter the town from Lon- 
 don is a mansion which belonged to Sir Henry 
 Vane, — the most exalted and extraordinary intellect, 
 except Milton, of an age of great men ; and one, 
 perhaps, who saw still farther than Milton into the 
 capabilities of society, in spite of the puritanical cloud 
 in which he wrapped up his Platonism. Here also 
 Day, the manly-spirited author of Sandford and Mer- 
 ton, brought his new-married wife, who talked and 
 walked with him to his heart's content; and in the 
 long room in Well Walk, now the chapel, but then 
 the pump-room for the mineral waters, used to be seen 
 one of the most amiable of men of wit, Arbuthnot, 
 who came there to get the health which he distributed 
 to thousands. I was going to say the most amiable 
 of physicians, but I recollected Garth. Garth was 
 often at Hampstead, if he never lived there, for he 
 used to come to join the Kit-Kat Club at their sum- 
 mer dinners. He lies buried at Harrow, purely to 
 oblige one's prospect. The club met at the last 
 house on the hill, before you turn down into the 
 Vale of Health. It is now a private residence ; — 
 a long low house, with trees before it. I write this 
 for your fellow-readers. There is a series of his- 
 tories belonging to this house. In the first place, 
 it was the scene of the summer meetings of the 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 24I 
 
 Club aforesaid, consisting of Steele, Addison, Con- 
 greve, Garth, Vanbrugh, and other wits and great 
 Whigs. When Steele was hiding from his duns in 
 a cottage on Haverstock Hill (which is still re- 
 maining), they used to call for him by the way. 
 After this, Richardson made it the scene of one 
 of Clarissa's flights : on which account a French- 
 man is said to have made a pilgrimage on pur- 
 pose to see it. It was hitherto an inn, known by 
 the name of the Upper Flask. Being afterwards 
 converted into a private dwelling-house, it became 
 the residence of George Steevens, the commentator 
 on Shakespeare, who used to walk to London every 
 morning at daybreak to correct the press. But 
 another anecdote remains, not the least in interest. 
 I will repeat it for the benefit of the readers above 
 mentioned. Some years ago, when the house was 
 occupied by a person whose name I forget (and I 
 should suppress it in common humanity if I did not), 
 I was returning home to my own, which was at no 
 great distance from it, after the opera. As I ap- 
 proached my door, I heard strange and alarming 
 shrieks mixed with the voice of a man. The next day 
 it was reported by the gossips that Mr. Shelley, no 
 Christian (for it was he who was there), had brought 
 some " very strange female " in the house, no better, 
 of course, than she ought to be, — the consequences 
 of which, of course, were no other than what they 
 ought to be, and what decent imaginations might 
 guess. Alas, their decent imaginations would "never 
 have got at the truth, had they carved it and Chris- 
 tianed it till doomsday. The real Christian had 
 16 
 
242 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 puzzled them. Mr. Shelley, in coming to our house 
 that night, had found a woman lying near the top of 
 the hill in fits. It was a fierce winter night, with 
 snow upon the ground ; and winter loses nothing of 
 its fierceness at Hampstead. My friend, always the 
 promptest as well as the most pitying on these occa- 
 sions, knocked at the first houses he could reach, in 
 order to have the woman taken in. The invariable 
 answer was that they could not do it. He asked for 
 an outhouse to put her in while he went for a doctor. 
 Impossible. In vain he assured them she was no 
 impostor, — an assurance he was well able to give, 
 having studied something of medicine, and even 
 walked the hospitals^ that he might be useful in this 
 way. They would not dis^Dute the point with him; 
 but doors were closed, and windows were shut down. 
 Had he lit upon worthy Mr. Park, the philologist, 
 he would assuredly have come, in spite of his Calvin- 
 ism. But he lived too far oft^. Had he lit upon you, 
 dear B — n, or your neighbor, D — e, you would, 
 either of you, have jumped up from amidst your books 
 or your bed-clothes, and have gone out with him. 
 But the paucity of Christians is astonishing, consid- 
 ering the number of them. Time flies ; the poor 
 woman is in convulsions ; her son, a young man, la- 
 menting over her. At last my friend sees a carriage 
 driving up to a house at a little distance. The knock 
 is given ; the warm door opens ; servants and lights 
 pour forth. Now, thought he, is the time. He puts 
 on his best address, which anybody might recognize 
 for that of the highest gentleman as well as an inter- 
 esting individual, and plants himself in the way of 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 243 
 
 an elderly person who is stepping out of the carriage 
 with his family. He tells his story. They only press 
 on the faster. "Will you go and see her?" "No 
 sir, there is no necessity for that sort of thing, depend 
 on it: — impostors swarm everywhere: — the thing 
 cannot be done : — sir, your conduct is extraordi- 
 nary." " Sir," cried Mr. Shelley at last, assuming a 
 very different appearance, and forcing the flourishing 
 householder to stop out of astonishment, " I am sorry 
 to say that your conduct is not extraordinary : and 
 if my own seems to amaze you, I will tell you some- 
 thing that may amaze you a little more, and I hope 
 will frighten you. It is such men as you who madden 
 the spirits and the patience of the poor and wretched ; 
 and if ever a convulsion comes in this country (which 
 is very probable) recollect what I tell you ; — you 
 will have your house, which you refuse to put this 
 miserable woman into, burnt over yowr head." " God 
 bless me, sir ! Dear me, sir ! " exclaimed the fright- 
 ened wretch, and fluttered into his mansion. The 
 woman was then brought to our house, which was at 
 some distance, and down a bleak path ; and Mr. S. 
 and her son were obliged to hold her till the doctor 
 could arrive. It appeared that she had been attend- 
 ing this son in London, on a criminal charge made 
 against him, the agitation of which had thrown her 
 into the fits on their return. The doctor said that 
 she would inevitably have perished had she lain there 
 only a short time longer. The next day my friend 
 sent mother and son comfortably home to Hendon, 
 where they were well known, and whence they re- 
 turned him thanks full of gratitude. Now go, ye 
 
244 "^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Pharisees of all sorts, and try if ye can still open 
 your hearts and your doors, like the good Samaritan. 
 This man was himself, too, brought up in a splendid 
 mansion, and might have revelled and rioted in all 
 worldly goods. Yet this was one of the most ordi- 
 nary of his actions. 
 
 Dear N., I know I cannot delight you more than 
 by repeating the praises of another friend : — so richly 
 in this respect has heaven compensated me, for a 
 thousand evils, in things of which even death cannot 
 deprive me. « 
 
 P. S. — Among other suburban dwellers about 
 London, I have omitted to mention in the course of 
 this article, that Sir Thomas More lived at Chelsea ; 
 that Thomas Moore hummed a short time at Horn- 
 sey ; and that Coleridge resides at Highgate, a " stroll- 
 er with a book." 1823. 
 
 DR. JOHNSON, THE DEVIL, AND MR. 
 COBBETT. 
 
 a '' I "*HE office of the Register, and my shop, are now 
 I at No. 1 1 Bolt Court, Fleet Street. It is curious 
 that I am now in the very house in which Old 
 Dread-Devil, Dr. Johnson, lived and wrote so many 
 years ! I have been a long while wanting to get it, 
 on account of the cleanness, neatness, and stillness of 
 the court, and the nearness of the house to the print- 
 ing-office ; but until three days ago, I was not at all 
 aware, tliat the melancholy moralist ever lived in it. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 245 
 
 There is a neat coffee-house in the court, called ' The 
 Dr. Johnson ; ' and though I cannot forgive the doc- 
 tor for having given, in his own person, an example 
 to illustrate the definition in his dictionary, w^here, 
 against the word ' Pensioner,' he puts a slave of 
 state; though I cannot forgive him for this, to see, as 
 I do, from my window, his najne put over a coffee- 
 room, with a view to attract custom to it, is very 
 pleasing: his name, thus used, is a mark of respect 
 for his great mental endowments and vast literary la- 
 bors, while his statue in St. Paul's is only a memorial 
 of his having been a slave of state.'*' — Cobbetfs 
 Register. 
 
 We like these self-references of Mr. Cobbett, when 
 his humanities are upon him, and he has a good word 
 to say for another. A piece of sympathy, from him, 
 is the more pleasant, inasmuch as he seems to think 
 it to be his duty to be full of antipathies (" a good 
 hater," as Johnson called it), and to push them to the 
 utmost. We think he might relent a little during this 
 fine, promising weather in the political world, and give 
 us a few more of his " primroses" and pleasant an- 
 ecdotes. 
 
 Dr. Johnson was one of the last of our great men, 
 who had reason, throughout life, to curse the super- 
 stition inflicted upon him in childhood. His mother, 
 poor woman, when he was just able to learn what 
 she meant, was so eager to impress upon him the doc- 
 trine of eternal punishment, that she not only made 
 him get out of his bed on purpose to infix it the more 
 on his recollection, but called up the servants to aid 
 the calamity. Mr. Cobbett, therefore, has too much 
 reason to call him " Dread-Devil ; " but our politician, 
 
246 THE WISIIING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 in proceeding to sa}^ something to his advantage, 
 might have added another good word for tlie " mel- 
 ancholy moralist," since it was into his house, in this 
 very Bolt Court, if we mistake not, that the doctor, 
 who was a kind-hearted man, notwithstanding the 
 asperities of his temperament, acted the very unusual 
 Christian part, like a proper Samaritan, of bringing 
 a poor girl on his shoulders, whom he found destitute 
 in the streets, putting her into his own bed, making 
 her w^ell, and sending her home to her relations. 
 
 In Bolt Court, Johnson wrote the Lives of the Poets. 
 He lived there from the year 1776 till he died. He 
 had a garden to the house (Mr. Cobbett, who is hor- 
 ticultural, should revive it), with stone seats at the 
 door. Boswell describes a conversation he had with 
 him one day, when each took a seat in the open air, 
 and the doctor was " in a placid frame of mind, and 
 talked away easily." 1S30. 
 
 COFFEE-HOUSES AND SMOKING. 
 
 SMOKING has had its vicissitudes, as well as 
 other fashions. In Elizabeth's day, when it first 
 came up, it was a high accomplishment: James (who 
 liked it none the better for its beinof of Raleisfh's in- 
 vention) indignantly refused it the light of his counte- 
 nance: in Charles's time it was dashed out by the 
 cannon ; lips had no leisure for it under Charles the 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. -247 
 
 Second : the clubs and the Dutch brought it back again 
 with King William : it prevailed more or less during 
 the reign of the first two Georges ; grew thin, and 
 died away under George the Third ; and has lately 
 reappeared, with a flourish of Turkish pipes, and 
 through the milder medium of the cigar, under the 
 auspices of his successor. 
 
 The last smoker I recollect among those of the old 
 school, was a clergyman. He had seen the best so- 
 ciety, and was a man of the most polished behavior. 
 This did not hinder him from taking his pipe every 
 evening before he went to bed. He sat in his arm- 
 chair, his back gently bending, his knees a little apart, 
 his eyes placidly inclined towards the fire : and de- 
 lighted, in the intervals of puff, to recount anecdotes 
 of the Marquis of Rockingham and " my Lord 
 North." The end of his recreation was announced to 
 those who had gone to bed, by the tapping of the 
 bovs^l of his pipe upon the hob, for the purpose of 
 emptying it of its ashes.* Ashes to ashes ; head to 
 bed. It is a pity that the long day of life cannot al- 
 ways terminate as pleasantly. Bacon said that the 
 art of making death-beds easy was among tlie desid- 
 erata of knowledge. Perhaps, for the most part, they 
 are easier than the great chancellor imagined ; but, 
 
 * This lover of " the great plant " was Leigh Hunt's father, who,- as a smoker, 
 is thus described in The Autobiogi-aphy of Leigh Hunt: "He was one of 
 the gentry who retained the old lashion of smoking. He indulged in it every 
 right before he went to bed, which he did at an early hour ; and it was pleasant 
 toseehimsit, in his tranquil and gentlemanly manner, and relate anecdotes of 
 'my Lord North,' and the Rockingham administration, interspersed with those 
 mild puffs and urbane resumptions of the pipe." — Ed. 
 
248 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 no doubt, the most conscientious ones might often be 
 bettered. A virtuous man shall not always take his 
 departure as comfortably as a sinner with a livelier 
 state of diaphragm. Frenchmen have died, sitting in 
 their chairs, full-dressed and powdered. I have a 
 better taste in mortality than that ; but I think I could 
 drop off with a decent compromise between thought 
 and forgetfidness, sitting with my pipe by a fireside, 
 in an old elbow-chair. 
 
 I delight to think of the times when smoking was 
 an ornament of literature, a refreshment and repose 
 to the studious head; when Hobbes meditated, and 
 Cowle}' built his castles in those warmer clouds, and 
 Dr. Aldrich his quadrangles. In smoking, you may 
 think or not think, as you please. If the mind is ac- 
 tively employed, the pipe keeps it in a state of satis- 
 faction, supplies it with a side luxury, a soft ground 
 to work upon. If you w^ish to be idle, the successive 
 puffs take the place of thinking. There is a negative 
 activity in it, that fills up the place of real. Intruding 
 notions are met with a puff in their teeth, and puffed 
 into nothing. Studious men are subject to a working 
 and fermenting of thought, when their meditations 
 would fain be over : they cannot always cease meditat- 
 ing. Bacon was accustomed to takeadraughtof March 
 beer towards bedtime, to settle this asstuary of his 
 mind. I wonder he did not take a pipe, as a gentler 
 carrier off' of that uneasiness. Being a link between 
 thought and no tliought, one would imagine it would 
 have been a more advisable compromise with his state 
 of excitement than the dashing of one stream upon 
 another in that violent manner, and forcing: his nerves 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 249 
 
 to behave themselves. There are delicate heads, I 
 am aware, that cannot bear even a cigar. Smoking, 
 of any sort, makes too sudden an appeal to the con- 
 nection between their sensitive nerves and the stom- 
 ach ; produces what the doctor's call predigestion, and 
 is rebuked with a pujiishment of the weaker part, to 
 wit, the brain. Bacon's might have been such in his 
 old age, after all the service it had seen ; but I won- 
 der, on that account, that he resorted to the jolly and 
 fox-hunting succedaneum of beer. A walk w^ould 
 have been better. " After study walk a mile." The 
 object is to restore the blood gradually to motion, ar- 
 rested as it has been with many thoughts, and con- 
 fused when they let it go. Now a pipe is a more 
 
 gradual restorative than a drauijht. As it is a shad- 
 es cr> 
 
 owing off between thinking and no thinking, so it is a 
 preparer for sleep, and a reconciler with want of 
 company. 
 
 But the genius of smoking, being truly philosophi- 
 cal, has its love of society too : and then it resorts to 
 a cup. Among Mr. Stothard's agreeable designs 
 for the Spectator, there is one of the club over a table, 
 with their pipes and their wine. Captain Sentry is 
 going to light his pipe at the candle ; Sir Roger is 
 sitting with his knees apart, like the old gentleman I 
 have been describing, in the act of preparing his, — 
 perhaps thinking what a pretty tobacco-stopper the 
 widow's finger would have made. One longs to be 
 among them. As I never pass Covent Garden (and 
 I pass it very often) without thinking of all the old 
 coffee-houses and the wits, so I can never reflect, 
 without impatience, that there are no such meetings 
 
250 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 nowadays, and no coflee-room that looks as if it 
 would suit them. People confine themselves too 
 much to their pews and boxes. In former times 
 there was a more humane openness of intercourse. 
 Different parties had indeed their respective places 
 of resort ; a natural consequence of politics, perhaps 
 of letters ; but this prevented ungraceful quarrels. 
 Hostility might get in, but was obliged to behave itself. 
 Dryden, who was the object of attack to an increasing 
 horde of scribblers, was never insulted in his coffee- 
 house. Even the bravos of Lord Rochester, or who- 
 ever it was that had him waylaid in Rose Alley, did 
 not venture to disturb the peace of his symposium. 
 The room in which he sat is described as open to all 
 comers, and he occupied a prominent part in it. In 
 winter a place was sacred for him at the fireside. 
 
 I confess, if I were a wit, I would rather have a 
 room to myself and friends. I should like to be pub- 
 lic only in my books. But this is a taste origina- 
 ting in the times. Dryden was a modest man in his 
 intercourse ; and was never charged, I believe, 
 among all the accusations of vanity brought against 
 him, of being the vainer for frequenting a cofiee- 
 room. Being a lover of wits, I should like to see 
 the times alter in this respect, and the great men 
 of all parties become visible. But where could they 
 be so? Where could the pleasant fellows among 
 our existing Whigs and Tories take up one of their 
 respective tabernacles, and make a religion of our 
 going to hear them, and aspiring to a pinch out of 
 their snufi-boxes? I w^as thinking of this, as I 
 passed through Covent Garden the other evening. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 25 1 
 
 Above all, said I, where could we have the whole 
 warmth of the intercourse revived, the Spectator's 
 tobacco-pipe and all, especially when it is no longer 
 the fashion to drink wine? It would take a great 
 deal to fetch Englishmen again out of their boxes. 
 They do not allow smoking in the best coflee-houses ; 
 and where they do, so many other things are allowed, 
 that no gentleman would remain. Where shall I 
 place my imaginary coterie, and fancy myself listen- 
 ing to the Drydens and Addisons of the day? It 
 is the fashion now for your wilder writers in mag- 
 azines to patronize, or pretend to patronize, some 
 house of call, or vociferation, the mediocrity of which 
 shall give them an air of vigor and defiance in the 
 patronage, and prove them men of originality. There 
 is something pleasant in this where it is not an af- 
 fectation of superiority to prejudice, arising out of an 
 absolute sense to the contrary, and betraying itself 
 by a tone of bullying. But real or not, and with 
 all my regard for those honest houses, where the 
 only sophisticate thing is the presence of some of 
 their panegyrists, they will not do for the purpose 
 before us. Due is my consideration for the Dog and 
 the Coal-hole: pungent my sense of the Cheshire 
 Cheese : the Hole in the Wall has a snug appella- 
 tion ; and as for Dolly's Beef- Steak House^ great 
 would be my ingratitude, did I forget its hot pewter- 
 plate, new bread, floury potatoes, foaming pot of 
 porter, and perfect beefsteak. The man that cannot 
 enjoy a beefsteak there, can enjoy a stomach no- 
 where. But it is not what I was seeking the other 
 night. Neither is the Hummums, nor the Bedford, 
 
252 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 nor the Piazza, nor the Southampton, nor the 
 Salopian.* 
 
 During these meditations, I approach my friend 
 Gliddon's snutF and tobacco-shop, in King Street. 
 Ay, here, said I, is wherewithal to fill the boxes of the 
 Steeles and Congreves, and the pipes of the Aldriches 
 and Sir Roger de Coverleys. But where is the room 
 in which we can fancy them? Where is the coffee- 
 house to match? Where the union of a certain do- 
 mestic comfort with publicity, — journals of literature 
 as well as news, — a fire visible to all, — cups with- 
 out inebriety, — smoking without vulgarity? On a 
 sudden, I find carriages stopping at the door ; I rec- 
 ognize an acquaintance of mine, a member of Par- 
 liament, who does not easily come out of his way 
 to fill a snuff-box : I hear a gentleman inquiring 
 about the coffee-room, and '• whether Prince Ester- 
 hazy is to be turned away again b}^ a stress of com- 
 pany." I enter, and ask my old acquaintance what 
 miracle he has been about. He points to a board 
 in his shop, and then takes me thr(5ugh a door in 
 the wall into the very room that I v/as looking for. 
 It was rather two rooms thrown into one, and with 
 a fire in each; a divan of ample dimensions runs 
 
 * The Salopian House is immortalized in Elia's essay on The Praise of Chim- 
 ney- Sweepers. It was at the Southampton tavern that Hazlitt's " Coffee-House 
 Politicians " met to read the papers and discuss the news of the day. The Bed- 
 ford Coffee-House was frequented by Colman and Thornton, the lively authors of 
 the Connoisseur. "This coffee-house," says Mr. Town, in his survey of 
 London, " is every night crowded with men of parts. Almost every one you 
 meet is a polite scholar and a wit. Jokes and bon mots are echoed from box to 
 box; every branch of literature is critically examined, and the merits of every pro- 
 duction of Ihe press, or performance at the theatre, weighed and determined. " — 
 Connoi'tseur, No. i. — Ed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 253 
 
 round it; lamps of ground glass diffuse a soft, yet 
 sufficing light ; the floor is carpeted ; two cheerful 
 fires ofler double facility of approach, a twofold 
 provocation to poke and be self-possessed ; around 
 are small mahogany tables, with chairs, in addition 
 to the divan ; and in the midst of all, stands a large 
 one, profusely covered with the periodical works of 
 the day, newspapers, magazines, and publications 
 that come out in numbers. I sit down, and am 
 initiated with the hospitality due to an old friend, 
 in all the amenities of the place. A cigar and an 
 excellent cup of coffee are served. " But will you 
 have as good coftee at the end of the year?" — 
 " Can you ask me that question, Mr. Honeycomb * 
 — you, who have known me long.^" — ""Well, if 
 anybody that ever kept a shop can do it, it is you : 
 and I tell you what ; — if you do, depend upon it, 
 no success will be like yours. Good fortune produces 
 abuse of it ; but the abuse is always as impolitic, 
 compared with a genuine policy, as cunning is in- 
 ferior to wisdom. If there were any one shop in 
 London, in which the customer for a series of years 
 were sure to find one undeviating goodness of arti- 
 cle, the phenomenon would attract and retain all 
 eyes. And these cigars : the boy tells me they are 
 excellent also. Is this true.?" — "I can tell 
 you one thing they say of them, by which you may 
 judge for yourself; they say they are smuggled." — 
 " O, ho ! " 
 
 "And snatch a grace beyond the reach of law." 
 
 * This paper was published under the signature of Harry Honeycomb, a pre- 
 tended descendant of the famous Wil] Honeycomb of the Spectator. — Ed. 
 
254 ^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 You know how the law picked my pocket once. 
 Before that time, I was so tender of conscience, 
 that when I was at Hastings I would not pur- 
 chase a toy or a pair of gloves that was contra- 
 band ;• whereas nozu — I will not ask you to make 
 me certain whether the articles are smuggled or not 
 — say no more — rest your insinuating fame on that. 
 But a prettier-tasted cigar — a leaf with a finer tip of 
 flavor in it, — pi'ay, how many cigars might a man 
 smoke of an evening? I have a great mind to try. 
 But I must look at your publications. By the way, 
 you have no pipes, I see ; and I observe no bottles. 
 Have you neither pipes nor wine? " — ^' No, we are 
 exclusively cigar ; we have coffee, sherbet, lemonade, 
 all reasonable Oriental drinks to harmonize with our 
 divan, but nothing to disturb the peace of it. Thus 
 we secure a certain domestic elegance in-doors, and 
 can prevent drunkards from coming in to get drunker. 
 A gentleman may come from his dining or drawing- 
 room, and still find himself in a manner at home. 
 Besides, a cigar is the mildest as well as most fash- 
 ionable form of tobacco-taking ; and as it is no longer 
 the mode to drink wine, wine is not sought after." * 
 
 * In the article entitled Of the Sight of Shops, as published in the original 
 edition of the Indicator, there is a very graceful and handsome mention of Mr. 
 Honeycomb's friend Gliddon.of King Street, formerly of No. 31 Tavistock Street. 
 
 " We presume that snuff-takers delight to solace themselves with a pinch of 
 Thirty-seven ; and we accordingly do so in imagination at our friend Gliddon's in 
 Tavistock Street, who is a higher kind of Lilly to the Indicator, — our papers lying 
 among the piquant snuffs, as those of our illustrious predecessor The Tatler did 
 among Mr. Lilly's perfumes at the corner of Beaufort Buildings. Since the 
 peace with France, the shops of our tobacconists have become as amusing as 
 print-shops ; though not always, it must be confessed, in a style of delicacy be- 
 coming their enamoured boxes. At our friend's in Tavistock Street everything is 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 255 
 
 — " That is all verygood for you ; but for me, who 
 have been castnig a wistful eye, as I came along, at 
 the old haunts of Sir Roger and his friends, I confess 
 it is a drawback on a certain fancy I had, when I first 
 came in. However, we must consider what Steele 
 and Addison would have liked had they lived now, 
 and witnessed the effect of the Spectators of other men. 
 It is they that have helped to ruin their own pipes and 
 wine, and given us a greater taste for literature and 
 domesticity; and I comfort myself with concluding, 
 that they would have come here, at least after their 
 bottle, to take their coffee and look over your papers 
 and magazines. There he sits, over the way, — 
 Steele, I mean, — the man with the short face ; for I 
 perceive there is wit at that table. Opposite him is 
 Addison, in black, looking something like a master 
 in chancery. The handsome man, always on the gig- 
 gle, must be Rowe ; and the other one, an officer, is 
 Colonel Brett. But who is this tall formal personage 
 coming up ? Look at him, — the very man, Ambrose 
 Phillips. Who would think that his muse was a lit- 
 tle dancer in octosyllables, — a dandier of young 
 ladies of quality.^ " 
 
 Mine host left me alone to complete my initiation. 
 Another cup of coffee was brought me, and five sev- 
 eral publications ; to wit, a newspaper, a twopenny 
 sheet, a nuinber to be continued, a magazine, and a 
 review ; for I am fond of having too many books at 
 
 managed in a way equally delicate and cordial ; and while the leisurely man of 
 taste buys his Paris or his Indicator, the busier one may learn how to set up his 
 gas-light in good classicil style, and both see how completely even a woman of 
 true feelings, can retain the easiest and pleasantest good-breeding in the midst 
 of observant eyes and humble occupitiou." — liu. 
 
256 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 once. I looked over these, and then, contented with 
 the power to read them further, continued giviftg 
 bland puffs to my cigar, and speculating around me. 
 The conversations were maintained in very quiet 
 and gentlemanly tones : now and then was heard 
 the sound of a leaf turning over; sometimes a hem, 
 consequential or otherwise ; my own puffs were al- 
 ways distinguishable to myself; and at intervals I 
 could discern those of others, and hear the social 
 crackling of the fire. No noisy altercation here ; no 
 sanded floors or cold feet ; no impatient waiting for the 
 newspaper ; * while the person in possession keeps 
 it the longer because you wait : all is warm, easy, 
 quiet, abundant, satisfactory. 
 
 I conclude the principal visitors of the divan to be 
 theatre-goers, officers who have learnt to love a cigar 
 on service, men of letters, and men of fortune who 
 have a taste for letters, and can wdiirl themselves from 
 their own firesides to these. If you are in the city, on 
 business, go for a steak to Dolly's ; if midway between 
 City and West End, go to the first clean-looking lar- 
 der you come to ; if a man of fashion, and you must 
 dine in your altitudes, go to the Clarendon ; but after 
 any of these, man of fashion or not, go if you can, and 
 get your cigar and your cup of coffee at Gliddon's. 
 It is finishing with a grace and a repose. 
 
 By the way, I spent a pretty afternoon the other 
 day. It was a complete thing, one thing excepted : 
 but — she's at Paris. I dined, I will not say how 
 
 * As at Nando's. " What an eternal time that gentleman in black, at Nan- 
 do's, keeps the paper 1 I am sick of hearing the waiters bawling out incessantly. 
 •The Chronicle is in hand, sir.'" — Elia's Detached Thoughts on Book* and 
 Reading. — • Ed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 257 
 
 early ; but took only a couple glasses of wine ; which 
 will retrieve my character on that point. I then made 
 tour of the book-stalls, at Covent-Garden ; bought 
 some comedies and a Catullus ; went to the theatre, 
 and saw Der Frevschutz and Charles the Second ; re- 
 issued from among the perukes, with a gallant sense 
 about my head and shoulders, as if I carried one my- 
 self; went and settled my faculties over a cup of the 
 New Monthly atGliddon's ; got home by eleven (fori 
 would not go to a party where she was not) ; and fell 
 to sleep at the words " Lulling hope," in a song I am 
 writing:. ' 1826. 
 
 WIT MADE EASY, OR A HINT TO WORD- 
 CATCHERS. 
 
 A. Here comes B., the liveliest yet most tiresome 
 of word-catchers. I wonder whether he'll have wit 
 enough to hear good news of his mistress. Well, B., 
 my dear boy, I hope I see you well. 
 
 ^. I hope you do, my dear A., otherv/ise you have 
 lost your eyesight. 
 
 A. Good. Well, how do you do.? 
 
 ^. How ? Why, as other people do. You would 
 not have me eccentric, would you ? 
 
 A. Nonsense. I mean how do you find yourself? 
 
 ^. Find myself. Where's the necessity of finding 
 myself.? I have not been lost. 
 
 A. Incorrigible dog ! Come now, to be serious. 
 
 17 
 
258 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 {B. coijies closer to A, and looks very serious.) 
 
 A. Well, what now? 
 
 B. I am come to be serious. 
 
 A. Come, now ; nonsense, B. ; leave off this. 
 {^Laying his hand on his arm.) 
 
 B {looki^ig down at his arui). I can't leave off 
 this. It would look very absurd to go without a 
 sleeve. 
 
 A. Ah, ha ! You make me laugh, in spite of my- 
 self. How's Jackson? 
 
 B. The deuce ! How's Jackson ! Well, I never 
 should have thought that. How can Howe be Jack- 
 son? " Surname and arms," I suppose, of some rich 
 uncle? I have not seen him gazetted? 
 
 A. Good by. 
 
 B. {^detaining hi?n) . " Good by 1 " What a sud- 
 den enthusiasm in favor of some virtuous man of the 
 name of By ! "Good by!" To think of Ashton 
 standing at the corner of the street, doting aloud on 
 the integrity of a Mr. By ! 
 
 A. Ludicrous enough. I can't help laughing, I 
 confess. But laughing does not always imply merri- 
 ment. You do not delight us, Jack, with these sort 
 of jokes, but tickle us ; and tickling may give pain. 
 
 B. Don't accept it, then. You need not take 
 everything that is given you. 
 
 A. You'll want a straight-forward answer some 
 day, and then — 
 
 B. You'll describe a circle about me, before you 
 give it. Well, that's your affair, not mine. You'll 
 astonish the natives, that's all. 
 
 A. It's great nonsense, you must allow. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 259 
 
 B. I can't see why it is greater nonsense than any 
 other pronoun. 
 
 A. {in despair). Well, it's of no use, I see. 
 
 B. Excuse me : it is of the very greatest use. I 
 don't know a part of speech more useful. It performs 
 all the greatest offices of nature, and contains, in fact, 
 the whole agency and mystery of the world. It rains. 
 It is fine weather. It freezes. It thaws. It (which 
 is very odd) is one o'clock. " It has been a very 
 frequent observation." It goes. Here it goes. How 
 goes it.-* — (wdiich, by the way, is a translation from 
 the Latin Eo., is it ; Eo., I go ; is thou goest ; it, he or 
 it goes." In short — 
 
 A. In short, if I wanted a dissertation on it, now's 
 the time for it. But I don't ; so good by. ( Going.) 
 — I saw Miss ]M last night. 
 
 B. The devil you did ! Where was it? 
 
 A. {to himself). Now I have him, and will re- 
 venge myself. Where was it, eh.? O, you must 
 know a great deal more about it than I do ! 
 
 B, Nay, my dear fellow, do tell me. I'm on 
 thorns. 
 
 A. On thorns ! very odd thorns. I never saw a 
 thorn look so like a pavement. 
 
 B. Come, now, to be serious. 
 
 {A. comes close to B.^ and looks t?'ag-ic.) 
 B. He, he ! very fair, egad. But do tell me where 
 was she. How did she look? Who was with her? 
 
 A. O, ho I Hoo was with her, was he.? Well, I 
 wanted to know his name. I could not tell who the 
 devil it was. But I say, Jack, who's Hoo.? 
 
 B. Good. He, he ! Devilish fair ! But now, 
 
26o THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 my dear Will, for God's sake, you know how inter- 
 ested I am. 
 
 A. The deuce you are ! I always took you for a 
 disinterested fellow. I always said of Jack B., Jack's 
 apt to overdo his credit for wit ; but a more honest, 
 disinterested fellow I never met with. 
 
 ^. Well, then, as you think so, be merciful. Where 
 is Miss M ? 
 
 A. This is more astonishing news than any. Ware 
 
 is Miss M . I know her passion for music ; but 
 
 this is wonderful. Good heavens ! To think of a 
 delicate young lady dressing herself in man's clothes, 
 and going about as a musician under the name of 
 Ware. 
 
 B. Now, my dear Will, consider. I acknowledge 
 I have been tiresome ; I confess it is a bad habit, this 
 word-catching ; but consider my love. 
 
 {^A. falls into an attitude of musing.^ 
 B. Well. 
 
 A. Don't interrupt me. I am considering your 
 love. 
 
 B. I repent ; I am truly sorry. What shall I 
 do? {^Laying his hand on his heart.) I'll give up 
 this cursed habit. 
 
 A. You will.^ Upon honor? 
 
 B. Upon my honor. 
 
 A. On the spot? 
 
 B. Now, this instant. Now and forever ! 
 
 A, Strip away, then. 
 
 B. Strip ! For what? 
 
 A. You said you'd give up that cursed habit. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 261 
 
 B. Now, my dear A., for the love of everything 
 that is sacred, for the love of your own love. 
 
 A, Well, you promise me sincerely ? 
 
 B. Heart and soul ! 
 
 A. Step over the way, then, into the coffee-house, 
 and I'll tell you. 
 
 Street Sweeper. Please, your honor, pray remem- 
 ber the poor swape. 
 
 B. My friend, I'll never forget you, if that will 
 be of any service. I'll think of you next year. 
 
 A, What, again .^ 
 
 B. The last time, as I hope to be saved. Here, 
 my friend, there's a shilling for you. Charity covers 
 a multitude of bad jokes. 
 
 Street Sweeper. God send your honor thousands 
 of them. 
 
 B. The jokes or the shillings, you rascal } 
 
 Street Sweeper. Och, the shillings. Divil a bit 
 the bad jokes. I can make them myself, and a shil- 
 ling's no joke, anyhow. 
 
 A. What? really silent.? and in spite of the dog's 
 equivocal Irish face.? Come, B., I now see you can 
 give up a jest, and art really in love ; and your mis- 
 tress, I will undertake to say, will not be sorry to 
 be convinced of both. Women like to begin with 
 merriment well enough ; but they think ill of a man 
 who cannot come to a grave conclusion. 
 1825. 
 
262 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 THE FENCIxXG-MASTER'S CHOICE. 
 
 AS we have a great aversion to the repetition 
 of old jokes, and in our ignorance of what 
 is going forward in the festive parts of the town, 
 can never be certain that any story we take for a 
 new one is not well known, we always feel inclined 
 to preface a relation of this kind with something 
 that should serve for an apology in case of necessi- 
 ty, or give it a new grace in default of newness of 
 a better sort. And this reflection always reminds 
 us of that pl-easant Milanese, whom nature made a 
 wag and a jolly fellow, and Francis the First made 
 a bishop ; to wit. Master Matthew Bandello, the 
 best Italian novelist, after Boccaccio, and one who 
 could tell a grave story as well as a merry one. 
 Monsignore Matteo, before he proceeds to relate 
 how '"'' a jealous enamoured himself" of a young 
 widow, or how a pleasant " beff'"' was put upon a 
 priest who became "furious of it," and "remained 
 stordited," makes a point of informing the reader 
 where he first heard the story, who told it, and in 
 whose company, and how much better it was told 
 than he, with his Lombardisms, can have any pre- 
 tence to repeat it ; on all which accounts he wishes 
 to God, that people could have heard it fresh from 
 the lips of that very amiable and magnificent Sig- 
 nor, the before-mentioned Signor Antonio, whom he 
 recollects as if it was but yesterday, because he was 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 263 
 
 standing at the time with a right joyous and gen- 
 teel company by the balustrade of the gardens of 
 the very illustrious and most adorned Signor, his 
 singularly noble friend the Signor Gherardesco dei 
 Gherardi, Conte di Cuviano, where there happened 
 to be present the ladies equally eminent for their 
 high birth and most excellent endowments, to wit, 
 the right courteous, virtuous, and most beautiful la- 
 dies the Lady Vittoria, Princess of Colombano, and 
 the Lady Hippolita d'Este, widow of the most valor- 
 ous and magnificent Signor, the ever-memorable Al- 
 fonso, Prince of Ferrara ; which ladies, being very 
 affectionate towards all argute sayings and witty deeds, 
 did nigh burst themselves for laughter, in the which 
 the very illustrious Signor Gherardesco aforesaid did 
 heartily join, to the great contentment of that princely 
 company, and all who overheard those urbane con- 
 ceits and most graceful phrases, which he (the bishop) 
 utterly despairs of rendering anything the like to the 
 reader. But he will do his best; and as the story is 
 exceedingly curious (to wit, a little free), he had ad- 
 dressed it to the right virtuous and most adorned with 
 all feminine dowries, the Lady Lucretia di San Don- 
 nato, in return for one of a like nature which she was 
 graciously pleased to relate to him one day ; to wit, on 
 the eve of the day of Corpus Domini, sitting in the 
 windows of the Palazzo Rospoli, at that time inhabit- 
 ed by the very magnificent, most adorned, and most 
 worthily given Signor, the Signor Prince Cesare Otto- 
 boni, nephew of the most Holy Father. 
 
 By this process, the reader feels bound to like the 
 story, if only out of a proper sense of the company he 
 
264 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 is in, and the respect that is due to all those fair and 
 magnificent names ; and then follows the novella^ or 
 new tale, perhaps not at all new, and no longer than 
 the one we are about to relate. 
 
 We should like to call to ourselves an aid of this 
 sort, and be able at the head of every one of our stories 
 to state how it was told us by this person or that ; how 
 that, sitting one day in the gardens of Kensington, at 
 a time when the dust of the streets rendered an escape 
 into those green and quiet places agreeable, we had 
 the pleasure of hearing it from the lips of that very 
 adorned and witty Mister, the Reverend Mister Sam- 
 uel Smith, or the extremely magnificent and choice in 
 his neckcloths, the admired Mr. Tomlinson ; or how, 
 dining with the very magnificent and grave Esquire, 
 the Squire Jinks, of Jinlcs Hall, it was related to usby 
 the facetious and extremely skilled in languages, the 
 bachelor of arts, the hopeful Dick Watts, cousin of 
 the high born and most beautiful lady, the Lady Bar- 
 bara Jinks, consort of the said esquire, who, being at 
 that moment in the act of swallowing a cherry, was 
 nigh to have thrown all the lovers of wit and elegance 
 in those parts into mourning, in consequence of the 
 extreme diflficulty she found in swallowing the fruit 
 and the facetiosity at once. 
 
 The story is this : that in the year of cur Lord one 
 thousand seven hundred and ninety-nine, the celebrat- 
 ed fencing -master. Monsieur de la Rue, being at that 
 time fencing-master to the gentlemen of the University 
 of Cambridge, and grievously tormented in his voca- 
 tion by the said gentlemen, who made no end of mim- 
 icking his grimaces, groaning out Df measure at his 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 265 
 
 thrusts, not repenting at his remonstrances, and show- 
 ing themselves otherwise insensible of the dignity and 
 painstaking of his profession, did one day, towards 
 the end of the month of June, the weather being hot, 
 the said Monsieur de la Rue in his jacket and night- 
 cap, and divers of the said gentlemen standing idly 
 about, laughing and making a vain sport, instead of 
 pinking him, as they ought to have done, — he, the 
 said Monsieur de la Rue, did, I say, then and there sit 
 down on the floor in the room in which he was fen- 
 cing, and placing, one on each side of him, the two foils 
 which he then happened to be holding in his hands, 
 and being provoked out of the ordinary measure of 
 his patience by the eternal gibes and ungrateful levi- 
 ties of those his tormentors, the said gentlemen, was 
 moved to utter the following speech, or represen- 
 tation expostulatory ; which he did with great passion 
 and vehemence, his eyes wide open, his hands and 
 face trembling, and emphasis rising at every sen- 
 tence : — 
 
 *' Jentlemens, — 
 
 " If Got Almaighty — vere to come down from Jiev- 
 ven^ — and vere to say to me, ' Monsieur de la Rue^ 
 
 — vill you be fencing-master at Osford or Cambreege, 
 
 — or vill you be etairnally dam? ' — 
 " I should answer and say, — 
 
 " ' Sare, — if it is all the same to you, — I vill be 
 
 ETAIRNALI.Y dam/ " 
 
 IS28. 
 
266 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 TWILIGHT ACCUSED AND DEFENDED. 
 
 A MONSTROUS thing has happened. Here is 
 a correspondent of ours, and a pleasant one too, 
 and witty withal, aiming a blow at our gentle friend, 
 Twilight ! What possible mood could he liave been 
 in? Did he expect a friend who had disappointed 
 him? or a new book? or a letter? Was his last bot- 
 tle of wine out? Or did he want his tea? Or was 
 he reading and could not go on, the servant not being 
 in the way to bring candles? Or was the evening 
 rainy? Or had he said anything wrong to any one 
 else, and so was out of temper? Or had he been 
 reading something about twilight, badly written, a 
 " twaddle," and so was disposed to go to an extreme 
 the other way, and be perverse in his wit? His first 
 verse looks like it. Or had he a toothache? or a 
 headache? or nothing to do? Or had his fire gone 
 out? 
 
 We should almost as soon have expected a blow 
 from him at gentleness itself, as at our gentle dusk 
 friend, the mildest and most unpresuming of the 
 Hours, meek, yet genial withal, like some loving Mes- 
 tiza^ or Quadroon, something between fair and dark, 
 or dusk and dusker, who, by her sweet middle tone 
 between merit and the want of pretension, and by 
 having nothing to arrogate, and much to be prized, 
 charms the amorous heart of some contemplative 
 West Indian, who is tired out between the flare of 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 267 
 
 his whiter favorites, and the iindiscerning presump- 
 tion of his black. Certain it is, that, vehemently 
 howsoever he speaketh, we hold him not to be in 
 earnest (the less so by reason of that enormity) ; 
 but, in order to prevent the peril of any false con- 
 clusions, in minds accustomed not to such facetious 
 perversity, and still more to take the opportunity of 
 vindicating the character of our' gentle friend, and 
 make our correspondent remorseful the next- time 
 he sees her (for having even appeared to treat her 
 ill), we have thought it incumbent upon us to fol- 
 low up his hard v/ords with others more fitly soft 
 and overwhelmingly balmy. O, there is nothing like 
 defending a good easy cause, and a tender-hearted 
 client ! It makes one, somehow, so sure of triumph, 
 so able to trample on one's enemy with the softest 
 foot and the most generous reputation — so gifted 
 (dare we say it?) with the pleasure of malignity by 
 the very exercise of benevolence. Mark you, dear 
 reader, with what a tender savageness we will set 
 him down. Yet he rails in good set terms. There 
 is no denying that. Far be it from us to deny it, 
 who shall only gain the greater praise from our ref- 
 utation. Hear him how he sets out with the ingen- 
 ious impudence of his pun and his alliteration : — 
 
 A TRIMMING FOR TWILIGHT. 
 
 How I despise the twaddle about twilight. 
 That most unserviceable sort of sky-light ; 
 Weak, wavering gleam, that, wending on its way 
 Towards the night, still lingers with the day. 
 
268 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Twilight's a half-and-half affair, that would 
 With all its heart be moonlight if it could ; 
 Dim, but not dark ; you pause at the bell handles ; 
 , 'Tis scarce worth while to conquer it with candles. 
 
 Twilight is eve grown gray before its time, 
 Mystified mummer, aping the sublime . 
 
 Day with its eye half closed, and half a-peep ; 
 The afternoon, making believe to sleep. 
 
 'Tis like that forming frown yet undefined 
 That yon half-smiling female face has got, 
 As though it hadn't quite made up its mind 
 Whether it should look angrily or not. 
 
 Twilight's an interloper in the sky ; 
 The face of nature painted with one eye : 
 Something between blank darkness and broad light, 
 Like dotard day coquetting with young night. 
 
 A dame passe, who, growing old and wan, 
 Affects to veil the charms she feels are gone ; 
 Knowing her day is o'er, the wily jade 
 Inwraps the ruin where the sunshine play'd. 
 
 Lovers love twilight, but I'm not a lover ; 
 And why f/tey love it I could ne'er discover ; 
 For light is passion's parent : do ye deem 
 Beauty no debtor to the radiant beam 
 That lamps its loveliness ; say, can we know 
 That beauty lives, and one bright glance forego ? 
 Or, is't a fancy of love's selfish art, 
 To close the eyes, and see but with the heart? 
 
 Haply 'tis so ; in love's delirious trance. 
 The raptured soul, grown jealous of the glance 
 That has a joy beyond it, dims the light 
 To lend to young imagination sight. 
 
 Fancy, that peoples darkness with bright rays, 
 And makes a darkness that it thus may gaze : 
 How is't that ^z/^rj/ feehng, fond, intense, 
 Tempts us to lose a while our visual sense? 
 
 Is it superfluous ? We drink love through it ; 
 'Tis then in us ; we can no longer view it 
 By gazing outwards ; now, a glance to win, 
 Our eyelids close, and turn their sense within. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 269 
 
 This is digressive, b.ut enough for nie ; 
 
 Lovers, in fact, are no authority' ; 
 
 So, as I said at first, old twaddling twilight, 
 
 Be still the lover's gleam, you shan't be my light. 
 
 Thou'rt day declared a bankrupt, offering round 
 A dividend of ten-pence in the pound : 
 Plague take such compositions; I'll for one 
 Have twenty shillings' worth of Ught or none. 
 
 Not daybreak, but day broken ; light fades fast ; 
 Do as thou wilt, thou'rt sure to fail at last. 
 " Come, sealing night," before thee twilight flies ; 
 Put out the mocker with your starry eyes. 
 Dusky-hued coward ! hast begun the race, 
 Dar'st thou not look Dame Dian in the face? 
 
 Now flickering fainter, now more darkly dull, 
 " I, that am cruel, am yet merciful ; 
 I would not have thee linger in thy pain : " 
 Come, light the candles ; struggle not, — 'tis vain. 
 
 Is that thy shadow, lingering on the moor ? 
 
 No matter ; you shall never come in-door. 
 
 The stars come out at thee, pale day-diminisher ; 
 
 Now the moon gleams at full, — ay, that' s a finisher. 
 
 Beneath the hillock's shadow, cloaked in gray. 
 Cautiously creep before the light away ; 
 But when the morning moon grows sick and pale, 
 Then, stealthy stepper, come across the vale. 
 
 Child of the mist, isthmus 'twixt light and shade 1 
 Shadow of Chaos, from which earth was made 1 
 Day dying of decline ! doubt-dreaming ray 1 
 Thy presence saddens me — away — away ! 
 
 W. L. R. 
 
 " Away — away ! " Our correspondent must have 
 been in a great hurry, to speak thus to the poor gentle 
 twihght, which has not a w^ord to say for itself, unless 
 it be the muftin-bell, the next thing in humbleness of 
 sound to the sheep-bell. We take him to be a prodi- 
 giously active and eager spirit, with an ultra flow of 
 health and life, and never easy but when occupied, 
 
270 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 perhaps not then, unless the occupation perfectly suits 
 him. But he has a soul withal ; you may know it 
 even by what is implied in his style of abuse ; and 
 therefore it is not the twilight he hates, but the ab- 
 sence of something which he wanted instead of it. 
 Yes; assuredly he has been "snubbing" the poor 
 Qiiadroon, like some lordly planter, because some- 
 body else has not brought him his sangaree. 
 
 He lets — we cannot say the " cat out of the bag " 
 — but the dove out of the cage — in what he says 
 about lovers. He tells us he is " no lover," merely in 
 order to avoid what he knows to be conclusive against 
 him ; and, in fact, he runs into a digression about love, 
 on purpose to disprove his own argument. Besides, 
 if he happens to be so limited or so unlucky in his 
 circle of acquaintances as to be in love with nobody, 
 he must love all sorts of lovable things, otherwise 
 how could he write so well about loving? and if a 
 man loves anything at all, he must needs love so mild 
 and loving a thing as the twilight. (Here are a great 
 many repetitions of the word " love ; " but it is a 
 pleasant note, and will bear reiteration like the night- 
 ingale's.) 
 
 Furthermore, in this passage of our correspondent's 
 about love, compared with certain letters which he 
 has written to us privately, urging us to give an arti- 
 cle on Coleridge, we have detected him in the fact of 
 his disingenuousness ; for this very passage has mani- 
 festly been suggested by some stanzas of that favorite 
 of his, in the poem entitled the Day-Dream. It is a 
 lover's picture of twilight in a room, and is so beauti- 
 ful and true, that it might serve alone, as an answer 
 to all the stanzas of this pretending rogue : — 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 27I 
 
 " My eyes make pictures, when they are shut : — 
 I see a fountain, large and fair, 
 A willow and a ruined hut, 
 
 And thee, and me, and Mary there. 
 
 Mary ! make thy gentle lap our pillow ! 
 
 Bend o'er us, like a bovver, my beautiful green willow ! 
 
 ******* 
 The shadows dance upon the wall. 
 
 By the still dancing iirc-flames made ; 
 And now they slumber, moveless all ! 
 
 And now they melt to one deep shade ! 
 But not from me shall this mild darkness steal thee ; 
 
 1 dream thee with mine eyes, and at my heart I feel thee ! " 
 
 Very beautiful and spiritual, and truly loving. But 
 lovers, the most honorable and delicate, have a trick 
 of taking other advantages of the good-natured twi- 
 light ; and the poet goes on to let us know as much : — 
 
 "Thine eyelash on ray cheek doth play." 
 
 Far be it from us to deny the merits of light and see- 
 ing. Beauty was surely meant to be seen as well as 
 loved, or why is it so beautiful.^ But it is a maxim 
 with us never to deny the merits of one good thing 
 because there is another ; and twilight, where love is, 
 has its loveliness also, as well as lamp and daylight. 
 One of the greatest tests of true love is the sense of 
 joy imparted by the mere presence of the beloved 
 object, apart from light, speech, or anything else ; and 
 twilight, somehow, rewards us for the sincerity and 
 generosity of this feeling, by bringing us nearer to the 
 object of our affection, in its abolition of interme- 
 diate objects, and a general sense of its mild embrace- 
 ment. 
 
 Come — let us consider what our correspondent 
 w^ould say further in behalf of the twilight, if he 
 
272 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 were in the humor for it. We wish we had time to 
 say it in verse ; but here we heave a great sigh (one 
 of the sighs of our Hfe) ; and as we always feel 
 ashamed of sighing in the midst of this beautiful 
 creation (of which to be able to discern a millionth 
 part of the beauties, is to waken up as many con- 
 solatory angels, who lie in wait to become visible to 
 loving eyes), we shall proceed to express ourselves 
 in our accustomed prose, from which, at all events, 
 the love of what is poetical cannot be excluded. 
 
 TwJlio^ht is the time between li^ht and darkness, 
 when the facility aObrded for action by the daylight 
 is over, and the aid of candle-light, for the renewal 
 of action, aw^aits our pleasure to renew it or not. 
 It is therefore the precise time, of all others, vvhich 
 seems designed by nature for meditation. We say, 
 by nature ; for though we hold it to be man's nature 
 to be artificial as well as natural, yet it is natural 
 for him, being a thinking being, to "take pause;" 
 and nature, in this gentlest and most intermediate 
 hour, seems to offer it him. The greatest part of 
 his duty is over (we hold, that in a more civilized 
 state of society it will all be over, except for pur- 
 poses of entertainment) ; he cannot see to work ; he 
 cannot see to travel very actively ; his very book be- 
 gins to fail him, unless he has determined to keep up 
 the train of his reading, and goes nearer and nearer 
 to the window, and at last he must give it up. He 
 is therefore thrown upon his meditations. 
 
 Now " think a little." 
 
 Not of your cares, dear reader, if you can help it ; not 
 of your work ; not of other people's faults ; not of your 
 
ESSAYS AXD SKETCHES. 
 
 273 
 
 own. There is time enough to attend to those, when 
 we have more light — unless, indeed, you do it in great 
 charity, first towards the faults of others, and then 
 towards yourself (having earned the right), and al- 
 ways provided you end, as indeed you must, if true 
 charity meditates with you, in resolutions befitting 
 the mildness and considerateness of the hour. We 
 would not even have you think of the sufferingfs of 
 others, provided you think of them at any other 
 time, and do what you can to help them. Twi- 
 light is a placid hour, and you must entertain it 
 with placidity or not at all. You must have so 
 acted, or so wished to act, at other times, as to be 
 able to give gentle welcome to gentle guest. You 
 must be worthy of the twilight. 
 
 (Here our correspondent gives a great wince ; and 
 begins to inquire of his conscience, whether he has 
 ever cracked any one's skull, or written any im- 
 piety except the above.) 
 
 Now let us think of all mild and lovingr thinsfs — 
 of our childhood, of the fields, of our best friends, 
 of twilight itself and its shadows, of the quiet of 
 our fireside, and the fanciful things we see in the 
 glowing coals, of the poets who have spoken of 
 evening, of the beauty of stillness, of scenes of rural 
 comfort, of the travels of the winds and clouds, of 
 stories of good angels, nay, of dear friends whom 
 we have lost, provided we have lost them long 
 enough or loved them well enoujfh to consider them 
 with reference to the beauty of their own spirit 
 rather than to their absence from ourselves. Per- 
 haps they are commissioned to be good angels over 
 18 
 
274 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 US : — perhaps they are now this minute in the room, 
 smiling in the certainty of their own lovingness, and 
 the knowledge of our future good ; a}-, and (as far as 
 their sympathy with our present struggles will per- 
 mit) smiling to think even how startled we should be 
 to see them, if it were within Heaven's knowledge of 
 what is best for us that we should do so. For God is 
 the author of mirth as well as seriousness, and consid- 
 ering what security of belief in good there must be in 
 celestial natures, we may conceive some little stoop- 
 ing to it even in the happiness of heav'enly cheeks. 
 
 '' Let us think " of that, and of all other possibilities 
 beyond the regions of mere earthly utility, not except- 
 ing it nevertheless. It is the privilege of the imagina- 
 tive, that they include everything which is good, besides 
 seeing a germ of it at the core of the thorniest evil. 
 
 We put these words, '^ let us think," within marks 
 of quotation, for a reason very proper to mention in 
 this place ; for we scarcely ever begin meditating at 
 twiligfht without callino^ them to mind as uttered to 
 us by the beloved parent to whom we are indebted for 
 most of our aspirations after anything useful or beau- 
 tiful. She would say to us sometimes at this hour, 
 when our spirits appeared to her to be a little too in- 
 cessant, " Come — let us think a little." And then 
 we used to sit down on a stool at her side, and look 
 at the fire, and be led into a sedate mood by some 
 story she woidd tell us of her own mother, or of the 
 sea, or of some great and good people of old. 
 
 So now this is good hushing time, is it not, reader.? 
 and fit for keeping a little from the candles ; and not 
 what our ultra lively friend (now growing remorseful) 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 375 
 
 would make of it. You and we are sitting on each 
 side of the fireplace, one of us with a knee between 
 his hands, the other with a child between his knees, 
 and there is a fair friend with us, and we are all as 
 quiet as mice, our faces lit up by the fire, and our 
 shadows shifting on the wall. When we speak, it is in 
 a low voice ; for twilight has this also in common with 
 the sweetest of its friends : — 
 
 " Its voice is ever soft, gentle and low — 
 An excellent thing in Twilight." 
 
 W. L. R. shall come in among us, if he is " very 
 good." 
 
 W. L. R. You see before you, sir, a penitent. 
 
 Writer. I see before me a suspicious quoter of 
 impudent plays. 
 
 W. L. R. I appeal to the lady's face, sir. 
 
 Writer. O, you're a very cunning appellant, sir, 
 and the lady's face will get you a pardon for anything. 
 — There — don't tumble over the little boy. But 
 with what face you can come in, after saying you are 
 " no lover " — 
 
 W. L. R. Excuse me. Whatever I might have 
 said before, real or pretended, and whatever new pre- 
 sumption I may be guilty of now, nobody can look 
 on this lady's face without — 
 
 Writer. Hush, hush ; not so very loud and enthu- 
 siastic. {All lai/or/i.) You see how little he was in 
 earnest. The moment he hears of a comfortable party 
 and a charming woman, he is for being in the midst 
 of it, twilight and all, — Come, as we are Christian 
 people, we will give him, by way of penance, what 
 shall be no penance at all. He shall recite to us Cole- 
 
276 
 
 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ridge's poem, entitled Frost at Midnight. There 
 is mention in it of a fireside and of the little fluttering 
 film on the bars before us ; and the spirit of the whole 
 piece is suited to the occasion, quiet, reflective, and 
 universal. The last line is the perfection of ideal 
 sympathy. 
 
 IV. L. R. (Suppressing the vehemence of his en- 
 thusiasm, in order to recite with a gentleness fitted to 
 the lines, and gradually growing softer and more sea- 
 sonable, till nothing can be better given.) 
 
 FROST AT MIDNIGHT. 
 
 The frost performs its secret ministry, 
 Unhelped by any wind. The owlet's cry 
 Came loud — and hark, again ! loud as before. 
 The inmates of my cottage, all at rest, 
 Have left me to that solitude, which suits 
 Abstruser musings : save that at my side 
 My cradled infant slumbers peacefully. 
 'Tis calm indeed ! so calm, that it disturbs 
 And vexes meditation with its strange 
 And extreme silentness. Sea, hill, and wood, 
 This populous village '. Sea, and hill, and wood, 
 With all the numberless goings on of life, 
 Inaudible as dreams ! the thin blue flame 
 Lies on my low-burnt fire, and quivers not ; 
 Only that film, which fluttered on the grate, 
 Still flutters there, the sole unquiet thing. 
 Methinks, its motion in this hush of nature 
 Gives it dim sympathies with me who live, 
 Making it a companionable form, 
 Whose puny flaps and freaks the idling spirit 
 By its own moods interprets, everywhere 
 Echo or mirror seeking of itself, 
 And makes a toy of thought. 
 
 But O ! how oft. 
 
 How oft, at school, with most believing mind, 
 
 Presageful, have I gazed upon the bars. 
 
 To watch that fluttering stranger 1 and as oft 
 
 With unclosed lids, already had I dreamt 
 
 Of my sweet birth-place, and the old church-tower, 
 
1834. 
 
 ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 277 
 
 Whose bells, the poor man's only music, rang 
 From morn to evening, all the hot Fair-day, 
 So sweetly, that they stirred and haunted me 
 With a wild pleasure, falling on mine ear 
 Most like articulate sounds of things to come ! 
 So gazed I, till the soothing things I dreamt 
 Lulled me to sleep, and sleep prolonged my dreams ! 
 And so I brooded all the following morn, 
 Awed by the stern preceptor's face, mine eye 
 Fixed with mock study on my swimming book: 
 Save if the door half opened, and I snatched 
 A hasty glance, and still my heart leaped up, 
 For still I hoped to see the stranger's face, 
 Townsman, or aunt, or sister more beloved, 
 My playnaate when we both were clothed alike ! 
 Dear babe, that sleepest cradled by my side, 
 Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, 
 Fill up the interspersed vacancies 
 And momentary pauses of the thought : 
 My babe so beautiful ! it thrills my heart 
 With tender gladness, thus to look at thee, 
 And think that thou shalt learn far other lore 
 And in far other scenes ! For I was reared 
 In the great city, pent 'mid cloisters dim. 
 And saw nought lovely but the sky and stars. 
 But thou, my babe '. shalt wander like a breeze 
 By lakes and sandy shores, beneath the crags 
 Of ancient mountain, and beneath the clouds, 
 Which image in their bulk both lakes and shores 
 And mountain crags : so shalt thou see and hear 
 The lovely shapes and sounds intelligible 
 Of that eternal language, which thy God 
 Utters, who from eternity doth teach 
 Himself in all, and all things in himself. 
 Great universal Teacher ! he shall mould 
 Thy spirit, and by giving make it ask. 
 
 Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, 
 Whether the summer clothe the general earth 
 With greenness, or the redbreast sit and sing 
 Betwixt the tufts of snow on the bare branch 
 Of mossy apple-tree, while the nigh thatch 
 Smokes in the sun-thaw : whether the eavedrops fall, 
 Heard only in the trances of the blast, 
 Or if the secret ministry of frost 
 
 Shall hang them up in silent icicles, 
 
 Quietly shining to the quiet moon. 
 
278 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 TABLE WITS.— A BREAKFAST. 
 
 IT is expected, we understand, that we shall begin 
 our second volume * with something very pi- 
 quant. This is an awful announcement. To be 
 called upon for a bon-mot is embarrassing. To be ex- 
 pected to be amusing for eight good octavo pages, is 
 at least equal to calling upon a man for half an hour's 
 much interesting chat, all on his own side. Then 
 there is the sensation which singers have, when they 
 are told that the company are " all attention." 
 
 Some persons, when they expect you to be witty, 
 do not even reconcile the announcement by an implied 
 compliment. They look upon it as all in the way of 
 business. As a baker has his hot rolls by eight 
 o'clock, so an author, they think, is to have his essays. 
 Twopenny loaves are the trade of one ; twopenny In- 
 dicators of the other. The same expense of the facul- 
 ties is supposed to go to the making of either. The 
 printer composes for his bread ; so does the author. 
 The cook melts down another animal's brains with 
 great equanimity ; the author, of course, likewise. 
 
 As we are to be full of good things in our present 
 number, we take a refuge very common to those who 
 have no better, and invite the reader to discuss (a 
 word, by the by, of much injured metaphorical com- 
 monplace, which we hereby restore to its ingenuity) f 
 
 * Of that pleasant little periodical, The Indicator. — Ed. 
 
 t "Table and conversation interchange their metaphors," says Hunt, in his 
 Table-Talk. " We devour wit and argument, and discuss a turkey and chine." 
 -Ed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 279 
 
 some rolls and ham with us. It is astonishing what 
 good company a gentleman can make himself by 
 means of this kind. A breakfast maybe eloquent; 
 a dinner is sure to be so. The very decanting of his 
 wine shall " discourse excellent music " for him. His 
 good things are all of the best, substartial, and intel- 
 ligible. He is solid over his beef. His jeii cV esprit 
 is a bottle of soda. "A leetle more of the sounds.^ " 
 — ''a leetle stewed lobster?" — "a leetle more lemon 
 to the currie ? '* — " some stuffing ? " — " more grouse ? " 
 "let me recommend this blanc-mange — this cream 
 pancake — this custard with your tart — these brandy 
 apricots — these olives — a devil — hah ! (smacking 
 his lips) this is the old wine I told you of, sure 
 enough :" — phrases of this kind, judiciously admin- 
 istered, shall outrival twice as many bon-mots. They 
 shall produce a profound sensation, — an absolute 
 severity of satisfaction. We have known a gentle- 
 man, remarkable for a certain festive taciturnity, sit 
 at the head of his table ; and, by dint of these com- 
 mendatory syllables, united to the reputation of know- 
 ing more than he said, make a wit feel doubtful of 
 the merit of being facetious, and fearful how he in- 
 terrupted so intense a conviviality. 
 
 And here (before the rolls come up) we may notice 
 a compromising kind of it, which would see fair play 
 between ideas and no ideas, and might be imitated to 
 advantage by those who would willingly say some- 
 thing and yet nothing. Polite conversation, as de- 
 tailed by Swift, has had its day ; so that if the genteel 
 have no new novel or scandal to discourse of, they will 
 rather say nothing than not appear knowing or liter- 
 
-ZSO THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ary. The jokes about " my Lord Mayor's fool," and 
 *' none the better for seeing you," and " Tom, how is 
 it you can't see the wood for trees," have been super- 
 seded by the periodical publications. Now the wit- 
 tockwe speak of (to use a Scotch diminutive) is akin 
 to punning, inasmuch as it plays upon words ; so that 
 at any rate, some verbal knowledge is requisite for 
 those who handle it ; and herein the advantage pro- 
 posed to the dining circles is evident. It is practised 
 with great applause by a friend of ours, and may be 
 called the Art of Translating a Language into itself. 
 Thus, to break, signifying also to fracture, and fast, 
 being, in one sense, the same as rapid, the wag in 
 question calls breakfasting, Fracturing one's Rapid. 
 Cold mutton he translates into Frigid Sheep. Foreign 
 pickle is Peregrine Pickle. Some bacon is a Piece 
 of the Viscount St. Albans ; — or in removing bacon 
 for some other dish, he recommends you to put it 
 
 " Nigh where the goodly Verulam stood of yore." 
 
 Greens are Verdants, and as verd means green, and 
 green means inexperienced, and ants has a sound like 
 aunts, he calls them, by a diffuser version. Inexperi- 
 enced Sisters of one's Father. Pulling the bell, is 
 Romping with the Beauty ; and bringing up the urn. 
 Educating the Sarcophagus. There is eminent au- 
 thority for this kind of translation into other lan- 
 guages, — as the Latin conversion, attributed to Dr. 
 Johnson, of a tea chest into the second person singu- 
 lar of the verb doceo, to teach ; and Hogarth's epis- 
 tolary drawing, inviting a friend, in three Greek 
 letters, to Eta Beta Pi. But our friend contrives to 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 28 1 
 
 be learned, while adhering to his own language, and 
 pours forth a profusion of synonymous trifling, which 
 we, of all persons, shall certainly not quarrel wdth, 
 seeing that he does it out of the delight of escaping 
 from his studies, and feeling his kindred or his friends 
 about him. We were much pleased the other day, 
 for his sake, in hearing of an eminent living philoso- 
 pher of our acquaintance who, in the midst of his 
 white locks, still retains his love of verbal joking, and 
 delights to help his young companions to a jest as 
 well as some soup. He lets, in particular, his politi- 
 cal spleen take breath by it. One dish, which he is 
 fondest of cutting up, he calls after such and such a 
 statesman. He shakes his head at another, and says 
 there is too much High Church in it. To your veal 
 he recommends a squeeze of the judge. 
 
 An old schoolfellow of ours, with whom we used to 
 breakfast, in high glee, in a study four feet square, 
 possesses, almost beyond any man we ever met with, 
 this talent of converting one idea into another, and 
 being equally merry in his mirth and his gravity. We 
 remember the irresistible effect which his reception 
 of a beating from the master used to have upon us 
 all. His gesticulations of agony were so abrupt, 
 varied, and extravagant, that the master and the boys 
 used to be equally perplexed, — the latter how to 
 keep themselves from laughing out loud, and the 
 former whether to take it as something extremely 
 wretched or contemptuous. Either expression was 
 equally unusual in a school so well attempered as ours. 
 He was found out at last, and compelled to take 
 care of his jokes. His gravity, however, was mider 
 
282 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 suspicion to the last. When the master was about 
 to retire from his office, he received, for an exercise, 
 a set of Latin verses from him, in which there was a 
 pathetic adieu, apostrophizing him under the title of 
 " Reverende Magister." The old gentleman, not 
 much accustomed to the melting mood at any time, or 
 to the dry one often, turned round to him with a face 
 of ludicrous gratitude, and said, " Thank ye, P." He 
 used to perplex him also, as well as us all, by taking 
 advantage of a permission we had of being facetious 
 in verse-making, and giving up the most extravagant 
 versions of English nursery songs, such as Jack and 
 Gill, and When I was a Bachelor. Like all young 
 wits who are scholars, he liked to give ludicrous dig- 
 nity to commonplaces by the gravity of a learned 
 language. He kept his tea and sugar memorandums 
 in Latin ; used to call out for the boy who kept a 
 door, under the title of Janitor Aulae ; and gave us a 
 little pocket edition of Buchanan, which we have now 
 by us, as a pledge and MONUMENT of his friend- 
 ship, — " Pignus et monumentum." He said of a 
 fellow-wag, who was accustomed to exaggerate, 
 " When so and so relates a story, you must multiply 
 by hundreds, divide by thousands, and make allow- 
 ance in the quotient for Oriental grandeur." The 
 same spirit accompanied him to college, where, it is 
 understood, he might have got what classical honors 
 he pleased, had not the gravity of his answers at exam- 
 ination been questionable. Lie then went into orders, 
 and became remarkable for the dignit}^ of his voice and 
 manner in the pulpit, while he retained all the jocose 
 part of his character among his friends. " What words" 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 283 
 
 (literally) " have we not heard at the Mermaid?" — ■ 
 No man ever got up a little festive meeting with a more 
 orthodox grace. If port was not liked by an}^ one, he 
 found a bottle of claret by his plate ; and we shall 
 always retain a grateful recollection of his olives. It 
 is a fault sometimes found with wits, and justly, that 
 their animal spirits carry them away from a proper 
 attentiveness to others. This never was his case. He 
 had a handsome faculty, not only of being pleasant 
 himself, but of extracting all that could be got out of 
 others. To strangers he would sometimes be more dis- 
 concerting, like Swift ; to whom, by the way, he bore 
 some resemblance, if the Dean's picture in Sharpens 
 edition of the Spectator is a good likeness. He turned 
 round once upon a man in Holborn, and asked him, 
 with an air of zealous appeal, whether he had ever 
 injured his wife and family ; upon which the aston- 
 ished passenger declaring he had not, " Then, sir," 
 said he, '• I will thank you, another time, not to tread 
 my shoe down at heel." There was a huge fellow 
 one evening making a great noise in a coffee-house, 
 about a prize ox he had seen. " I have heard of the 
 carcass," says P. " The carcass ! " cries the other, with 
 a sort of triumph of knowledge: — "it's alive, sir; 
 iVs alive ; and live bodies are not called carcasses." 
 " Good," says the other, looking at him, "but I presume 
 they may deserve the name." He said this with so indif- 
 ferent and yet so particular an air, that neither the man 
 could be offended nor the company refrain from laugh- 
 ing. At another time, being in the cider cellar in 
 Maiden Lane, and one of our party having said some- 
 thing in Latin, without the least intention of being 
 
284 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 overheard, a military gentleman, somewhat irritable 
 with having more wine than wit, said out loud, that 
 he did not conceive a public room a fit place to talk 
 Latin in. We forget what our schoolfellow said to 
 this : but in consequence of his enlisting the com- 
 pany on our side with his jokes, the captain pro- 
 posed to give him his address. " Sir," says P., with 
 great gravity, " you need not trouble yourself with a 
 specimen : I never had any doubt of your being a 
 man of address." " Sir," returned the captain more 
 vehemently, his voice a little titubating with wine — 
 "You will not — then — take my address?" " O, 
 excuse me, sir," replied the other, " I do take it in- 
 finitely ; and all the rest of us take it." By this time 
 the amusement of the audience had much increased. 
 " Sir ! " repeated the officer, half rising from his seat, 
 and tumbling a little towards him, with pipe in hand, 
 and angry wonder in his eye, — " I say, sir, — do you 
 mean to say, sir, — you know what I mean — I mean to 
 say, sir, I'll give you my address ; that's what I mean." 
 " But, sir," retorted our inflexible companion, " you 
 must allow me to say that your liberality is really 
 superfluous ; since, to confess the truth, I really don't 
 at all approve of your address." At this the tottering 
 man (who, you -might see by his face was good-hu- 
 mored enough, and worth being parried in this way 
 by a gentleman) staggered up to his antagonist, and 
 held out his hand to him, declaring he was one of the 
 pleasantest fellows he ever met with in the whole 
 course of his life, and nothing should induce him to 
 quarrel with him. 
 
 We do not profess any practical science in meals. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 285 
 
 Those who do will despise us at once, when they hear 
 that we prefer breakfast and tea to dinner, and that 
 by breakfast, we mean a very common one." * But we 
 know what belongs to a meal. There was a lay- 
 schoolfellow of ours, who was always proposing to 
 treat some of us at a tavern ; though he never did. 
 He contented himself with casting up what he called 
 " the damages." He used to cry out on a sudden, 
 " It doesn't signify talking, but we will have that din- 
 ner I spoke of this afternoon. Come, now ; I'm seri- 
 ous. Let us see what will be the damages?" He 
 would then take pen, ink, and paper, and f^ill to mak- 
 ing out a grave list of fish, flesh, and tart ; till the 
 exceeding wish to realize it, almost made dupes of 
 our cloistered imaginations for the seventh time. The 
 worst of it was, that he himself used to go home and 
 feast on what he had been speaking of; while we 
 were rung up in the hall, and dined like the monks of 
 La Trappe. We shall reverse the spirit of this va- 
 gary. Our breakfast will be upon paper, but our 
 readers shall have more than we are in the habit of 
 seeing on our table. Students are at once tempted to 
 exceed, and obliged to be temperate. The exhaustion 
 of their faculties excites them to indulge a morbid ap- 
 petite ; while the delicacy of stomach produced by 
 that exhaustion, makes them cautious how they ren- 
 der it greater next time. 
 
 What shall we say then? For " it does not signify 
 
 * " It seems," says Fuller, in speaking of the ravens that brought Elijah 
 bread and flesh in the morning and evening, "it seems dinners are but innova- 
 tions, whilst breakfasts and suppers are men's most ancient and natural meals." 
 — A Pisgak Sight of Palestine^ chapter 3, paragraph 17. — Ed. 
 
286 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 talking." We will have the breakfast he spoke of. 
 And here it is, ready laid. Imprimis, tea and coiTee ; 
 secondly, dry toast; thirdly, butter; fourthly, eggs ; 
 fifthly, ham ; sixthly, something potted ; seventhly^ 
 bread, salt, mustard, knives and forks, &c. One of the 
 first things that belong to a breakfast is a good fiire. 
 There is a delightful mixture of the lively and the 
 snug in coming down into one's breakfast-room of a 
 cold morning, and seeing everything prepared for us ; 
 a blazing grate, a clean table-cloth and tea things, the 
 newly-washed faces and combed heads of a set of 
 good-humored urchins, and the sole empty chair at 
 its accustomed corner, ready for occupation. When 
 we lived alone, we could not help reading at meals : 
 and it is certainly a delicious thing to resume an enter- 
 taining book at a particularly interesting passage, 
 with a hot cup of tea at one's elbow, and a piece of 
 buttered toast in one's hand. The first look at the 
 page, accompanied by a coexistent bite of the toast, 
 comes under the head of intensities. But when in 
 company, unless it is of a very private and pardoning 
 description, it is, of course, not to be done, unless all 
 read ; and a general reading in company is a sort of 
 understood talking. The most allowable perusal is 
 that of a newspaper. It involves a common interest, 
 and is in itself a very sufficing and matutine thing. But 
 we have enlarged on the pleasure of a breakfast pa- 
 per elsewhere, in an article entitled A Day by the 
 Fire ; which, by the way, will prevent us from in- 
 dulging ourselves in other particulars appertaining to 
 the present subject. We have it not by us, nor are 
 we aware that we have before mentioned what we are 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 287 
 
 going to notice : but we wish to observe, that ladies, 
 alwaj^s delightful, and not the least so in their un- 
 dress, are apt to deprive themselves of some of their 
 best morning beams by appearing with their hair in 
 papers. We give notice that essayists, and of course 
 all people of taste, prefer a cap, if there must be any- 
 thing : but hair, a million times over. To see grapes 
 in paper bags is bad enough, but the rich locks of a 
 lady in papers, the roots of the hair twisted up like a 
 drummer's, and the forehead staring bald instead of 
 being gracefully tendrilled and shadowed ! — it is a 
 capital offence, — a defiance to the love and admira- 
 tion of the other sex, — a provocative to a paper war : 
 and we here accordingly declare the said war on 
 paper, not having any ladies at hand to carry it at 
 once into their headquarters. We must allow, at the 
 same time, that they are very shy of being seen in 
 this condition, knowing well enough how much of 
 their strength, like Samson's, lies in that gifted orna- 
 ment. We have known a whole parlor of them flut- 
 ter off", like a dovecot, at the sight of a friend coming 
 up the garden. 
 
 But to return to our table. Ham is a good thing, 
 but it is apt to fever our sedentary notions. We 
 prefer cracking the round end of an egg with the 
 back of a silver spoon, — not a horn spoon, whicli 
 is flimsy and inefficient. A judicious jerk of the 
 former upon a good, fair, dome-like shell issuing 
 out of the egg cup, maketh a pretty result to the 
 sensations. We cannot, in conscience, recommend 
 hot buttered toast ; but it is a pleasing guilt. The 
 best adventure to which it can give rise, is when you 
 
288 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 have modestly taken one of the outside pieces, and 
 find your gentihty rewarded by carrying off the whole 
 of the crumb part of the inner one, the crust of which 
 has been detached. Chocolate has a nutty taste, but 
 is heavy. Coffee is heating, but has a fine, serious 
 flavor in it, if well done. You seem to taste the color 
 of it. We used to prefer it at all times, but tea has 
 become preferable to the meditative state of our di- 
 gestion. How the Chinese came to invent it, as San- 
 cho would say, we do not know : but it is the most 
 ingenious, humane, and poetical of their discoveries. 
 It is their epic poem 1820. 
 
 GOING TO THE PLAY AGAIN. 
 
 WITH the exception of Oberon, we have not 
 witnessed a theatrical performance till the 
 other night for these six or seven years. Fortune 
 took us another way ; and when we had the opportu- 
 nity we did not dare to begin again, lest our old 
 friends should beguile us. We mention the circum- 
 stance, partly to account for the notice we shall take 
 of many things which appear to have gone by ; and 
 partly out of a communicativeness of temper, suitable 
 to a Companion. For the reader must never lose 
 sight of our claims to that title. On ordinary occa- 
 sions, he must remember that we are discussing mor- 
 als or mince-pie v/ith him ; on political ones, reading 
 the newspaper with him ; and in the present instance, 
 we are sitting together in the pit (the ancient seat of 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 289 
 
 criticism), seeing w7io is who in the play-bill, and 
 hearing the delicious discord of the tuning of instru- 
 ments, — the precursor of harmony. If our compan- 
 ion is an old gentleman, we take a pinch of his snuff, 
 and lament the loss of Bannister and Mrs. Jordan. 
 Toothache and his nephew occupy also a portion of 
 our remark ; and we cough with an air of authority. 
 If he is a young gentleman, we speak of Vestris and 
 Miss Foote ; wonder whether little Goward will show 
 herself improving to-night ; denounce the absurdity 
 of somebody's boots, or his bad taste in beauty ; and 
 are loud in deprecating the fellows who talk loudly 
 behind ns. Finally, if a lady, we bend with delight 
 to hear the remarks she is making, "far above" criti- 
 cism ; and to see the finer ones in her eyes. We 
 criticise the ladies in the boxes ; and the more she 
 admires them, the more we find herself the lovelier. 
 May we add, that ladies in the pit, this cold weather, 
 hav« still more attractions than usual ; and that it is 
 cruel to find ourselves sitting, as we did the other 
 night, behind two of them, when we ought to have 
 been in the middle, partaking of the genial influence 
 of their cloaks, their comfortable sides, and their con- 
 versation? \ye were going to say, that we hope this 
 is not too daring a remark for a Companion: — but 
 far be it from us to apologize for anything so proper. 
 Don't we all go to the theatre to keep up our love of 
 nature and sociality } 
 
 It was delightful to see "the house" again, and 
 to feel ourselves recommencing our old task. How 
 pleasant looked the ceiling, the boxes, the pit, every- 
 thing ! Our friends in the gallery were hardly noisy 
 19 
 
290 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 enough for a beginning ; nor, on the other hand, could 
 we find it in our hearts to be angry with two com- 
 panions behind us, who were a Httle noisier than they 
 ought to have been, and who entertained one another 
 with alternate observations on the beauty of the songs 
 and the loss of a pair of gloves. All is pleasant in 
 these recommencements of a former part of one's life ; 
 this new morning, as it were, re-begun with the lustre 
 of chandeliers and a thousand youthful remembran- 
 ces. Anon the curtain rises, and we are presented 
 with a view of the lighthouse of Genoa, equally de- 
 licious and unlike, — some gunboats returning from 
 slavery, salute us with meek puffs of gunpowder, 
 about as audible as pats on the cheek, — the most con- 
 siderate cannon we ever met with : — then follow a 
 crowd and a chorus, with embraces of redeemed cap- 
 tives, meeting their wives and children, at which we 
 are new and uncritical enough to feel the tears come 
 into our eyes ; and, finally, in comes Mr. " Atkins," 
 with a thousand memories on his head, — husband 
 that was of a pretty little singer some twenty years 
 back, now gone, Heaven knows where, like a black- 
 biii'd. It seemed wrong in Atkins to be there, and 
 his wife not with him. Yet we were glad to see him 
 notwithstanding. We knew him the instant we heard 
 him speak. 
 
 Native Land (a title, by the by, which looks like 
 one of the captives, with an arm off) is worth going 
 to see, for those who care little about plot or dialogue, 
 provided there be good music. Part of the music is 
 by Mr. Bishop, the rest from Rossini. It is seldom 
 that any of Mr. Bishop's music is not worth hearing, 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 29I 
 
 and one or two of the airs are among Rossini's finest. 
 There is Di piacer^ for instance ; and we believe an- 
 other, which we did not stay to hear. We fear it is a 
 little out of the scientific pale to think Rossini a man of 
 genius ; but we confess, with all our preference for such 
 writers as Mozart, with whom, indeed, he is not to be 
 compared, we do hold that opinion of the lively Ital- 
 ian. There fs genius of many kinds, and of kinds 
 very remote from one another, even in rank. The 
 greatest genius is so great a thing that another may 
 be infinitely less, and yet of the stock. Now Rossini, 
 in music, is the genius of sheer animal spirits. It is 
 a species as inferior to that of Mozart, as the clever- 
 ness of a smart boy is to that of a man of sentiment ; 
 but it is genius nevertheless. It is rare, 'effective, and 
 a part of the possessor's character: — we mean, that 
 like all persons v/ho really affect anything beyond the 
 common, it belongs and is peculiar to him, like the 
 invisible genius that was supposed of old to wait 
 upon individuals. This is what genius means ; and 
 Rossini undoubtedly has one. " He hath a devil," 
 as Cowley's friend used to cry out when he read Vir- 
 gil ; and a merry devil it is, and graceful withal. It 
 is a pity he has written so many commonplaces, so 
 many bars full of mere chatter, and overtures so full 
 of cant and puffing. But this exuberance appears to 
 be a constituent part of him. It is the hey-day in his 
 blood ; and perhaps we could no more have the good 
 things without it than some men of wit can talk well 
 without a bottle of wine and in the midst of a great 
 deal of nonsense. Now and then he gives us some- 
 thing worthy of the most popular names of his coun- 
 
292 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 try, as in the instance above mentioned. Di piacer 
 is full of smiling delight and anticipation, as the words 
 imply. Sometimes he is not deficient even in tender- 
 ness, as in one or two airs in his Othello ; but it is 
 his liveliest operas, such as the Barbiere di Seviglia 
 and the Italiana in Algieri that he shines. His 
 mobs make some of the pleasantest riots conceivable ; 
 his more gentlemanly proceedings, his bows and com- 
 pliments, are full of address and even elegance, and 
 he is a prodigious hand at a piece of pretension or 
 foppery. Not to see into his merit in these cases, sure- 
 ly implies only, that there is a want of animal spirits 
 on the part of the observer. 
 
 As we are not so fond of sharp criticism, as when 
 we were young and. knew not what it was to feel it, 
 we shall say nothing of one or two of the fair singers 
 on this occasion, except that they did not appear to 
 have a sufficient stock of the spirits we have been 
 speaking of. To animal spirits, animal spirits alone 
 can do justice. A burst of joy will be ill represented 
 by the sweetest singing in the world that is not joy- 
 ous, and that does not burst forth like a shower of 
 blossoms. Of Miss Coward's singing we can yet 
 form no judgment, as she had a very bad cold ; but 
 she did her best with it, and did not apologize, which 
 gave us a favorable opinion of her ; and her acting 
 increased it. If she does not turn out to be a very 
 judicious person, with a good deal of humor, sne will 
 disappoint us. Madame Vestris, though she does not 
 insinuate a sufficient stock of sentiment through her 
 gayeties to complete the proper idea of a charmer to 
 our taste, is always charming after her fashion ; but 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 293 
 
 from what we recollect of her, we doubt whether her 
 performance in this piece is one of her favorite ones. 
 The song of Is't art, I pray, or Nature ? she gave with 
 too little vivacity ; and her part in the bolero she 
 seemed to go through more as a duty than a pleasure 
 — which is anything but boleresque. Mr. Wood has 
 great sweetness of voice, with taste and sensibility ; 
 and the sweetness is manh'. He was encored in the 
 '• romance " — Deep in a Dungeon ; but we preferred 
 him in his first pleasing air. Farewell, thou Coast of 
 Glory. We shall be glad to see him again, and to say 
 more of him. We suspect he has more power than 
 he yet puts forth. 
 
 There is no necessity to criticise the dialogue. The 
 author himself probably regards it as being nothing 
 more than one of our old unpretending acquaintances, 
 yclept " vehicles for music ; " carriers of song, as 
 Messrs. Clementi's are of piano-fortes. There is one 
 scene, however, upon which we shall say a word. It 
 is that in which a maimed husband comes back from 
 the wars, and is received by his wife with aversion 
 and ridicule. It is true the caricature is evident ; it 
 is the only way in w^iich such feelings can be made 
 ludicrous ; but there is something in it from which 
 the heart revolts. It is a dangerous point to divert 
 ridicule from its proper objects, and give degrading 
 representations of humanity. There is something, 
 too, on these especial occasions, when the joke is car- 
 ried far (as is the case in violent double meanings in 
 company), by which privacy itself is turned into pub- 
 licity, and we become painfully conscious of the pres- 
 ence of those, with whom we could best interchange 
 
294 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 the most pleasurable ideas. We profess to be any- 
 thing but prudes ; we have no objection, for instance, 
 to Zanina's being reconciled to " little fellows," whose 
 ways are delightful; — but because we are not pru- 
 dish, we become the more jealous in behalf of what 
 may be called the humanities of license. 
 
 We must own we could not help laughing at some 
 passages of Miss Goward's acting in this scene ; and 
 perhaps we scan the matter somewhat too nicely. 
 Those who laughed most would probably have been 
 among the first to hug the remnant of their maimed 
 friends to their heart. But the experiment is danger- 
 ous. There is not too much sentiment in society after 
 all ; and it is better not to risk what there is. W^ith 
 what relief did we not call to mind, in our graver 
 moments, the sight we had once, in those boxes, on 
 the left hand, of a charming woman sitting next her 
 gallant husband, Colonel C, who had returned from 
 the wars with the frightful loss of his lower jaw. His 
 wife married him after his return ; and this, we were 
 told, was she. He had his mouth and chin muffled 
 up. But how did he not seem more than repaid in 
 her sweet and loving presence, which we fancied that 
 she pressed still closer to him than was visible in that 
 of any other woman seated by her husband's side. 
 When she looked in his face, we felt as if we could 
 almost have been content to have lost the power of 
 kissing with lips, that we might have received in aU 
 its beauty that kiss of the soul. 
 
 1828. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 295 
 
 LADIES' BONNETS IN THE THEATRE. 
 
 IN default of having anything better to write about 
 in our present number, we beg leave to remon- 
 strate with certain bonnets, and other enormities, 
 with which the ladies put out our eyesight in the 
 theatres. The bonnet is the worst. If you sit right 
 behind it, it shall swallow up the whole scene. It 
 makes nothing of a reo^iment of soldiers, or a moun- 
 tain, or a forest, or a rising sun ; much less of a hero, 
 or so insignificant a thing as a cottage and a peas- 
 ant's family. You may sit at the theatre a whole 
 evening and not see the leading performer. Liston's 
 face is a glory obscured. The persons in your neigh- 
 borhood, provided they have no bonneted ladies be- 
 fore them, shall revel in the jocose looks of Farren or 
 Dowton, and provokingly reflect the merriment in 
 their own countenances, while you sit and rage in 
 the shade. If you endeavor to strain a point, and 
 peep by the side of it, ten to one (since Fate notori- 
 ously interferes in little things, and delights in being 
 " contrary," as the young ladies say) — ten to one but 
 the bonnet seizes that very opportunity of jerking 
 sideways, and cutting off your resources. We have 
 seen an enthusiastic playgoer settle himself in his seat, 
 and evidently congratulate himself at the evening he 
 was about to enjoy, when a party of ladies, swimming 
 into the seats before him, have been the ruin of all his 
 prospects. Even a head-dress, without the bonnet, 
 
296 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 shall force you to play at bo-peep with the stage half 
 the evening ; now extinguishing the face of some fa- 
 vorite actress, and now abolishing a general or a 
 murder. The other night, at the Quieen's Theatre, 
 we sometimes found ourselves obliged to peep at the 
 Freemasons in a very symbolical manner through the 
 loops of a lady's bows. But the bonnet is the enor- 
 mity. And we are sorry to say that the fair occu- 
 pants who sit inside them, like the lady in the lobster, 
 too often show a want of gallantry in refusing to take 
 them off; for, as we have said more than once, we 
 hold gallantry, like all the other virtues, to be a thing 
 mutual, and of both sexes ; and that a lady shows as 
 much want of gallantry in taking advantage of the 
 delicacies observed towards her by the gentlemen, as 
 a man does who presumes upon the gentleness of a 
 lady. We felt, the other night, all the reforming 
 spirit of our illustrious predecessors of the Tatler and 
 Spectator roused within us, and in the same exact 
 proportion to our regard for the sex upon witnessing 
 the following prodigious fact: A lady, who came 
 with a party into one of the boxes at Covent Garden, 
 joined very heartily in expressing her disapprobation 
 of some person in a seat below her, who was dilatory 
 in taking off his hat. It chanced that this lady got 
 into the very seat that he had occupied, and her bon- 
 net turning out to be a much greater blind than the 
 hat, what was the astonishment and the merriment of 
 the complainant8s upon finding that she was still less 
 accommodating than the gentleman? Nothing could 
 induce her to perform the very same piece of justice 
 which she'had joined in demanding from the other. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 297 
 
 We are aware that in modern, as in ancient thea- 
 tres, ladies come to be seen as well as to see. 
 
 " Spectatum veniunt, veniunt spectenturut ipsae.". 
 
 But we are desirous that they should not pay them- 
 selves so ill a compliment as to confound their dresses 
 with themselves ; it is the bonnets that are seen, in 
 these cases, and not the ladies. When seen them- 
 selves, they make a part of the spectacle, but who 
 cares to look upon these great lumps of gauze and 
 silk? Something is to be allowed to fashion, but the 
 wearers might be content with showing that their 
 heads could be as absurd as other people's, and then 
 lay aside the absurdity, and show that they under- 
 stood the better part of being reasonable. They urge, 
 when requested to take their, bonnets off, that they 
 "cannot" do it; meaning, we suppose, besides the 
 "will not," which "cannot" so often signifies, that 
 their heads are not prepared to be seen — that their 
 hair is not dressed in the proper manner ; but it would 
 be easy to come with it so dressed ; the bonnet is 7tot 
 the only head-dress in fashion ; and, above all, it 
 would be a graceful and a sensible thing to remember, 
 that in coming to a place where the object is to enjoy 
 pleasure, their own capability of pleasure is interested 
 in considering that of others. We never feel angry 
 with a woman except when she persists in doing 
 something to diminish the delight we take in com- 
 plimenting the sex. 
 183 1. 
 
'2^8 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 MOLIERE'S TARTUFFE. 
 
 THERE is something very delightful in the friend- 
 liness of intercourse that has sprung up between 
 France and England since the late troubles. Cabi- 
 nets may quarrel again, and wars be renewed ; but 
 the more intimacy there is in the mean time between 
 the two nations, the less they will be disposed to be 
 gulled into those royal amusements. Formerly this 
 kind of intercourse was confined to kings and cour- 
 tiers ; and whenever these gentlemen vs^ere disposed to 
 pick a quarrel with one another, the people were sent 
 on to fight, like retainers to a couple of great houses ; 
 their employers all the while making no more of the 
 business than if they were playing a game of chess. 
 Nations are growing wiser on this head ; and nothing 
 will serve better to secure their wisdom than an inter- 
 change of their socialities and an acquaintance with 
 the great writers that have made them what they are. 
 It was with singular pleasure, therefore, that we 
 found ourselves, the other night, sitting at a French 
 play in the British metropolis, and that play Moliere's. 
 There, on the stage, was Moliere, as it were himself; 
 there spoke his very words, warm as when he first 
 uttered them ; there he triumphed over hypocrisy, 
 and was wise and entertaining and immortal. But 
 what, in the mean time, had become of Louis the 
 Fourteenth and his splendor.? What of all those lords 
 and courtiers, who used to make a brilliant assemblage 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 399 
 
 around him (we could not help fancying them in this 
 very pit), and praising or withholding their praise of 
 the immortal man, as the king spoke or held his 
 tongue? Gone is all that once filled that splendid 
 " parterre," like the flowers of any other garden : 
 gone all their plumes, and ribbons, and pulvilio, and 
 their bowing gallantries, and the very love that here 
 and there lurked among them, like a violet among 
 the tulips : but there stood the spirit of Moliere, as 
 fresh as ever, and casting on their memory (when 
 you thought of it) its only genuine lustre. 
 
 It is curious to think how this great writer had to 
 win his way into toleration through the prejudices 
 attached to a stage life ; and how he depended upon 
 men who were comparatively nothing for an intima- 
 tion to the rest of the world, that a great and origi- 
 nal genius was really worth something. It is to the 
 credit of Louis, that he managed his kingship in this 
 matter in good taste, and allowed the genius of Moli- 
 ere to be pitted against the marquises and grimaciers 
 of his court. If he had not stood by him, those but- 
 terflies the petits-i7iaitres^ and those blackbeetles the 
 priests, had fairly stifled him. It was lucky that he 
 wrote when the king was no older, and before he had 
 become superstitious. It gives one a prodigious idea 
 of the assimiption of those times, and the low pitch at 
 which an actor could be rated in spite of his being a 
 great genius, that a shallow man of quality having 
 found something ridiculous in Moliere's mention of 
 a " cream tart" in one of his comedies, and not liking 
 the raillery with which the author treated his criti- 
 cism, contrived to lay hold of his head one day as the 
 
300 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 actor made him a bow, and crying out, " Tarte a la 
 C7'eme^ Mailer e! Tarte a la crhnef rubbed his face 
 against his cut-steel buttons, till it was covered with 
 blood. For this brutality it never entered any one's 
 head that an actor could have a remedy except in 
 complaining to the king ; which the poet did, and the 
 peer was disgraced. Another anecdote, to the same 
 purport, is more agreeably relieved. Moliere, by way 
 of being honored, and set on a level with gentlemen, 
 had been made one of his Majesty's valets-de-chambre. 
 Presenting himself one day to make the royal bed, his 
 helper abruptly retired, saying that he should not 
 make it " with an actor." Bellocq, another valet-de- 
 chambre, a man of a good deal of wit, and a maker 
 of pretty verses, happening to come in at this junc- 
 ture, said, " Perhaps M. de Moliere will do me the 
 honor of allowing 7ne to make the king's bed with 
 him." Moliere was a man of great heart, very gener- 
 ous, but sensitive also, and subject, in the midst of his 
 pleasantries, to that melancholy which is so often 
 found in the company of wit. Any delicacy towards 
 him must, therefore, have been extremely felt, though 
 on the subject of scorn and arrogance he, doubtless, 
 had no proportionate soreness at heart. His wisdom 
 and genuine superiority must hciYQ saved him from 
 that. It was on the side of his sympathies, and not 
 his antipathies, that Moliere was weak. He troubled 
 himself with a wife too young for him : and after 
 having ridiculed jealousy in his comedies, was fain to 
 acknowledge that he felt it in all its bitterness him- 
 self. Candor takes away the degrading part of these 
 mortifications, but the sting is there, nevertheless- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. -^OI 
 
 » «j 
 
 What endears us the more to his sincerity, and to the 
 habitual kindness of his heart, is his saying to his 
 friend Chappelle, whom he made his fiither confessor 
 on this occasion, that " finding how impossible it was 
 to conquer his jealousy, he began to think that it 
 might be equally impossible in the object of his af- 
 fections to get rid of her coquetry." The worst of 
 it was, that their ages wxre unequal. His young wife 
 (the daughter of an actress in his corps dramatlqzie^ 
 which gave rise to a scandal refuted by the date of 
 their connection) was herself an actres^, beautiful, 
 and surrounded with admirers. She probably loved 
 the poet as well as she could, but found that she loved 
 people of her own age better ; while he, taking his 
 undying admiration of beauty for a right to possess it, 
 forgot, till too late, that poets' hearts remain young 
 much longer than their persons. The consequence 
 was, that two people, both of them, perhaps, very 
 worth}^, became a grief and torment to one another, 
 merely because incompatible marriages are permitted ; 
 for Moliere had been a great ridiculer of marriage, 
 and there, no doubt, lay a good part of the sting. He 
 should have gone abroad more out of the society of 
 his corps drajnalique^ and found some charmer to 
 love less unsuiti^e to his time of life. There are 
 born poetesses, in their way, among the women, whom 
 temperance and the graces help to keep young even 
 in person, and often in a more touching manner than 
 the young and thoughtless. Moliere should have laid 
 his laurelled head in the lap of one of these. She 
 might have repaid his candor and tenderness with a 
 like generosity. 
 
303 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 But we are forgetting the play. — The house (the 
 Lyceum) opened for these performances last Wednes- 
 day. It has been newly fitted up for the purpose, 
 with fresh mouldings or compartments round the 
 boxes (we forget exactly what), and a drapery of scar- 
 let and w^hite, very handsome. The prices, to nearly 
 the whole of the pit, remain the same as before, three 
 and sixpence ; but six shillings are paid for seats on a 
 bench or two, and seven for those in a part of the 
 orchestra. Some boxes may be taken by the evening 
 at two, three, and four guineas, according to the num- 
 ber of persons and the situation of the box. The rest 
 are let for the season at prices which look enormous ; 
 being eighty, one hundred and twenty, or one hundred 
 and sixty guineas for forty nights. The performances 
 will be three times a week, Monday, Wednesday, and 
 Friday, till Lent. Money is not taken at the door. 
 There is a list of the places where you can get tickets, 
 at the bottom of the play-bill, such as the booksellers, 
 in Bond Street ; Marsh's, in Oxford Street ; Wilson's, 
 at the Royal Exchange, &c. We bought ours at Mr. 
 Neele's, a door or two on the left of the main en- 
 trance to the theatre out of the Strand ; which we 
 mention in order to show that people may go as usual, 
 with no more trouble than if they paid at the door. 
 
 The performances of the evening were Tartuffe, 
 followed by a coronation of the bust of Moliere ; La 
 Fille mal gai'dee^ a vaudeville in one act, and 
 L' Ambassadeu?'^ another, in which Perlet, who acted 
 Tartuffe, and who is the principal performer of the 
 company, reappeared in the chief character. We 
 shall confine ourselves to the first piece, which, in- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 303 
 
 deed, is the only one we saw, and which is quite 
 sufficient to see and to think about for one time. Our 
 observations upon it will not be directed to scholars 
 only, and readers of French ; but, agreeably to the 
 plan pursued by us in a former publication, we shall 
 endeavor to give all such readers as have a relish for 
 what is good, a taste of it somehow or other, let them 
 have missed scholarship, great or small, as they may. 
 French is a very common acquirement ; yet there are 
 numbers unable to read even French, who very much 
 deserve to do so, and who have a genuine perception 
 of a CTood thinof when it comes before them. 
 
 Few readers need be informed, but all will be glad 
 to know, that the comedy of Tartufie (from which our 
 popular pla}' of the Hypocrite is taken, which made 
 the selection of it on this occasion every way judi- 
 cious) may be ranked among the avant com iers of 
 the knowledge and liberality of these times. It is a 
 masterly satire upon religious hypocrisy ; and on its 
 first appearance at Paris, in an age full of well-fed devo- 
 tees and gallant confessors, was received accordingly. 
 The first three acts were brought out originally before 
 the court at Versailles, in the year 1664; but what 
 may be called the first public representation of the 
 entire piece did not take place till 1667, when it was 
 performed at Paris, and prohibited next day by an 
 order from the First President of Parliament. Moli- 
 ere himself had to announce the prohibition, which 
 he did in the following manner : " Gentlemen, we 
 reckoned this evening upon having the honor of pre- 
 senting you with the FEypocrite ; but Monsieur the 
 First President does not wish us to play him." Our 
 
304 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 author must have reckoned very confidently on the 
 king's protection to be able to joke In this manner.* 
 The time, indeed, was lucky for him so far. Louis 
 was then young and gay, and equally victorious in war 
 and gallantry. He had a minister the avowed patron 
 of men of letters (Colbert), and a general who loved 
 humor and original genius (Turenne).t He did not 
 think fit to let the piece re-appear for a year or two ; 
 but Moliere remained on the best terms with him ; 
 and, in 1669, Tartufle rose again In spite of its ene- 
 mies, and has remained ever since a stock acting 
 piece, — the glory of the French stage and the hatred 
 of bigots and impostors. Perhaps they are more bit- 
 ter against it in their hearts this very moment than 
 they have been for these hundred years ; the Jesuits 
 having trimmed their dark lanterns once more, and 
 pieces of this kind offering the most insurmountable 
 barriers against the reaction of priestcraft. | 
 
 It has been thought curious by some, that in the 
 
 * Another turn was given to this bon-mot in one of the provinces. The bish- 
 op, in a place where they were going to perform the comedy, had lately died. 
 His successor was not equally disposed in favor of theatrical representations ; and 
 orders were given to the actors that they should quit the town before he made his 
 appearance, which he was to do the next day. Accordingly, when the time was 
 come for giving out the performances of the next evening, the announcer, affect- 
 ing not to know that his lordship was to arrive so soon, said, " The Hypocrite, 
 gentlemen, to-morrow." 
 
 t See in the works of La Fontaine a pleasant account of a chat that took place 
 on the road between Turenne and that poet, when the former was on his way to 
 one of his campaigns. 
 
 ■+ The speech of Father Nitard to the Duke of Lerma may be taken as a speci- 
 men of the pitch of insolence, worthy of TartufFe, to which priests could be trans- 
 ported m those days. He was a Jesuit, and confessor to Louis's mother-in-law, 
 the Queen of Spain. He told the duke one day, "that he ought to treat him 
 with more respect, as he had every day his God in his hands (the Eucharist) and 
 his Queen at his feet?" 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 305 
 
 English Hypocrite the ridicule should be confined to 
 sectarians, while in the original it attacks hypocrites 
 of the establishment. This is to be accounted for on 
 a variety of grounds. In the first place, the Catholic 
 establishment, especially as it existed in France at 
 that time, did not make such an exclusive matter of 
 difference of opinion as the hierarchy in England ; 
 w^hile, on the other hand, certain disputes in it were 
 so fierce, and yet all parties pretended pretty nearly 
 to such an equal measure of piety, that to make a 
 heterodox person of the Tartuffe would have been 
 absolutely to neutralize the satire on hypocrisy. It 
 would have been a mere party libel. An English 
 Methodist pretends to peculiar sanctity ; but formal- 
 ists of a similar description in France were hardly 
 known till a later period. Again, a Catholic estab- 
 lishment is of a much more miscellaneous nature 
 than a Protestant; admits a host of lay members, and 
 otherwise aflbrds pretences for quacks and hypocrites 
 of all sorts. It is a much larger world, in which vice 
 may be found in the particular, with less offence to 
 the main body. Then, again, there is confession, and 
 the admission of interferers and regulators into the 
 tenderest privacies of life. These people were very 
 often at variance with the rest of the families whose 
 heads they lorded it over (as Moliere has taken care 
 to show) ; they were sometimes very officious in state 
 matters and at court, where, indeed, the clerical power 
 claimed a kind of sovereignt}^ of its own, independent 
 of that of the civil and executive (a pretension against 
 which our anti-popery men are still warning us) ; 
 and, above all, at the time When Moliere wrote, the 
 20 
 
3o6 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 king was not only 3'oiing and gay, and inclined to 
 " cut " his religious mortifiers, but the Great Conde, 
 then in favor, was a sworn enemy of bigots ; the Pope 
 had not long since been bearded by the French au- 
 thorities in Rome ; cardinals and bishops were, for 
 the most part, laymen at heart, and mixed not only 
 with politics but with the pleasures of life ; in short, the 
 " cloth," as a matter of any solemnity, was at a disad- 
 vantage ; and to pretend to an unusual measure of 
 sanctity was, in some sort, to offend priests as well as 
 laymen. Moliere himself tells us that he had the 
 approbation of the Legate ; and that the greater part 
 of the bishops, to whom he had taken care to read 
 his work, were " of the same way of thinking as his 
 Majesty." * Nevertheless, a tremendous cry was 
 raised against it, even before it appeared. The author 
 was called, he tells us, a libertine, a blasphemer, a 
 devil incarnate ; and no sooner was it brought out, 
 than very wortiiy people, acted upon by the cries of 
 bigotry, joined in the wish to have it suppressed. The 
 President of Parliament, who agreed to become the 
 instrument of the suppression, was the celebrated 
 Lamoignon, the friend of Boileau, and reckoned one 
 of the best men in the world. Boileau helped him, 
 perhaps, afterwards to a better judgment. Menage 
 tells us expressly, that he himself spoke to the Presi- 
 dent about it, and told him that the moral of the 
 play was excellent, and calculated to be of public 
 service.f 
 
 Menage, in the same passage of his book, ventures 
 
 * " Premier Placet, pr^sent^ aii Roi, sur la comedie du TartuflFe.' 
 t Menagiana, p. 43. Edit. 1694. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 307 
 
 to prefer Moliere's prose to his verses. That learned 
 wit had no very great taste in verses at any time, and 
 had been accustomed to a very bad taste in particular, 
 which Moliere rooted out. The classical scholar was 
 judicious and generous enough at the time to acknowl- 
 edge the reformation ; but, perhaps, he never heartily 
 forgot his old propensities. Perhaps, also, he grudged 
 Moliere that extraordinary facility in versifying, whidi 
 Boileau has recorded with astonishment.* 
 
 The happy power for which Boileau here praises 
 his friend, is one of the most remarkable things in the 
 Tartufle. Those who know the Hypocrite of the 
 English stage, know the other in a certain way ; and 
 know it well. But there is no comparison in the two 
 styles ; every word telling with double force in the 
 Frenchman's mouth, and uniting with the familiarity 
 of prose the terseness of wit in rhyme. Let the read- 
 er imagine the best colloquial verses of Dryden or 
 Pope, full of wit and humor, uttering the finest knowl- 
 edge of life, comprising a plot no less interesting than 
 simple, agitating the feelings deeply before they have 
 done, and dismissing the audience in the most gener- 
 ous disposition for truth ; and they have a picture of 
 this great and perfect comedy. An English audience, 
 in their own language, could not relish a comedy in 
 rhyme so well as the French can. Their manners 
 are less conscious and mixed up. They could not so 
 easily take an artificial grace for a natural one. But 
 heard throuo:h the dimness of a language not habitual 
 
 * Menage tells us, that when he himself sat down to write verses, he first 
 " got together " his " rhymes ; " and that his rhymes sometimes took him three 
 or four months to " fill up " 1 — Id. p. 261. 
 
3o8 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 to US, we become just enough sensible of the grace 
 and power of the versification to admire the comedy 
 the more, without being the less sensible of its truth 
 and nature. 
 
 In venturing to lay a scene of it before the reader, 
 we have, therefore, not ventured to do it in rhyme. 
 It is, indeed, an injustice to the author, in one sense, 
 not to do so (supposing we were able to do it) ; but 
 it would be hurting the effect of his truth and humor, 
 which are the greater matters. We have selected the 
 scene more particularly, because it exhibits what we 
 conceive to be the greatest and most original trait in 
 the author's genius ; to w4t, his delight in putting a 
 good, broad, sustained, and even farcial-looking joke, 
 knowing it to be founded in exquisite truth, and re- 
 solving to relish it with us, unalloyed, for that reason. 
 It is the spirit and o-zisto of the truth, taking place of 
 the formal image ; and only making us hail and in- 
 corporate with it the more. The scene is between 
 Orgon, the credulous master of the house, who makes 
 an idol of Tartuffe, and Dorina, the servant, a great 
 enemy of the impostor, and burning to see him de- 
 tected. Tartuffe has not yet made his appearance, 
 and this is the first time Orgon has made his. Let 
 the "reader admire the singular skill with which, in 
 the midst of this "joke run down," the audience are 
 let into the interior of the host's credulity, and of 
 Tartuffe's power and worldliness. Orgon says but 
 two things alternately throughout ; and the performer 
 must be imagined at once giving us a sense of this 
 monotony of ideas, and varying the expression of 
 them for the true comic effect. A little pause must 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 309 
 
 be fancied occasionally, and a face full of meaning. 
 The author of the Hypocrite has not ventured upon 
 it; — but imagine it in the hands of Munden ! To 
 complete the scene, Orgon's brother-in-law, another 
 enemy of Tartuffe's, is present, wondering all the 
 while at his infatuation. Orgon has just come from 
 the country, and after interchanging civilities with 
 his brother, begs him to excuse him a little while he 
 talks with the servant, and asks after the welfare of 
 his house. He addresses her accordingly : — 
 
 "Well, Dorina, has everything been going on as it should do these two days? 
 How do they all do? And what have they been about ? 
 
 Dor. My mistress was ill the day before yesterday with a fever. She had a 
 headache quite dreadful to think of 
 
 Org. A nd Tartuffe ? 
 
 Dor. Tartuffe ! O, he is wonderfully well ; fat and hearty, a fresh com- 
 plexion, and a xnouth as red as a rose. 
 
 Org-, (turning about with an air of fondness). Poor soul I 
 
 Dor. In the evening my mistress was taken with a sickness, and could not 
 touch a bit of supper, her head was so bad. 
 
 Org. A nd Tartuffe ? 
 
 Dor. O, seeing she could not eat, he eat by himself; and very devoutly 
 swallowed two partridges, with a good half of a hashed leg of mutton. 
 
 Org. Poor sold I 
 
 Dor. My mistress did not shut her eyes all night. The fever hindered 
 her from getting a wink of sleep, and we were obliged to watch by her till 
 morning. 
 
 Org. And Tartuffe? 
 
 Dor. Tartuffe, happy gentleman, with a comfortable yawn, goes right from 
 table to bed, where he plunges into his warm nest, and sleeps soundly till 
 morning. 
 
 Org. Poor soul I 
 
 Dor. At last we prevailed upon Madame to be bled, which gave her great 
 relief 
 
 Org. And Tartuffe ? 
 
 Dor. Monsieur Tartuffe was very much relieved also. He found himself 
 charming, and to repair the loss of the blood which Madame had sustained, took 
 four draughts of wine with his breakfast. 
 
 Org. Poor soul ! 
 
 Dor. In short, both are very well now ; so I'll go and tell my mistress you 
 are coming, and how happy you are to hear she is recovered." 
 
3IO THE \vishing<;ap papers. 
 
 We have left ourselves very little room to speak of 
 the actors. In fact, we must see them again before 
 we can venture to speak much ; and then we shall 
 feel diffident, except in speaking of what all the world 
 may judge of. French nature is, in some respects, so 
 different from ours, — we mean that the same nature, 
 where great passions are not concerned, exhibits 
 itself in such various ways through the medium of 
 national manners, — that all critics ought to be cau- 
 tious how they pronounce upon it, especially those 
 who know more of the language in books than as it 
 is spoken ; which we confess to be our case. We 
 shall therefore wait, and judge cautiously. Mean- 
 time, we cannot help saying, that M. Perlet appears 
 to us a performer of the very first merit, full, both of 
 sensibility and judgment, relishing, self-possessed, 
 various, — " up," as the phrase is, to every situation, 
 and every part of it ; and with an equal perception 
 of the gravest as well as the lightest things he has to 
 say. There was an air of singular depth and inten- 
 tion throughout his performance ; and when he turned 
 with that preternatural insolence of heart, after his 
 detection, and pausing before he spoke, with his arm 
 up, and an air of frightful preparation, told the master 
 of the house " to go out of the house himself, for it 
 was his," — there was something ghastly and awful 
 in it. The house was so still we felt as if we could 
 almost have heard the rain out of doors. Yet the 
 same man, we are told, is wonderful in clowns and 
 idiots, and is but a young actor. We must not forget 
 Madame Daudel, a sort of younger Mrs. Davison ; 
 very pleasant. She acted Dorina. 1828. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 311 
 
 HEREDITARY HOUSE OF PLAYERS. 
 
 THE other day we heard of an indiscreet young 
 Lord, who took it in his head to perform on a 
 private stage, and performed very badly. This is the 
 consequence of people going out of their spheres : 
 an eccentricity, which the wisest cannot be guilty of 
 with impunity. Had this tyro of quality, by the de- 
 cease of the Peer, his brother, found himself in his 
 right element, that is to say, in the House of Lords, 
 he would, of course, have displayed a talent for legis- 
 lation, because he inherits it. He may appear, for 
 the present, to be nothing but a dandy and a foolish 
 fellow, but the moment he got there, we should have 
 his first wise speech ; and all the speeches that fol- 
 lowed would be equally wise. To hear him talk just 
 now, not being a Peer, we allow might lead people 
 to suppose that he could do nothing but swear, and 
 say " By G — d," and gamble, and babble of wine and 
 women ; but only let the Peer, his brother, make 
 room for him, only let him seat himself on the magic 
 bench and wisdom shall flow from his lips ; no ques- 
 tion, however knotty, shall come amiss to him : points, 
 which the House of Commons could not decide, 
 shall come before him to be settled, and he shall set- 
 tle them well : the whole country shall be satisfied : 
 his tenants shall rejoice, especially if he has given 
 them reasons why three parts of them are to be 
 ejected from their houses ; he shall disburse, till one 
 
312 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 in the morning, jurisprudence, eloquence, wisdom, and 
 taxation, all by virtue of the noble cock-fighter his^ 
 ancestor, whom Charles the Second gifted with those 
 accomplishments by patent, and then roll to the gam- 
 ing-house in his carriage to swear, and say " By 
 G — d,'* and gamble, and babble of wine and women, 
 out of pure refreshment after the fatigues of sapience. 
 
 Now only fancy an actor attempting to legislate by 
 virtue of his ancestors. It is clear the man would be 
 preposterous. Had the late Mr. Kemble stood up in 
 the House of Lords, and after his best consideration 
 of the matter in hand, attempted to make a speech, 
 who supposes that he could have at all equalled my 
 Lord Grey.? Who fancies that Garrick could have 
 risen there, and shewn any wit, however sharp and 
 epigrammatic he may have been in the green-room.? 
 Who thinks that Mr. Kean could even have looked 
 clever; that Mr. Charles Kemble, not having a Lord 
 to his father, could have had the least aspect of no- 
 bility ; or that Mr. Dovvton or Mr. Farren could 
 have been as facetious as the Duke of Newcastle.? 
 
 On the other hand, if we could but discover the 
 descendants of Garrick and the other actors of past 
 times, great or small, what a House might we not 
 have of hereditary performers ! That polity would 
 be quite feasible, and it is astonishing that no aris- 
 tocrat of histrionic propensities ever thought of it. 
 When Charles the Second had his Richmonds, Graf- 
 ton, St. Albans, and other little dukes, he doubted 
 whether some of them ought to have been dukes, see- 
 ing that their mothers were actresses. What a pity 
 the idea did not come into his head of giving a new 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCiiES. 
 
 313 
 
 kind of patent to Drury Lane, and making them and 
 their descendants actors forever ! What a pity that, 
 while he was ennobling the children of the Cleve- 
 lands, Querouailles, and other illustrious ladies, and 
 rearing up legislators out of their lightness, he did not 
 en-histrionize the sons of the Nell Gwynnes, Bet- 
 tertons, Lacys, and others, whose hereditary powers 
 of performing Hainlet and Macbeth might have 
 charmed us to the end of time ! That this miMit 
 have been done, whatever Jacobin critics pretend, is 
 proved by the existence of our hereditary lawgivers. 
 To give law is no easy task. Our peers are jealous in 
 vindicating its dignity, and in protesting that the vul- 
 gar are unfit for it. To be sure there is the House of 
 Commons, who are legislators and not hereditary ; 
 but they would make sad work of it without the 
 peers. In fact, they do but represent the peers, just 
 as a lower house of players might perform under 
 the auspices of an upper, and say nothing but what 
 the great lords and box-mongers of Drury and Co- 
 vent Garden allowed them. There is no talent 
 among them ; no fit legislation. How can there be, 
 if legislability can be conferred by ancestry, and is 
 thus a \ki\w^ sui generis ? For either a talent for law- 
 making is hereditary, or it is not. If it is not, then 
 we could have no house full of hereditary wisdom, 
 whereas, it is manifest we have. If it is hereditary, 
 as we have seen it is, then it must depend upon being 
 inherited, or it would be a pure figment, and no great- 
 grandson would be capable of solving knotty points 
 because his progenitor was a Marquis; which would 
 be a very ludicrous conclusion, and Jlat treason 
 against the sf'ate. 
 
314 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 The feasibility of an Hereditary House of Perform- 
 ers {pecr-foi'iners rather), being thus established, 
 the next thing is earnestly to recommend its adoption, 
 and the next to enjoy the imagination of it. We 
 fancy ourselves going to the Hereditary Play-house, 
 not, as now, doubting of the success of this and that 
 player, and vexed at the truth that is in us, because 
 vs^e may have to record his failures, — but sure of fine 
 actors and actresses in all the parts, delighting in the 
 report we shall have to make of them, and wonder- 
 ing how that Jacobin fellow that criticises them in the 
 Tri-color^ can dare to contradict the whole feeling 
 and intelligence of the community, which is a rap- 
 ture of hereditary delight. For always let us bear in 
 mind, that if some tens among us inherit the power to 
 legislate, and may be made to inherit the power to 
 act plays, all the rest of the world inherit a natural 
 respect for them, and would be as much charmed to 
 pay money at the pit door to see the Right Theatrical 
 the actor of Macbetk^ as they are to give up their 
 pound notes, daughters, and tenements to the Most 
 Noble the Ejector and Legislator. 
 
 The following may be taken as a specimen of the 
 criticism in which it would be the " pride and pleas- 
 ure " of all the loyal critics to indulge : — 
 
 Last night the tragedy of Othello was performed 
 at the Hereditary House of Players. The part of 
 Othello by the Right Theatrical Joseph Garrick ; 
 Desdemona, by the Right Fascinating Mrs. Betterton ; 
 Emilia, by the Most Forcible Mrs. Pritchard ; Cassio, 
 by the Right Clever Mr. Williams ; lago, by the 
 Most Acute and Insinuating Mr. Ebenezer Cooke ; 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 315 
 
 and the Duke of Venice, by his truly noble Repre- 
 sentative Mr. Algernon Booth. We have only to 
 name these illustrious peer-for772e7's^ to show how 
 wxll they must have sustained their characters. The 
 speech of the great Joseph Garrick — Had it pleased 
 heav'ti^ &c., was all that could be expected from the 
 known pathos of the performer's house ; it would be 
 needless to dwell on the hereditary tones of Mrs. 
 Betterton ; the title of Most Forcible shows what a 
 hand and arm Mrs. Pritchard must derive from her 
 ancestors ; Mr. Williams in Cassio, had all the drunk- 
 ness and incapability of speech for which his pro- 
 genitor was conspicuous ; and the Duke was most 
 ducal. It is well known to the critical reader, that no 
 part in the list of hereditary characters is better sus- 
 tained than that of Duke : it has the singular good 
 fortune of being at once the most easy and most 
 noble of them all ; and the Duke before us could not 
 have performed his part better if he had been the 
 founder of his title. The unhandsome critic who 
 writes in the Tri-color^ and who is the antagonist of 
 everything established and all moral orders to the 
 private boxes, would in vain dispute the talent and 
 utility of this noble house, and its power to represent 
 adequately its original worthies. In vain he says 
 that the Right Theatrical Mr. Joseph Garrick is 
 laughable instead of pathetic ; that the present Mrs. 
 Betterton is the transmitter, not of her great-great- 
 grandmothei-'s face, but of the several foolish ones 
 that have intervened ; that the Most Forcible Mrs. 
 Pritchard is as weak a woman as ever got in a pas- 
 sion ; and that Mr. Algernon Booth, though good 
 
3l6 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 enough for a Duke, is fit for nothing else, and has not 
 an idea in his head. Such opinions as these can 
 only end in bringing everything great and established 
 into contempt, and rendering the poor dissatisfied 
 with the salaries paid to these delightful servants of 
 the public. His enmity is the more absurd, when we 
 come to consider that it does not signify, after all, 
 whether the worthy progenitors of this noble house 
 were, in a certain sense of the term, worthy or not, 
 since it is the king that makes noble actors ; so that 
 if the whole race were to be destroyed, he could 
 make as many again to-morrow, and therefore se- 
 cure the blessings of hereditary genius to our pos- 
 terity. It is true shallow minds might argue against 
 the necessity of demanding any talents in the first 
 possessor of a theatrical title : but a mixture of these, 
 as great stage-men well know, makes the system 
 " work better : " and whether such were the case or 
 not, there is this final argument to put down all 
 sneerers and innovators forever ; to wit, that with- 
 out an Hereditary House of Performers, to stand 
 midway between the royal and plebeian ends of the 
 town, there would be no safety for East-end or West. 
 The citv, for want of a tragedy to keep them in awe, 
 would immediately go in an uproar, and get up a 
 tragic comedy at St. James's, to the great danger of 
 his Majesty's person ; or the executive powers, for 
 the want of a tragedy to remind it of the right of the 
 subject, would march into the city, and help itself to 
 all those pockets of the middle orders, out of which 
 the Hereditary House is at present maintained for 
 keeping them inviolate. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 317 
 
 All which, if it is not the case in other countries, 
 and vile nntheatrical republics, ought to be; and so 
 the argument holds as good as if it were. 
 1830. 
 
 MADAME PASTA. 
 
 GOING to the King's Theatre again is a very dif- 
 ferent thing from renewing one's acquaintance 
 with the other theatres. We confess, with all our 
 love of Italian and of singing, we do not like it so 
 well. The quiet seems pleasanter at first ; treading 
 upon matting is a sort of polite and gingerly thing ; 
 and it is interesting to look around for those beautiful 
 faces belonging to Lady Charlottes and Carolines, 
 dropping their lids down upon us as if they v/ore 
 coronets, and not always the better for it. But 
 the cue of polite life is to take indifference for self- 
 possession ; and you are not seated long before you 
 begin to feel that there is an air of neutralization and 
 falsehood around you. The quiet is a dread -of com- 
 mitting themselves ; — people come as much to be 
 seen as to see ; — the performers in the boxes prepare 
 for disputing attention with those on the stage ; — 
 men lounge about the alleys, looking so very easy that 
 they are evidently full of constraint ; the looks of the 
 women dispute one another's pretensions ; — if you 
 have been long away, you are not sure that something 
 is not amiss in your appearance ; that you are not 
 
3l8 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 guilty of some overt act of a wrong cape, or absurd 
 reasonableness of neckcloth ; in short, you feel that 
 the great majority of the persons around you have 
 come to the Opera becau.se it is the Opera, and not 
 from any real love of music and the graces. The 
 only persons really interested, with the exception of 
 a few private lovers of music here and there, are the 
 young and inexperienced ; musicians, who come to 
 criticise the music ; and foreigners, whom it is pleas- 
 ant to hear speaking their own language. After all, 
 these last are the only persons who seem at home. 
 The musicians are apt to be thinking too much of 
 their flats and sharps, and compasses of voice. The 
 young people, though they dare not own it to them- 
 selves, soon get heartily tired of everything but look- 
 ing at the company ; and the private lover of music 
 gets as tired with the glare and commonplace of nine 
 tenths of the performance. 
 
 Thanks and glory to Pasta, who relieved us from 
 all this spectacle of indifference and pretension the 
 moment we heard the soul in her voice, and beheld 
 the sincerity in her face. Pit and boxes were at once 
 forgotten, quality, affectation, criticism, everything 
 but delight and nature. Like a lark, she took us up 
 at once out of that " sullen earth," and made us feel 
 ourselves in a heaven of warmth and truth, and 
 thrilling sensibility. If these are thought enthusiastic 
 phrases, they are so. What others could we use to do 
 justice to the enthusiasm of genius, and to the delight 
 it produces in those golden showers out of its sky? 
 
 We saw Madame Pasta, for the first time, years 
 ago, in the character of the page in Figaro^ and 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 319 
 
 afterwards in that of the female (we forget her name) 
 in the Clemenza di Tlto^ who sings with her lover 
 the beautiful duet, Deh p7'endi tm dolce amplesso. 
 In the page, if we recollect, we thought her heavy 
 and ungain. In the other part, we remember that 
 Begrez, a singer not given to too much passion, stood 
 while he was singing the duet with her, holding her 
 hand, not indifierently as they generally do, but with 
 tenderness and affection, cherishing it against his 
 bosom ; a piece of nature which w^e have since at- 
 tributed to her suggestion. If we are wrong, we beg 
 his pardon. At all events, it was creditable to him, 
 suggested or not. 
 
 Since w^e have seen Madame Pasta again, the heavy 
 kind of simplicity wdiich we recollect in her Figaro 
 must either have been the consequence of her having 
 a greater tact for nature and truth, than she at that 
 time felt experience enough to j3ut forth, or her per- 
 formance of the part may have been better suited to 
 the character than we took it for. The page, in that 
 very breath-suspended and conscious piece, which is 
 always hovering on the borders of, strange things, is 
 in reality in a very awkward position, and extremely 
 sensible of it ; and we are not sure, if we could have 
 seen Madame Pasta in it, with as much knowledge 
 of her then as we persuade ourselves we have now, 
 that we should not have found her the exact person 
 for the character, and presenting a portrait, full of 
 truth, in its very ungainness and want of teaching. 
 
 Truth is the great charm of this fine vocal actress. 
 She waits upon it, without claim or misgiving ; and 
 like a noble mistress, truth in turn waits upon her, 
 
320 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 and loves her like her child. We never saw anybody 
 before on the stage who impressed us with a sense of 
 this sort of moral charm in its perfection. Even Mrs. 
 Siddons had always a queen-like air in her nature, 
 which seemed to be conscious of the homage paid it, 
 and to crown itself with its glory. Madame Pasta, 
 as the occasion demands, is tranquil, grave, smiling, 
 transported, angry, affectionate, voluptuous ; intent 
 at one minute as a bust, radiant as a child with joy 
 at the next ; intellectual as a Muse, full of wily and 
 sliding tones as a Venus ; in short, the occasion itself, 
 and whatever it does with the human being. Imagine 
 a female brought up in solitude, with a natural sin- 
 cerity that nothing has injured, walking quietly about 
 a beautiful spot, reading everything that comes in 
 her way, accomplished, at ease, getting even a little 
 too fat with the perfection of her comfort and her 
 ignorance of anything ungraceful ; and imagine this 
 same female gifted with as much sensibility as truth, 
 and weeping, laughing, and undergoing every emo- 
 tion that books can furnish her with, as she turns 
 over the leaves ; and you have a picture of this noble 
 performer, and the extraordinary effect she produces 
 without anything like theatrical effort. Not that she 
 cannot indulge the critics now and then with the idea 
 of a stage actress, and set herself to make her bravura 
 effective ; but truth is at the bottom even of that, and 
 she is sure to throw in some tone and sweet reference 
 to nature ; as much as to say to the lovers of it, " Do 
 not imagine I have forgotten you." She is like a 
 nature full of truth, brought out of solitude into the 
 world; — and too much habituated to sincerity, too 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 33 1 
 
 sweet in the use of it, and too conscious of the power 
 it gives her, to forego so rare, so charming, and so 
 triumphant a distinction. 
 
 We do not pretend to make any discovery in this 
 matter. The accounts we heard of her in Medea 
 showed us that the discovery had been made ah'eady ; 
 and it has been set forth by a critic, worthy of that 
 name, in an article comparing this " perfection of nat- 
 ural acting " with that of the French. With a reference 
 to this article, which is to be found in the Plain Speak- 
 er, Vol. II., and which we regret we have no room 
 to quote, for nothing need be said of the opera itself, 
 we must conclude. Tancredi is said to be one of 
 the most popular of Rossini's operas, but is by no 
 means one of his best; being crammed, in fiict, as 
 full of commonplaces and old threadbare recitative 
 as nine tenths of it can hold. It is theatrical clothes- 
 man's music. But there is good in the remainder ; 
 and the fine air, Di tanti paipiti^ is part of it. If 
 any one thinks he has heard this air a hundred times, 
 till he has got tired of it, let him never mind, but go 
 and hear it from Madame Pasta ; he will then find he 
 has never heard it before. We have left ourselves as 
 little room to speak of the other performers, some of 
 them excellent in their way, especially Madame Cara- 
 dori ; but after our new, true, and most original ac- 
 quaintance, even the best of conventional singers 
 become comparatively uninteresting. Caradori is 
 like a sweet and perfect musical instrument, by the 
 side of her; not that she does not act too better than 
 most singers ; she even contrives, in her manners, to 
 give us an amiable as well as clever idea of her; 
 21 
 
322 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 but Pasta, coming upon all this, even in her most tran- 
 quil moments, seems like the very noontide of human- 
 ity risen upon a cold morning of it. There is more 
 eflective grace in the least of her movements, though 
 she is too fat, and sometimes looks heavily so, than 
 in all the received elegancies of the stage ; — so beau- 
 tiful as well as great is truth. By the v\'ay, we had 
 forgotten to say that her voice is not perfect. Who 
 asks whether any voice is so, when sensibility and 
 sincerity speak together, and the sound is hugged into 
 one's heart ! 
 
 II. 
 
 We wish to add something to our last article re- 
 specting the truth and beauty of this singer's perform- 
 ance. It has been suggested to us, that Madame 
 Pasta is not so much absorbed as people may think 
 her in the business of the scene ; that she finds time, 
 like other singers at the opera, for those little inter- 
 changes of by-jokes and grown-children's play, by 
 which they occasionally refresh themselves from a 
 sense of their duties ; and that, in a concert-room or 
 an oratorio, where no illusion is going forward, we 
 should fiud more defects in her as a singer than we 
 are aware of. Finally, another friend tells us, that 
 we make a good deal of what we see ; and in our 
 gratitude for a favorite quality, find more of it to be 
 grateful for than exists anywhere but in our own 
 imaginations. 
 
 We doubt whether we are not committing the dig- 
 nity of the critical character in thus admitting that 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 333 
 
 our Opinion can be disputed privately. A corre- 
 spondcDt is another matter. He approaches his critic 
 with a curtain between, and the latter retreats farther 
 into the mystery and multiplicity of his plural " we," 
 leaving his questioner uncertain how many secrect 
 faculties and combined resources of experience he 
 may not have ventured to differ v/ith. But to ac- 
 knowledge that we are mortal and individual men, 
 " singular good "' fellows, who can be disputed with 
 over one's wine and tea, face to face, and be forced to 
 say " I ; " and give a reason, with more privilege to be 
 wrong than any other man's reason ; all this would be 
 very frightful to us, if instead of being critics or judges, 
 sitting aloof above S3'mpathy, and periwigged with 
 imposture, we did not profess to be what we really 
 are, nothing but Companions: men who get from 
 sympathy all they know, and do not care twopence 
 for anything but truth and good-fellowship. 
 
 We say, then, to these our objectors, public or 
 private (for after all there is no ditierence between 
 them, except as to the dry matter of fact ; we take a 
 real bottle with one, and an imaginary one with the 
 other) — we say, filling our glass, and looking them 
 in the face, with all that bland beatitude of certainty, 
 so convincing in any man, especially if he does not 
 proceed to argue the point (as we have an unfortu- 
 nate propensity to do) — My dear So-and-so, you are 
 most horribly in the wrong. I wonder at a man of 
 your intelligence. You surprise me. Do you think 
 so, indeed? Well, you astonish me. I'm sure, if 
 you would but reflect a little. Well, I never. You 
 are the last man I should have thought capable 
 
324 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 of using that argument. Nothing will ever persuade 
 me^ &c. 
 
 These answers ought to be convincing. But as 
 some unreasonable persons may remain, who are not 
 so easily convinced, and as we have a conscience that 
 induces us not to leave them out, we shall proceed to 
 observe, that all which is urged against us on the point 
 in question may be very true, and Pasta yet remain 
 just what we have described her. In the first place, 
 it is not necessary to suppose her absorbed in the 
 business of the scene in order to do it justice. It 
 would be impossible she could do so, if she were. 
 '' If a man," said Johnson, " really thought himself 
 Richard the Third, he would deserve to be hung." 
 All we contend for is, that Madame Pasta has the 
 power, to a surprising extent, of pitching herself into 
 the character of the person she represents. The great- 
 er this power, the more suddenly she can exercise it. 
 She touches the amulet of her imagination in an in- 
 stant, and is the person she wishes to appear. It is a 
 voluntary power of the extremest degree, in one sense : 
 and yet, in another, it is the most involuntary ; that is 
 to say, she can abstract herself at a moment's notice 
 from circumstances not belonging to the scene, and 
 yet in the next she is under the influence of the char- 
 acter imagined, as much as if she were a child. We 
 will venture to illustrate this by a reference to author- 
 ship and to ourselves. We shall be talking, for in- 
 stance, in the midst of half a dozen friends: they 
 shall all be talking v/ith us : and we shall be thinking 
 no more of authorship than of the Emperor Nicholas. 
 On a sudden it becomes necessary that we should 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 325 
 
 look at our paper, and give a turn to some story or 
 other piece of writing, serious or merry. In a mo- 
 ment we are as abstracted as if we were a hundred 
 miles off. We hear the conversation no more than 
 people hear the rumbling of the coaches when they 
 are not thinking about them ; and, with the laugh 
 hardly off our lips, become as grave as the heroine of 
 our story ; or, with the tears almost in our eyes, sit 
 down to give the finish to a joke, and tickle ourselves 
 into laughter with the point of it. Now why should 
 we not believe, that what we ourselves can do, others 
 cannot do twenty times as well? 
 
 That Madame Pasta should not feel everything just 
 as strongly as she imagines it, and that she should 
 give evidences to near observers that she can occa- 
 sionally amuse herself, as other favorite performers 
 do, with certain quips and cranks among one another, 
 takes away nothing of the imaginative truth of what 
 she has to do, and only adds to the evidences of the 
 voluntary power. We certainly doubt whether she 
 could do this so well in some characters as in others. 
 We should guess that she was least able to do it 
 much, and most inclined to do it at all, when per- 
 forming characters that tried her feelings the most 
 severely. There are stories of Garrick's turning round 
 with a comic grin in the thick of the distresses of 
 King Lear ; and similar stories have been related of 
 Mr. Kean. Believe them if you will ; but do not 
 believe that those great performers felt less the truth 
 of what they were about. Perhaps what they did was 
 necessary, as a relief to their feelings ; just as sensitive 
 men will shock company sometimes by cracking jokes 
 
326 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 upon some topic of distress. It is not because they 
 do not feel it, but because they do, and because some 
 variety of sensation is necessary to enable them to 
 endure their feelings. If an actor were to feel, un- 
 mixed, all he seems to feel in such characters as Lear, 
 he would go nigh to lose his senses in good earnest. 
 Tragic actresses, the most eminent, have been known 
 to faint and go into fits upon the performance of a 
 trying character. Perhaps they would not have done 
 so had their personal character contained variety and 
 resource enough in it to call in the aid of this occa- 
 sional volatility. Even Garrick is known to have 
 looked prematurely old. Yet Garrick had everything 
 to support him — fortune, prudence, and a good con- 
 stitution. When we hear actors, equally great in 
 their way, but less happy in bodily frame, rebuked 
 severely for certain excesses alleged against them, we 
 sometimes think it a pity that the rebukers do not 
 know w^hat it is to go through all that wear and tear 
 of sensation, and to be at a loss how to keep up a 
 proper level of excitement in their general feelings. 
 We are not sure that Madame Pasta does not uncon- 
 sciously let herself grow fatter than might be wished, 
 out of an uneasy feeling of something to be supported 
 and strengthened in this way ; especially v/hen it is 
 considered that persons of her profession lead arti- 
 ficial lives, and cannot so well be kept healthy as oth- 
 ers, by good hours and a life otherwise uninterfered 
 with. 
 
 As to a concert-room or an oratorio, it is a dull 
 business compared with singing amidst the feelings 
 of a scene. Such places are fittest for instrumental 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 327 
 
 performances, and for instrument-like singers. In 
 the concert-room the audience expect little passion, 
 and find it. They are themselves in a dull and for- 
 mal state ; there is often a majority of musicians pres- 
 ent, and a majority of musicians cannot be of the first 
 order, nor do they desire anything of the first order in 
 others. They wish the singers to act up simply to 
 their own notions of excellence, which are but a re- 
 flection of themselves. All is quiet, mechanical, medi- 
 ocre. Up gets a lady or gentleman, book in hand, 
 and out of this is to disburse us the proper quantity 
 of notes, checked by that emblem of reference to the 
 dead letter. She does so ; is duly delivered of a B, 
 or a D, and everything is '' as well as can be ex- 
 pected." 
 
 So in an oratorio. The audience are all assembled, 
 as grave as need be ; the season, and the usual dull 
 character of oratorios, helps to formalize them ; there 
 is a good deal of mourning in the house, and sacred 
 music is to be performed, mixed with a little illegal 
 profane. That is to say, there is nothing real in the 
 business, and nobody can be either properly merry or 
 mournful. Which is just the case. In comes a gen- 
 tleman, dressed in black, hitching his way along side- 
 w^ays, and leading a lady up the alley behind the 
 orchestra ; another follows, and another, equally 
 polite and preparatory : it is Madame So-and-so, in a 
 hat and feathers ; it is Miss W. or Mrs. Z., all dressed 
 like other gentlewomen, which is odd ; and like other 
 gentlewomen they take their seats, and look as if they 
 ought to drink tea. Music books make their appear- 
 ance, as in the concert-room, and up rises the lady or 
 
328 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 gentleman to sing in the same formal manner, and be 
 discreet in their flats. The sacred music drags, the 
 profane music hops, and the audience wish them- 
 selves in their beds. 
 
 Madame Pasta may probably not excel at such ex- 
 hibitions as these. We do not desire that she should. 
 It would not be easy to persuade us that, sing where 
 she may, her singing would not be better than the 
 most formal perfection ; but the worst thing we can 
 say of an oratorio is, that not even she can take us 
 there. Put her on the stage, or in a company among 
 friends, let loose her feelings, and then we have the 
 soul of music ; and this is the only real music in the 
 world. 
 
 That we make what we find on such occasions, 
 and listen with our imaginations upon us, is only 
 saying, in other words, that the occasion is fit to 
 excite the enthusiasm ; otherwise how does it happen 
 that it is not equally excited on others? Doubtless 
 there must be enthusiasm and imagination to do fit 
 justice to the same qualities in the performer. Love- 
 liness must have love. But how is it that love is 
 excited by some things and not by others? How is 
 it that multitudes are wound up to enthusiasm by one 
 orator and not by another, and that Madame Pasta 
 jDroduces the same sensation from Naples to Berlin? 
 She is not an unknown singer, trumped up by a sol- 
 itary enthusiast. Cities are her admirers ; and she 
 would take hearts by storm everywhere, whether 
 critics explained or not by what magic she did it. 
 
 It is nevertheless very pleasant to us to know what 
 the magic is. We never feel the value of criticism, 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 329 
 
 except when it enables us to double our delight in this 
 manner ; for none can hold in greater contempt than 
 we do the common cant of criticism, or less pride 
 themselves in finding out those common defects to 
 which critics in general have a natural attraction. It 
 is truth that gives Madame Pasta her advantage ; the 
 same truth, yes, the very same spirit of sincerity and 
 straightforwardness which is charming in conversa- 
 tion and in matters of confidence ; which enables 
 one face to look at another, unalloyed with a con- 
 tradiction, and makes the heart sometimes gush in- 
 wardly with tenderness at the countenance that little 
 suspects it. The reason is, that some of the most 
 painful infirmities with which the state of society 
 besets us are then taken away, and we not only think 
 we have reason to be delighted, but are sure of it. 
 For this we know no bounds to our gratitude ; and 
 it is just ; for you could not more transport a man 
 shaken all over with palsy by suddenly gifting him 
 with firmness, than }'ou do any human being, in the 
 present state of things, by making him secure upon 
 any one point which he ardently desires to believe in. 
 There is, therefore, a moral charm, of the most liberal 
 kind, in Madame Pasta's performances, which argues 
 well for her personal character ; and personal char- 
 acter, wish as we may, always mingles, more or less, 
 with the impression created by others upon us. It is, 
 indeed, a part of them, which helps to make them 
 what they are, ofi' a stage or on it, pretending or not 
 pretending. It is true there is a difierence between 
 moral truth and imaginative ; and it does not follow 
 that, because Madame Pasta tells the truth in every- 
 
330 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 thing she does on the stage, she should be an example 
 of the virtue elsewhere. It is an argument, however, 
 that she would be so ; just as the taste for an accom- 
 plishment implies that a person is more likely to 
 excel in it than if there were no such taste. Madame 
 Pasta has to look sorrowful, and no sorrow can be 
 completer: — she has to look joyful, and her face is 
 all joy, — as true and total a beaming as that of a girl 
 without a spectator, who sees her lover hailing her 
 from a distance. We have seen such looks, and they 
 have stood us instead of any other certainty. Mad- 
 ame Pasta knows the truth well, and knows how to 
 honor it ; and this is an evidence that the inclination 
 of her nature is true, whatever the world may have 
 done to spoil it. We are aware, mind, of no such 
 spoliation. Our impulse, if we knew this charming 
 performer (which is a pleasure incompatible with 
 the confounded critical office we have taken upon us), 
 would be to give as implicit belief to everything she 
 said off the stage as on it. But we wish to guard 
 against a wrong argument, and to show the triumph 
 and the beautiful tendencies of truth, whether borne 
 out in all their quarters or not. 
 1828. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES, 33 1 
 
 OPERA OF THE WHITE AND RED ROSE. 
 — MADAME PASTA IN THE LOVER. 
 
 M 
 
 AYER'S opera of the White and Red Rose 
 (yLa Rosa Bianca e la Rosa Rossa) was 
 brought out at the King's Theatre on Saturday even- 
 ing, Madame Pasta being the hero of it. We remem- 
 ber noticing a playbill of this piece once at Genoa, 
 and making up our minds not to go and see it, be- 
 cause it was historical. Song is for passion in its 
 own shape, and not mixed up with the squabbles and 
 pretences of history. Great writers, as a musical 
 friend observed to us, have rarely laid their scenes 
 in the midst of these impertinences, which augur ill 
 for the composer. It is true, there is apt to be very 
 little history after all in such pieces ; but what there 
 is does them injury. We do not want a singing Earl 
 of Derby, singing foot-guards, and a warbling sheriff. 
 These matters of the Court Calendar jar against one's 
 enthusiasm, and the case is worse because it comes 
 home to us in our own country. Fancy a love adven- 
 ture mixed up two centuries hence with the differ- 
 ences between our Military Premier and Mr. Hus- 
 kisson ; the king going in and out, singing Oh Dio ; 
 Lord Goderich tender in a cavatina, the ladies all 
 mystified, and a chorus of journalists at midnight 
 {JVumi and lufni) calling upon the powers above to 
 throw a little light on the business. 
 
332 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Slg'nor Huski. Dice di si, come io, il 
 Vellingtonne. 
 {Entra il Duca.)' Di si? Di no. 
 Coro di Giornalisti. Or cosa dice Huskisonne? 
 
 [J/r. H. The Noble Duke says 
 Yes ; so all is done. 
 {JBnter Duke.) Says Yes ? Says No. 
 Chorus of yournalists. Now what says Huskis- 
 
 son ?] 
 
 Reader. But, sir, this is a caricature. 
 
 Critic. It is so, like the subject ; but the spirit of 
 our objection is good, and opera goers feel it to 
 be so. 
 
 Signor Mayer's opera is not of the highest order, 
 nor is it by any means of the lowest. We do not 
 know whether this is the same composer who has 
 written several pleasing airs, — one of them with a 
 very striking and characteristic exordium ; we mean 
 Chi dice mal d' amore. The emphatic drop on the 
 last syllable of the word falsita in that air, is a touch 
 of real genius. Madame Pasta would give it with a 
 corresponding beauty of gesture, impressing her firm 
 and indignant hand upon it with all the grace of a 
 noble scorn. There are two Mayers, we believe, both 
 writers of pleasing melodies; though, perhaps, 'we 
 are naming together two unequal men. One of them 
 is the author of a graceful ballad, beginning Donne 
 V amore escaltro foragletto. At all events, the name 
 led us to expect more melody than we found in the 
 new opera ; or, perhaps, we should say, more origi- 
 nal airs: for there is a vein of rambling melody 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 333 
 
 throughout the piece, and, if not much invention, 
 a great deal of taste and feeling. The music is so 
 good that we expect it every minute to be better. 
 There is now and then a very delicate commentary 
 of accompaniment, throwing out little unexpected 
 passages botli learned and to the purpose. The best 
 of the regular compositions are the duets. There are 
 two between Madame Pasta and Curioni (/;2 tal mo- 
 mento in the first act, and E deserto il bosco in the 
 second) for which alone the opera is worth going to 
 hear. Curioni, who has a manner of feebleness and 
 indifference in general, seems inspired when he comes 
 to sing with Pasta. Her part is one of the least 
 effective ones she has had ; but everything becomes 
 elevated by that fine face of hers, and that voice breath- 
 ing the soul of sincerity. The words core and amove 
 are never commonplaces in her mouth. They resume 
 all their faith and passion. They are no more like 
 the same words in ordinary, than gallantry is like 
 love, or than scipio^ any walking-stick, was Scipio 
 who supported his father. Pasta has a large heart in 
 her bosom, or she could not have a voice so full of it. 
 This it is that gives her the ascendency in the scene : 
 that lifts her, " dolphin-like, above the element she 
 lives in," and sports, and rules, and is a thing of life, 
 in those deep waters of her song. Not that other 
 singers have no hearts, and may not be excellent peo- 
 ple, but that they have not the same faith in the very 
 sounds and symbols of cordiality, and cannot be at a 
 moment's notice in the world which they speak of. 
 The common world hampers and pulls them back. 
 It was well noticed by a lady in the pit, that she is 
 
334 '^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 not hindered of her purpose by a break now and then 
 in her voice, the bubble of a note or so. She shdes 
 over it as if it were a molehill under her chariot 
 wheels, and abates nothing of her triumphant prog- 
 ress ; nay, adds a grace and a dignity on the strength 
 of it, as if it were a new proof how indifferent to the 
 spirit of the passage was the ground the most mate 
 rial to those who can look no higher. Besides, there 
 is a suffering and permission in it that belongs em- 
 phatically to passion. If it were for want of skill or 
 deliberation, it would be another thing. But in the 
 rich haste of emotion, pearls are dropped as of no con- 
 sequence. The profusion of real wealth allows us to 
 notice them only as things that would make others 
 poor. 
 
 Being closer to Madame Pasta than usual this 
 night, we had a completer opportunity of noticing the 
 extraordinary grace of her movements. She is never 
 at a loss, because she never thinks of being so. She 
 leaves the whole matter to truth and nature, and these 
 settle it for her, as completely as they do for an infant. 
 You might make a picture from any one of her pos- 
 tures. A favorite action of hers, and one extremely 
 touching, is, after venting a passion of more than usual 
 force, to put up her hands before her eyes, laying and 
 shutting up, as it were, her looks in them, as if to hide 
 ftom herself the sight of her own emotion. When she 
 opens her arms in a transport of affection, leaning at 
 the same time a little back, and breathing and looking 
 as true as truth could wish, her heart seems to come 
 forward for one as real, and her arms to wait the 
 sanction of its acknowledgment. For all arms, be it 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 335 
 
 observed, are not arms, whatever they pretend ; any 
 more than all that pretends to be love is love, or all 
 eyes have an insight. Some arms are a sort of fore 
 legs in air, merely to help people's walking. Others 
 have machines at the end of them, to take up victnals 
 and drink with, or occasionally to scratch out one's 
 eyes. Others, more amiable, are to hang armlets and 
 bracelets on, or to be admired for a skin or a shape ; 
 and then ladies put them in kid gloves, on purpose to 
 take them off, and lift them indifferently to their cheek 
 with rings on their fingers, and people say. What an 
 arm Mrs. Timson has ! But the real arms are to 
 serve and love with, to clasp with ; to be honest and 
 true arms, content to be admired for their own sakes 
 if the jDOSsessor be worthy, but happy to enable you 
 to lose sight of them for the sake of the heart and the 
 honest countenance. It is out of an instinct to this 
 purpose (for the least of our gestures have their rea- 
 son, if we did but scan it) that Madame Pasta throws 
 back her arms, as if things only in waiting, and brings 
 forward her heart, as if the approbation of that alone 
 would sanction their use. It is for a similar reason, 
 that we admire those women who can afford to make 
 no display of the beauty of any particular limb, but 
 reserve it for the objects of their love and respect to 
 "find out. It shows they are richer than in mere limbs. 
 And, for the same reason, one hates all that French 
 dancing, with fine showy limbs and senseless faces, 
 which follows the musical performances at this house, 
 and is just the antipodes of all that charms us in Pas- 
 ta's singing. If her limbs were among the poorest 
 jn the world, they would become precious as warmth 
 
336 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 and light, with that smile and those eyes ; whereas, 
 if a French dancer could, by any possibility, have 
 limbs like a Venus, with a face no fitter to look at. 
 for ten minutes, or for one, than nineteen out of 
 twenty of them possess, she might as well, to our 
 taste, be as wooden and pointed all over as a Dutch 
 doll ; which, indeed, in her inanimate posture-mak- 
 ings and senseless right angles of toe, she very much 
 resembles. These people are made up out of the toy- 
 shop. They are dolls in their quieter moments, and 
 tee-totums in their livelier. A mathematician should 
 mari;y one of them for a pair of compasses. 
 
 We must not forget to mention that Madame Cara- 
 dori, whose illness had been previously stated to the 
 public, went through her part in the opera in spite of 
 it, though evidently in a state of suffering. She could, 
 of course, be expected to do little ; but what she did 
 was good, and, at least, wanted nothing of its touch- 
 ingness. There is, at all times, something amiable in 
 the manner and appearance of this singer. Her more 
 than usual delicacy the other night, together with her 
 white dress, which had a long bodice with a cross 
 over it, and her hanging, uniform-looking sleeves, 
 gave her the appearance of a Madonna in one of 
 Raphael's pictures. 
 
 We must relate an anecdote of Madame Pasta, 
 highly corroborative of what has been said of her. 
 Some gentlemen, who knew her well, informed a 
 friend of ours when he was in Paris, that she would 
 come home from the opera, and sit in a passion of 
 tears at the recollection of what she had been acting. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 337 
 
 They told him that nothing could be more unaffected, 
 and that she would say she knew it to be idle, but that 
 she " could not get the thing out of her head." This 
 is just what imaginative people would expect her to 
 say. She never pretended that she had taken herself 
 for the character she represented, but she had sympa- 
 thized with it so strongly that it became the next 
 thing to reality ; and if our hearts can be touched 
 and our color changed by the mere perusal of a trage- 
 dy, how much more may not a woman's natiu-e be 
 moved that has been ahnost identified Vv'ith the ca- 
 lamities in it; that, by force of imagination, has 
 brought the soul of another to inhabit her own warm 
 being ; and has entertained it there as the very guest 
 of humanity, giving it her own heart to agitate, and 
 taking upon herself the burden of its infirmities ! 
 182S. 
 
 ON FRENCH OPERA DANCING. 
 
 DANCING is either the representation of love- 
 making, or it is that of pure animal spirits, 
 giving way to their propensity to motion. It is the 
 latter, most probably, that strikes out the first idea of 
 it, as an art ; the former, that completes and gives it 
 a sentiment. The rudest savages dance round a vis- 
 itor. Politer ones treat him with a dance of the 
 sexes. 
 
 But French opera dancing is neither the one nor 
 the other. It pretends both, only to show how little it 
 
33^ THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 has to do v/ith either. There is love in the plot ; there 
 is mirth in the stage directions : but you find it no- 
 where else. Think of a man making love, with no 
 love in his countenance ! of a girl, as merry as a 
 grig, but destitute of the least expression of it, except 
 in her toe ! A French ballet is like a rehearsal, with 
 the emotion left out. There is scenery ; there are 
 dresses and decorations ; some story is supposed to 
 be going on ; but the actors are really apart from nil 
 this ; wrapped up in themselves, and anxious for 
 nothing but to astonish with their respective legs, and 
 fetch down applause from the galleries with a jump. 
 
 Enter, for instance, two lovers, with a multitude of 
 subordinate lovers to dance for them while they rest. 
 The scene is in Turkey, in Italy, in Cyprus ; but it 
 might as well be in the dancing-master's school-room, 
 for anything it has to do with the performers. For- 
 ward comes the gentleman, walking ver}'- badly, like 
 all dancers by profession. He bridles, he balances 
 himself, he looks as wooden in the face as a barber's 
 block, he begins capering. That there is no meaning 
 in his capers but to astonish, is evident ; for, in his 
 greatest efforts, he always pays the least attention to 
 his love. If it is love-making, it is the oddest in the 
 world, for the lady is forgotten, the gentleman capers 
 by himself, and he expresses his passion by seeing 
 how many jumps he can take, liow often he can 
 quiver his feet before he comes down, how eminently 
 he can stand on one leg, and, finally, how long he 
 can spin round like a tee-totum, as if he had no brain 
 to be made giddy with. Suddenly he stops, like a 
 piece of lea,d ; and having received his applause for 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 339 
 
 being a machine, stalks off as proud as a peacock, 
 curving out his arms, holding his head up, and turn- 
 ing his toes east and west, as if it were a grace to be 
 splay-footed. All this is certainly not " the poetry of 
 motion." 
 
 It is now the lady's turn. She presents herself 
 equally alone and enamoured ; she looks grave and 
 anxious, not at her lover, but the pit ; no other emo- 
 tion is in her face, but then her toes are very lively, 
 and she begins by standing upon them. She seems 
 to say, '• You see what it is to love and be merry ; it 
 is to look like a school-girl before her master, and to 
 have insteps as pliable as India-rubber." She then 
 moves onward a little, and careers hither and thither, 
 prettily enough as long as it resembles any real dan- 
 cing ; but this is not her ambition. On a sudden she 
 stops like the gentleman, balances herself, tries her 
 arms and legs, like a young crane learning to fly, then 
 jumps up and down as high as she can, quivering her 
 calves (those only seats of emotion), and finally gives 
 a great spin round, as long as possible, looking like a 
 bust and a joair of legs, with an inverted bowl for a 
 petticoat. This she puts an end to by the usual leaden 
 stop, as if rooted with fright ; the tribute of applause 
 is received with the due petrifaction of countenance, 
 or a smile no less unmeaning ; and ofl'she walks like 
 her Inamorato, equally pompous and splay-footed, to 
 stand cooling herself in the background, and to aston- 
 ish the inexperienced with the shortness of her dra- 
 pery and the corpulence of her legs. 
 
 Those legs are a sight, unquestionably. If any two 
 balustrades of a bridge were wanting, here is the 
 
340 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 remedy. There is a fair dancer now at the opera, 
 who, from a principle well known to the metaphysi- 
 cal, seems to be ostentatious of two phenomena of 
 this kind, in the exact proportion that she ought to 
 conceal them. She appears to consider them as prize 
 calves, and makes as great a show of her favorites as 
 an Essex grazier. The simile is not handsome, but 
 we forget the bearer is a woman when we look at 
 such legs. Not that very true women may not have 
 legs a little superfluous. Madame Pasta has them. 
 Mrs. Jordan's legs were handsome rather as a man's 
 than a woman's ; and yet who ever doubted that she 
 was a very charming female ? It is not the leg, but the 
 spirit with which it is worn ; and, upon this princi- 
 ple, a woman "with thick ankles may step about our 
 imaginations like a fairy, and another with thin ones 
 trample them as if they were lead. If a woman has 
 grace at her heart, her movements will be graceful and 
 her step soft, let her legs be what size they may. If 
 she has not, the downwardness of her spirit will put 
 a vulgar weight in her feet, let them be naturally as 
 light as a zephyr's. She shall shake the room as she 
 walks, like an ale-wife. But huge legs in a female 
 are not particularly valuable for their own sakes, as 
 our fair friend at the opera seems to think. Dancing 
 tends to make them so ; but this is not what we go 
 to see dancing for. Here, however, lies the secret. 
 Body is everything in opera dancing, and mind noth- 
 ing. To show a limb, they think, is — to show a 
 limb. So it is ; a7id nothing else. But this is a 
 stretch of the intellectual to which they cannot arrive. 
 The audience instinctively know better ; and though- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 34I 
 
 they stay the afterpiece to admire more than they pre- 
 tend, are at once amazed and disappointed ; amazed 
 at the beauties lavished upon them, and disappointed 
 to find that the effect is not more beautifuL This is, 
 perhaps, as it should be, everything considered ; but 
 then it is not dancing. There might be a great deal 
 less display, and a little more sense ; and then people 
 might think of those they loved, and have their im- 
 aginations not unseasonably touched : for grace is the 
 link between body and soul ; and a sprinkle of that 
 Attic salt on the public mind is not without its use. 
 At present, whatsoever their inclination to the con- 
 trary, the spectators, before the scene is half over, feel 
 only that there is a glare and an impertinence ; that a 
 few half-naked-looking people are walking about, and 
 twirling, and looking stupid ; and that if this is vo- 
 luptuousness, it is a very indifferent thing. The young 
 may be amused with the novelty, and the imaginative 
 may try hard to be kind to it, but if there are other 
 persons present, who have no greater ideas of what is 
 elegant and attractive, than the scenes they meet with 
 in French opera dancing, they are in as fair a way as 
 can be of being the commonest and weakest people 
 in the world, and realizing as little true pleasure as 
 the wooden faces they look at. Now and then there 
 is a single figure worth seeing ; sometimes, though 
 rarely, a whole ballet. Des Hayes used to come 
 bounding on the stage like a deer. Angiolini was 
 interesting in Flora ; and even Vestris (as long as 
 you did not see his face) had an effect beyond that of 
 his twirling, when he touched her round the waist as 
 Zephyr, and took her with him up in the air. But 
 
342 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 there was poetry in the story. The ah* blew from 
 the fields of Ovid and our childhood. The best opera 
 dancer we ever saw was a female at Turin, of the 
 name of De Martini. She united the activity of the 
 French school with the grace and fervor of the Ital- 
 ian ; and did not make her bounds and her twirlings 
 for nothing. She would come, for instance, from the 
 other end of the stage, in a series of giddy move- 
 ments, and finish them with pitching herself into her 
 lover's arms. Here was love and animal spirits too, 
 each warranting and throwing a grace on the other. 
 Surely a set of Italian or Spanish dancers would make 
 a revolution in this matter, in the course of a season 
 too, and put an end to a scliool which must be as 
 little profitable in the comparison as it is unmeaning 
 and delightless. 
 
 How different a French opera dance, and one of 
 their dances on a green of a Sunday evening ! We 
 have had the pleasure of seeing the latter ; and 
 nothing could be merrier or to the purpose. But 
 there is all the difference in the world between French 
 nature and French art. The one is human nature — 
 
 " Dance, and Provencal song, and sun-burnt mirth ; " 
 
 the other is Paris and affectation, the pedantry of 
 pleasure. French opera dancing is like French paini- 
 ing, — a petrifaction of art, an attempt to set rules 
 above the relish of the thing ; and it ends in the same 
 way, by being a kind of inanimate sculpture. Their 
 dances on the green are as good as the dancing of 
 birds. Spanish dancing is more passionate. We 
 thought when we first saw a bolero we had never seen 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 343 
 
 dancing before. Those fervid alternations of court- 
 ship, and that wild careering of one person round 
 the other, dancing in every limb, and seeming to 
 sweep the very ground as they went with the tips of 
 their fingers, the music fermenting all the while, and 
 the castanets cracking like joints, — it looked like a 
 couple of aboriginal beings newly made out of the 
 whole ardor of the south, and not knowing how to 
 vent the tormenting pleasure of their existence. De 
 Martini made us feel that all this might be controlled 
 into a sentiment ; and Italian dancing, we should 
 guess, would be as fine, in its way, as Italian paint- 
 ing and music, if properly cultivated. The Germans 
 used to be violent dancers, as became their heavy- 
 laden tables. Of late years they have taken to the 
 most languid and voluptuous of all dances, as if they 
 had no alternative but to go to an extreme. We must 
 not omit to do justice to one French dance, the min- 
 uet, which is the perfection of artificial grace, the 
 dance of the courtier and fine lady, brimful of mutual 
 compliment, arising out of an infinite self-satisfaction. 
 A bow or courtesy is made, as if it were to nothing 
 under a prince or princess. A tip of the finger is 
 presented as if it were a jewel. Hov^ proud the 
 deference ! How dignified the resumption ! What 
 loftiness in the hat ! What greater ascendency in 
 the very sink of the petticoat ! What idolatry and 
 self-idolatry of approach ! What intensity of separa- 
 tion, the parties retreating with high worship from one 
 another, as if to leave space enough for their triumph 
 to swell in ! It seems as if none should dance a min- 
 uet after Louis the Fourteenth and his Montespans. 
 
344 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 It is the excess of pretension, becoming something 
 real on that account ; and belongs to an age of false 
 triumph and flattered assumptions. The Mhiuet de 
 la Cour is the best minuet, and seems to have been 
 inspired by its name. Mozart's minuet in Don Juan 
 is beautiful and victorious ; but it is not as pregnant 
 with assumptions as the other, like a hooped petticoat ; 
 it does not rise and fall, and step about in the same style 
 of quiet and undoubted perfection, like a Sir Charles 
 Grandison or Lady Grave-airs : it is more natural and 
 sincere, and might be chmced anywhere by any two 
 lovers, not the nicest in the world, proclaiming their 
 triumph. We have seen Charles Vestris and somebody 
 else, we forget whom, dance the Minuet de la Cour, 
 but it was not the real thing. You missed the real pre- 
 tenders, — the proper fine gentleman and lady. Mr. 
 Kemble should have danced a minuet, if he could 
 have danced at all ; and Mrs. Oldfield risen in her 
 " chintz and Brussels lace " to accompany him. 
 
 Let us not, however, be ungrateful to all stage- 
 dancing in England. Three stage loves have we 
 known in the days of our 3-outh ; as good love, and 
 better, than is usually entertained tov/ards persons 
 one is not acquainted with ; for it gave us an interest 
 ever after in the fair inspirers : and two of these ladies 
 were dancers. Our first passion of the kind was for 
 the fine eyes and cordial voice of Miss Murray, after- 
 wards Mrs. Henry Siddons ; our second for the lady- 
 like figiu'e and sweet, serious countenance of Miss 
 Searle, a dancer (since dead), who married the broth- 
 er of Sir Gilbert Hcathcote ; and our third for the 
 pretty cjubonpoint and ripe little black head of Miss 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 345 
 
 Lupino, since Mrs. Noble, whose clever self and hus- 
 band may dancing preserve ! We thought, when she 
 married, she had made the fittest choice in the w^orld. 
 We hope these declarations, which are the first we 
 ever made, are innocent ; especially as we make them 
 only to our Companion the reader. They are for 
 nobody else to hear. We speak in a stage whisper. 
 Our theatrical passion, at present, as he well knows, 
 is for Madame Pasta ; and we shall proceed, as we 
 did in the other cases, to show our gratitude for the 
 pleasure she gives us, by doing her all the good in our 
 power, and not letting her know a word on the sub- 
 ject. If this is not a disinterested passion, we know 
 not what is. 
 
 A word or two on our English manner of dancing 
 in private : our quadrilles and country dances. A 
 fair friend of ours, whenever she has an objection to 
 make to the style of a person's behavior, says, " he 
 requires a good shaking." This is what may be said 
 of most of the performers in our ball-rooms, particu- 
 larly the male. Our gentlemen dancers forget the 
 part they assume on all other occasions, as encour- 
 agers and payers of compliment; and seem, as if in 
 despair of equalling their fair friends, they had no 
 object but to get through the dance undetected. The 
 best thing they do for their partner is to hand her an 
 ice or a lemonade ; the very going for which appears 
 to be as great a refreshment to them as the taking it 
 is to the other. When the dance is resumed all their 
 gravity returns. They look very cut and dry, and 
 succinct ; jog along with an air of inditlerence, and 
 leave the vivacity of the young lady to shift for itself. 
 
34^ THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 The most self-satisfied male dancer we ever saw, was 
 one who, being contented with his own legs, could 
 never take his eyes off them, but seemed eternally 
 congratulating them and himself that they were fit to 
 be seen. The next thing to this, is to be always 
 thinking of the figure ; which, indeed, is the main 
 consideration both of gentlemen and ladies. Where 
 there is anything beyond, the ladies have it, out and 
 out. The best private dancer we know among the 
 male sex, is one who makes it his business to attend 
 to his partner ; to set off with her as if she were a part 
 of his pleasure, and to move among the others as if 
 there were such things in the world as companion- 
 ship, and a sense of it. And this he does with equal 
 spirit and modesty. Our readers may know of more 
 instances, and may help to furnish them ; but the 
 reverse is assuredly the case in general. Perhaps it 
 was not so in the livelier times of our ancestors, when 
 taxation had not forced us to think so much of" num- 
 ber one ; " and the general knowledge, that is pre- 
 paring a still better era, had not unsettled the minds 
 of all classes of people as to their individual j^reten- 
 sions. Perhaps, also, dress makes a difference. Men 
 may have been more confident in cloaks and doub- 
 lets than in the flaps and horse-collars of the present 
 day. To get up a dance on the sudden, nowadays, 
 on the green lawn, would look ridiculous on the men's 
 part. At least, they feel as if it would ; and this 
 would help to make it so. On the other hand, a set 
 of gallant apprentices in their caps and doublets, or 
 of wits and cavaliers in their mantles and plumage, 
 had all the world before them, for action or for grace ; 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 347 
 
 and a painter could put them on canvas with no det- 
 riment to the scenery. We are far from desiring to 
 bring back those distinctions. It is very possible for 
 an apprentice nowadays to know twice as much as a 
 cavalier ; and we would have no distinctions at all but 
 between spirit and spirit. But a dress disadvanta- 
 geous to everybody, is good for nothing but to increase 
 other disadvantages. Above all, a little more spirit 
 in our mode of dancing, and a little more of the 
 dancing itself, without the formality of regular balls, 
 would do us good, and give our energies a fillip on 
 the side of cheerfulness. Families and intimate 
 friends would find themselves benefited in health and 
 spirits, perhaps to an extent of which they have no 
 conception, by setting apart an evening or so in the 
 v^eek for a dance among themselves. If we have not 
 mudi of '• the poetry of motion " among us, v^'e may 
 have plenty of the motion itself, which is the healthy 
 part of it ; and the next best performer to such a one 
 as we have described is he who gives himself up to 
 the pleasure and sociality of the moment, whether 
 a good dancer or not. 
 1828. 
 
348 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 RECOLLECTIONS OF OLD ACTORS. 
 
 THE removal of our place of publication to Brydg- 
 es Street has reminded us, that many years ago 
 we began writing theatricals at the house two doors 
 from us, where the paper (The News) is still pub- 
 lished in which we made our debut. May it live for- 
 ever ! We rejoice in its neighborhood, and hope it 
 is not sorry for ours. It must now be nearly thirty 
 years since we first wrote articles in the newspapers. 
 We were then in our boyhood, or rather lad-hood. 
 Not many years short of that period, we adventured 
 on the perilous task of criticism ; and here we are 
 again, in the same street, almost on the same spot, 
 occupied with a new paper,* and pursuing the old 
 
 ♦ The Tatler, a literary and theatrical paper, which Hunt edited from Septem- 
 ber 4, 1S30, to February 14, 1832. " It was a very little work," he writes, in his 
 Autobiography, " consisting but of four folio pages; but it was a daily publica- 
 tion. I did it all myself, except when too ill ; and illness seldom hindered me 
 either from supplying the review of a book, going every night to the play, or 
 writing the notice of the play the same night at the printing-office. The conse- 
 quence was, that work, slight as it looked, nearly killed me ; for it never pros- 
 pered beyond the coterie of play-going readers, to whom it was almost ex- 
 clusively known ; and I was sensible of becoming weaker and poorer every day. 
 When I came home at night, often at morning, I used to feel as if I could 
 hardly speak ; and for a year and a half afterwards a certain grain of fatigue 
 seemed to pervade my limbs, which I thought would never go off. Such, never- 
 theless, is a habit of mind, if it be but cultivated, that my spirits never seemed 
 better, nor did I ever write theatricals so well, as in the pages of this most un- 
 remunerating speculation." According to Sir Thomas N. Talfourd, Leigh Hunt 
 gave theatrical criticism a place in modern literature. "In criticism, thus just 
 and picturesque," says Sir Thomas, "Mr. Hunt has never been approached; 
 and the wonder is, that instead of falling off with the art of acting, he even grew 
 richer ; for the articles of the Tatler, equalling tliose of tlie Examiner i;i niceness 
 of discrimination, are superior to them in depth and coloring." — Talfourd's 
 Critical and Miscellaneous Writings, article On the Late William Hazlitt. — Ed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 349 
 
 track. It makes us feel as if we were beginning life 
 over again. 
 
 Dniry Lane Theatre is not the same identical 
 Drury Lane it was then. It is on the same spot, but 
 its body has been altered. It is the old friend with 
 a new face. Covent Garden has experienced the 
 same rejuvenescence. Alas ! why cannot actors and 
 play-goers grow young again too ! Why cannot they 
 be old friends with new faces, — the interior spirit 
 the same, but the body remoulded ! How patiently 
 one would stand to have the scaffold set up round 
 about us, while the little genii (whoever they were 
 that acted the part of bricklayers) should pursue 
 their task of restoration, elevating one's front, extend- 
 ing the wings, and new glazing those dhnmed win- 
 dows, the eyes ! Then to take down the scaflbldi ng ; 
 and like the statue of Memnon, we would sing at the 
 touch of morning. 
 
 It is a pity that some such thing cannot take place, 
 for the sake of those that particularly desire it. Rab- 
 elais says that he was sure he must have been the 
 son of a king, because nobody had more princely 
 inclinations. We incline, in the same manner, to be 
 so young in our feelings, and to desire such a good 
 long life before us to do a world of things in, that 
 it seems as if we had a right to it. Mortality is a 
 good provision, considering that the world has not 
 come to its state of enjoyment, and that people in 
 general, by the time they are forty, hardly know 
 what to do with their Sundays : but an exception 
 might be made, we think, in favor of those who 
 could occupy all their hours some way or other for 
 
350 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 a hundred years to come, and who have not yet got 
 over their love even of gingerbread. It will take 
 us at least twenty years longer before we arrive at 
 an indifference to lemon-cake. A " book of pic- 
 tures " we cannot conceive the possibility of not 
 caring for ; and as to the bright visions of nymphs, 
 and goddesses, and Miss Smith, which filled our 
 dreams, sleeping and waking, do we not take Mad- 
 ame Pasta for the very personification of truth? and 
 did we not go seven times to see Miss Inverarity, 
 because she has the very voice of cheerful girlhood, 
 high and trusting, and we are sure, while we are 
 hearing her, that there is one person among the 
 audience of her own age? Did we, and do we 
 not believe in the marvels of Cinderella, just as much 
 as if we had come ten minutes ago, from reading 
 the little gilt story-book on a school step? And did 
 not the dance of the nymphs with torches appear to 
 us as if a page out of Ovid had become true? Have 
 we not, in short, faith infinite, hope, — we dare to 
 add charity ; yea, even more than we had at sophis- 
 ticate seventeen, when people are for being some- 
 thing diflerent from what they are? We beg leave 
 to say, our age \'s> fifteen; we have run the great 
 circle, and come round to it: and we think it a lit- 
 tle hard that we are forced to look so much older. 
 
 There is scarcely any one performer remaining at 
 Drury Lane of all that we remember when we first 
 began writing theatricals. We are not sure there is 
 even one. Liston and Dovvton came soon, but we 
 recollect the debuts of both \ — of the former cer- 
 tainly. Farren is quite a modern, and Harley. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 o:) 
 
 Mrs. Orger made her appearance years afterwards, 
 and we have none of the then old ladies, Mrs. 
 Sparks, Mrs. Mattocks, Miss Pope. The reigning 
 women then were, Miss Pope, with her precise bit 
 of a voice, and genuine humor, — Mrs. Mattocks, 
 who had a never-failing recipe of a sudden flash of 
 laughter, starting out of an acrid face ; — the beau- 
 tiful and good-natured Mrs. Powell, with her honeyed 
 tones (those v/ho recollect them surely must do 
 something for her in her old age) ; — Miss Murray 
 (afterwards Mrs. Henry Siddons), with her sweet 
 voice and eyes, the latter a little too rolling; — Mrs. 
 Henry Johnstone, a slight, handsome creature, with a 
 formidable power of looking vixenish ; — Miss Dun- 
 can, nov/ Mrs. Davison, long a most clever actress 
 with a liberal style ; Mrs. Jordan, delightful Mrs. 
 Jordan, whose voice did away the cares of the whole 
 house, before they saw her come in, and Mrs. Sid- 
 dons, the mighty mother of the pall and sceptre. 
 We always remember her as the mother, — as some- 
 thing elderly, and even gaunt. We suspect that, 
 with all her talents, she was, by nature, something 
 of a dowager, compared with such a queen as Pasta. 
 
 Mrs. Gibbs was flourishing at that time, but she 
 was at the Haymarket, very good, and very pretty 
 in chambermaids and black-mittened rustics. 
 
 There also was Mrs. Mills, a tight little actress, 
 whose tightness led her to play drummers ; and 
 Madame Storace, loud, free, and clever, with a reedy 
 voice ; and Mrs. Crouch, once lovely, then going the 
 way of all forsaken Princes' mistresses ; and Mrs. 
 Billington, the favorite great singer, looking like a 
 
353 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 handsome apoplexy, and straining her throat till you 
 thought she would have one ; and Mrs. Bland, the 
 favorite little singer, with a voice like her name, 
 and a short, thick person, and dark face to match, 
 v^hich her sweet ballads made ever welcome. What 
 troubles did not all these people have ! What pleas- 
 ures too ! And how much pleasure did they not 
 give ! 
 
 With respect to the men, we begin to think that 
 Mathews was at Drury Lane in those days ; but we 
 are not sure. We remember him at the Haymarket, 
 where Liston came out. Elliston was the great man 
 at Drury, and John Kemble at Covent Garden. We 
 used to be heretical enough to think the former the 
 greater natural genius of the two, though of a less 
 heroicai turn for tragedy ; and we think so still. As 
 a cordial and dashing comedian, in first-rate charac- 
 ters, we never saw him equalled. No gallant knew 
 how to make love as he did. He had a fervor and a 
 breath, as well as a cheerful eye and a most urgent 
 voice, that made his energy of some consequence. 
 
 Lewis surpassed him in airiness ; but there was no 
 gentleman comedian who comprised so many quali- 
 ties of his art as he did, or who could diverge so well 
 into those parts of tragedy, which find a connecting 
 link with the graver powers of the comedian in their 
 gracefulness and humanity. He was the best Wild- 
 air, the best Archer, the best Aranza ; and carrying 
 the seriousness of Aranza a little further, or making 
 him a tragic gentlemaii instead of a comic, he be- 
 came the best Mortimer, and even the best Macbeth, 
 of any performer who excelled in comedy. When 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 353 
 
 Charles Kemble acts comedy, he gives you the idea 
 of an actor who has come out of the chivah-ous part 
 of tragedy. It is grace and show that are most natu- 
 ral to him, — the ideal of mediocrity. Elliston being 
 natural!}^ a comedian, and comedy of the highest class 
 demanding a greater sympathy with actual flesh and" 
 blood, his tragedy, though less graceful than Charles 
 Kemble's, was more natural and cordial. He suffered 
 and was shaken more. The other, in his greatest 
 grief, is but like the statue of some Apollo Belvedere 
 vivified, frowning in beauty, and making a grace of 
 his sorrow. The god remains impassive to ordinary 
 suffering. Elliston's features were nothing nearly so 
 handsome or so finely cut as the others ; but they 
 were more sensitive and intelligent. He had i\othing 
 of the poetry of tragedy ; the other has the form of it ; 
 but Elliston, in Macbeth, could give you something 
 of the weak, and sanguine, and misgiving usurper ; 
 and in Mortimer, in the Iron Chest, he has moved the 
 audience to tears. It ought not to be forgotten, that 
 he restored that character to the stage, when John 
 Kemble had killed it with his frigidity.* 
 
 The tragedy of this accomplished actor was, how- 
 ever, only an elongation, or drawing out, of the graver 
 and more sensitive part of his comedy. It was in 
 comedy that he was the master. "When Kean ap- 
 peared and extinguished Kemble, Elliston seems pru- 
 dently to have put out his tragic lamp. In comedy, 
 after the death of Lewis, he remained without a rival. 
 
 * For a livel}' and caustic account of the manner in which Kemble performed 
 the part of Sir Edward Mortimer, see Cohnan's preface to the first edition of 
 The Iron Chest, reprinted in Hotten's edition of Broad Grins. — Ed. 
 
 23 
 
354 '^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 He had three distinguished excellences, — dry humor, 
 gentlemanly mirth, and fervid gallantry. His fea- 
 tures were a little too round, and his person latterly 
 became a great deal too much so. But we speak of 
 him in his best days. His face, in one respect, was 
 of that rare order, which is peculiarly fitted for the 
 expression of enjoyment; — it laughed with the eyes 
 as well as mouth. His eyes, which were not large, 
 grew smaller when he was merry, and twinkled with 
 glee and archness ; his smile was full of enjoj'ment ; 
 and yet the moment he shook his head with a satirical 
 deprecation, or dropped the expression of his face into 
 an innuendo, nothing could be dryer or more angular 
 than his mouth. There was a generosity in his style, 
 both in its greater and smaller points. He understood 
 all the little pretended or avowed arts of a gentleman, 
 when he was conversing or complimenting, or mak- 
 ing love, everything which implied the necessity of 
 attention to the other person, and a just, and as it 
 were, mutual consciousness of the graces of life on 
 his own. His manners had the true uimuet dance 
 spirit of gentility, — the knowledge how to give and 
 take, with a certain recognition of the merits on either 
 side, even in the midst of raillery. And then his 
 voice was remarkable for its union of the manly with 
 the melodious ; and as a lover, nobody approached 
 him. Certainly nobody approached a woman as he 
 did. It was the reverse of that preposterous style of 
 touch and avoids — that embracing at arms' length, 
 and hinting of a mutual touch on the shoulders, — by 
 which the ladies and gentlemen of the stage think fit 
 to distinguish themselves from the characters they 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 355 
 
 perform, and even the Pollys and Macheaths propi- 
 tiate our good opinion. Elliston made out that it was 
 no shame to love a woman, and no shame* in her 
 to return his passion. He took her hand, he cherished 
 it against his bosom, he watched the moving of her 
 countenance, he made the space less and less between 
 them, and as he at length burst out into some excla- 
 mation of " charming ! " or " lovely ! " his voice trem- 
 bled, not with weakness, but with the strength and fer- 
 vor of its emotion. All the love, on the stage, since 
 this (with the exception of Macready's domestic ten- 
 derness), is not worth twopence, and fit only to beget 
 w^aiters. 
 
 In calling to mind the pleasant hours that have been 
 given us by the talents of Elliston, we must not forget 
 to mention his defects. In traged}^, for want of a 
 strong sympathy with the serious, he sometimes got 
 into a commonplace turbulence, and at others put on 
 an affected solemnity ; and he was in the habit of 
 hawing between his words. The longer he was a 
 manager, the worse this habit became. He was not 
 naturally inclined to the authoritative ; but having once 
 commenced it in order to give weight to his levity, he 
 seems to have carried about the habit with him to 
 maintain his importance. Unfortunately, he fancied 
 that he was never more natural than on these occa- 
 sions. He said once, at the table of a friend of ours, 
 clapping himself on the knee, and breathing with his 
 usual fervor, " Nature-^tc;, sir, is everything-«w .* l-aw 
 am always-^ze; natural-rttw." 
 
 Theodore Hook had a ludicrous story of his calling 
 upon Elliston at the Surrey Theatre, and having some 
 
35^ THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 conversation with him in the midst of his managerial 
 occupations. In the course of their dialogue, Elliston 
 would start in a grand manner from the subject, and 
 give some direction to his underlings. He called for 
 two of them successively in the following man- 
 ner : — 
 
 Elliston — (turning suddenly to the right, and 
 breathing with all his fervor). " Night watchman ! " 
 — (Enter night watchman, and has a word or two 
 spoken to him by the manager.) 
 
 Elliston — (scarcely having resumed the discourse, 
 and turning suddenly as before). " Other night 
 watchman ! " — (Enter other night watchman, and is 
 spoken to in like manner. The histrionic sovereign 
 then resumes his discourse with Mr. Hook, with 
 tranquil dignity). 
 
 We had an hour's conversation with him once at 
 Drur}' Lane ; during w^iich, in answer to some obser- 
 vation we made respecting the quantity of business he 
 had to get through, he told us, that he had formed 
 himself " on the model of the Grand Pensionary De 
 Witt." Coming with him out of the theatre, we 
 noticed the present portico in Brydges Street, which 
 had just been added to the front, and said that it 
 seemed to have started up like magic. " Yes, sir," 
 said he, " energy is the thing : — I no sooner said it, 
 than it was done : — it was a Bonaparte blow." 
 
 There was real energy in all this, and the right 
 animal spirits, as well as an innocent pedantry: nor 
 did it hinder him from being the delightful comedian 
 we have described. He could not have been it, had 
 he not been pleased with himself: and a little super- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 357 
 
 fluons self-complacency off the stage was to be par- 
 doned him. A successful actor would be a phenome- 
 non of modesty if he were not one of the vainest 
 of men. Nobody gets such applause as he does, and 
 in such an intoxicating way, except a conqueror en- 
 tering a city. 
 
 Then there was Bannister (now enjoying the otium 
 CU771 be7iignitate)^ at the top of another line of com- 
 edy, not omitting homely domestic tragedy. His 
 Walter, in the Children in the Wood, was as good, 
 in its way, as Mrs. Siddons's Lady Macbeth ; and his 
 Job Thornberry, in John Bull, was as superior to 
 Fawcett's, as a brazier is to his brass. Bannister 
 was one of those actors who give you the idea of 
 being genuine honest men, and make you happy. 
 Fawcett was excellent also in his line, which was 
 that of impudent servants and gambling pedagogues. 
 No Pangloss and Caleb Qiiotem have ever been so 
 good as his. The other men were John Kemble, 
 the very statue of an old Roman set walking ; Pope, 
 who had a dashing tragic style, but was monoto- 
 nous, and was always lifting up his arms, like St. 
 Paul preaching at Athens ; Raymond, a melodra- 
 matic sort of actor, more intelligent than any one 
 of the present, though harsh ; Henry Johnstone, an- 
 other, of a more ideal cast, and more quietly effective, 
 though his handsomeness made him somewhat fop- 
 pish ; Murra}', the father of Miss Murray, a very sensi- 
 ble and pleasing actor in old gentlemen ; Powell, the 
 last of the declamatory, white-handkerchief mourners 
 of an older school ; Lewis, the essence of lightness, 
 of whim, of the mercurial (we have often described 
 
358 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 him : * he is not to be replaced) ; Munden,who made 
 every trifle of importance, and masticated his grins till 
 they were irresistible; Simons, the most filching of 
 filchers ; Emery, a perfect Yorkshireman, startling in 
 rustic tragedy ; Wewitzer, the only Canton ; Irish 
 Johnstone, of most lackadaisical potency, and a good 
 singer ; Blanchard, the best Marquis de Grand Cha 
 teau we have seen, a most petulant and palsied Signor, 
 — still extant, and much, in other things, as he was ; 
 and afterwards came Cooke, who took almost all the 
 ideal out of tragedy, but put some good stutT into 
 it, and was a painfully good Sir Pertinax ; then Mas- 
 ter Betty, the plaything of declamation, whose clev- 
 erness deserved a better fate ; and after an interval, 
 with many others still flourishing, Kean, the finest 
 actor we ever beheld. 
 
 We ought to mention Robert Palmer, a dogged kind 
 of natural actor, especially in characters of sturdy im- 
 
 * Let the reader picture to himself a slight, youthful figure, of middle height, 
 with sprightly eyes half shut with laughing, a mouth that showed its teeth a little 
 when it smiled ; restless, and yet gentlemanly manners ; a pair of gloved hands 
 that went through all the varieties of illustration that hands can insinuate, and 
 thrust the point of a joke into your ribs with a finger, to the exclamation of "you 
 dog ! " — light airy voice, harmonizing with the look of the face, often out of breath 
 with spirits, and reposing sometimes on long lower tones of ludicrous contrast ; a 
 head full of nods, and becks, and flutterings ; and lastly, a habit of finishing his 
 sentences with indescribable exclamations ai hoo ! z.nd. phoo ! and a look of pouting 
 astonishment, as if nothing remained on earth to wonder at but his triumphant 
 foppery, and he joined the astonishment in order to be in the fashion. We have 
 nothing like it nowadays : nothing so thin, so airy, so gentlemanly, so eternally 
 young : for Lewis was the very same to'the last. His slenderness and his animal 
 spirits preserved his look of juvenility to the moment when he took leave of the 
 stage. It was in the Copper Captain, with his epaulets dancing on his shoulders. 
 He came forward at the end of the play to take leave, and for the first time in his 
 life, perhaps, when on the stage, the good-natured actor shed tears and caused 
 them. His gay voice failed him as he told the public that " for thirty years he 
 had not once incurred their displeasure : " and he was obliged to put up hU 
 cocked hat before his face to hide his emotion. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 359 
 
 pudence or sottishness ; but we knew him only in his 
 dechne. John Pahner was before our time. So was 
 Miss Farren : and Suett was before our critical days, 
 though we remember him well, with his quaint, thin 
 manner, and his little slippery laugh. 
 
 We heard an exquisite anecdote of Suett the 
 other day. It is not much to tell, but it is highly 
 characteristic. Suett, it must be observed, was both 
 one of the drollest and one of the simplest of man- 
 kind. His relish of a joke was infinite, but he gave 
 rise to many a one unconsciously ; and hung upon the 
 world, in all things, betwixt a laugh and an aston- 
 ishment. It was he that said when he was dying, 
 " O dear ! O dear ! Bobby going to die ! Here's a 
 pretty job ! Was there ever seen the like?" 
 
 Suett one day took it into his head, gravely, 
 to teach clergymen how to read the Lord's Prayer ! 
 We forget the name of the public house from wdiich 
 his card of announcement was addressed, but it ran 
 in some such manner as the following, and was in 
 poi'fect good faith : — 
 
 " Clergymen taught to read the Lord's Prayer^ 
 
 By Robert Suett, Comedian. 
 
 Address to the Cat and Feathers.^ No, 21 Drury 
 
 La7ze" 
 
 1831. 
 
360 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 CLARENDON'S HISTORY OF THE 
 REBELLION. 
 
 HAVING been much interested by a re-perusal 
 of Clarendon's History of the Rebellion, I sit 
 down to look through it again with the reader. 
 My object is not to write a criticism, still less to enter 
 into a review of the period to which the book relates, 
 but simply to point out and remark a little upon some 
 of the most curious passages. Having felt a pleasure, 
 I wish to impart it, and shall fancy myself in the 
 reader's company as with a friend. 
 
 The edition I make use of is a foreign one, printed 
 at Basil, which is not likely to be read in England: 
 so that I can only refer to the number of the books 
 without noticing the pages. 
 
 The work opens with an account of Prince 
 Charles's romantic journey into Spain, and the way 
 in which James the First was brought to consent to it. 
 This has been copied by Hume; but though Hume 
 relates the particulars more directly relating to the 
 journey, such as the bullying conduct of Bucking- 
 ham, and the ridiculous lamentations of the King, 
 who threw himself on his bed, weeping and wailing, 
 and exclaiming that he should lose " Baby Charles," 
 he has omitted one or two passages highly charac- 
 teristic of the courtiers of those times. I observe, by 
 the way, that Hunw; represents Baby Charles (who 
 was then a young man in the twenty-third year of his 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 361 
 
 age) as having tears iu his eyes when his father 
 wished him to give up the journey: but this is not 
 mentioned by Chirendon. The appeHation of Baby, 
 and the wilful infirmities to which Royalty is subject, 
 appear to have beguiled the historian of his usual 
 precision. 
 
 Sir Francis Cottington, afterwards Lord Cotting- 
 ton, was a courtier of real courage for that period ; 
 yet, see how he behaves at an unexpected proposi- 
 tion : " Cottington," said James, " here is Baby 
 Charles and Stenny " — (an appellation he always 
 used of and towards the Duke) — " who have a great 
 mind to go by post to Spain to fetch home the In- 
 fanta, and will have but two more in their company. 
 What think you of the journey?" He (Cottington) 
 often protested since, that when he heard the King, 
 he fell iiito such a trembling- that he coitld hardly 
 speak. But when the King commanded him to an- 
 swer him, what he thought of the journey, he replied, 
 he could not think well of it, &c. — Book I. 
 
 This was the courage of a great courtier. Now 
 see his delicacy. Cottington, to this offence against 
 the Duke, subsequently added another ; upon which 
 Buckingham, after his usual open manner, vowed re- 
 venge on him. The courtier applied to him to know 
 whether, by a proper obsequiousness, he could not be 
 restored to his Grace's favor ; and being answered in 
 the negative, said, he at least hoped that his Grace 
 would not condescend to gain by his loss ; and so re- 
 quested him to return a set of hangings he had pre- 
 sented to him " in hope of his future favor," and 
 which cost him eight hundred pounds. The Duke 
 
362 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 answered " he was right ; " and the hangings were re- 
 stored, or at least the amonnt of their vakie ; together 
 with some sums of money, which Cottington had laid 
 out, by his order, for jewels and pictures. — Ibid. 
 
 Cottington appears to liave been bold enough with 
 everybody except his first master ; but he knew his 
 men, even when he was most daring. He most likely 
 ventures to behave to Buckingham in this manner, 
 out of a confidence that it was the safest thing he 
 could do to a man of his temper, where his advances 
 were not accepted. It was an avowal of meanness 
 and inferiority, as well as a compliment to the other's 
 spirit ; which tended to put him at a pardonable dis- 
 tance from a lofty but not ungenerous temper. After 
 the death of Buckingham, Cottington got into power. 
 There were none of his old masters to overawe him. 
 He felt secure of Charles and his weakness ; and 
 having a turn for drollery as well as artifice, did not 
 scruple to play a strange trick upon Laud, whom all 
 the lay part of the government disliked. It was so 
 contrived as at onfce to turn to their advantage, and 
 disconcert the Archbishop with the King. The 
 whole of the story is worth copying, inasmuch as it 
 involves a Naboth-vineyard anecdote of Charles the 
 First such as Hume does not venture to rejDeat. " The 
 King, who was excessively affected to hunting (says 
 Clarendon) and the sports of the field, had a great 
 desire to make a great joark for red as well as fallow 
 deer, between Richmond and Hampton Court, where 
 he had large wastes of his own and great parcels of 
 wood, which made it very fit for the use he designed 
 it to ; but as some parishes had commons in those 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 363 
 
 wastes, so many gentlemen and farmers had good 
 houses and good farms intermingled with those 
 wastes, of their own inheritance, or for their lives or 
 years ; and without taking of them into the park, it 
 would not be of the largeness, or for the use proposed. 
 His Majesty desired to purchase those lands, and was 
 very willing to buy them upon higher terms than the 
 people could sell them at to anybody else, if they had 
 occasion to part with them ; and thought it no un- 
 reasonable thing, upon those terms, to expect this 
 from his subjects ; and so he employed his own sur- 
 veyor and others of his officers to treat with the own- 
 ers, many whereof were his own tenants, whose 
 farms would at last expire. 
 
 '^ The major part of the people were in a short 
 time prevailed with, but many very obstinately re- 
 fused ; and a gentleman who had the best estate, with 
 a convenient house and gardens, would by no means 
 part with it ; and the King being as earnest to com- 
 pass it, it made a great noise, as if the King would 
 take away men's estates at his own pleasure." [As 
 if he would not ! What else was it that he desired to 
 do?] "The Bishop of London, who was Treas- 
 urer, and the Lord Cottington, Chancellor of the Ex- 
 chequer, were, from the first entering upon it, very 
 averse from the design ; not only for the murmur of 
 the people, but because the purchase of the land, and 
 the making a brick wall about so large a parcel of 
 ground (for it is near ten miles about), would cost a 
 greater sum of money than they could easily provide, 
 or they thought ought to be sacrificed on such an oc- 
 casion ; and the Lord Cottington (who was more so- 
 
364 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 licitecl by the country people, and heard most of their 
 murmurs) took the business most to heart, and en- 
 deavored by all the ways he could, and by frequent 
 importunities, to divert his Majesty from pursuing it, 
 and put all delays he w^ell could do in the bargains 
 w^hich were to be made, till the King grew very angry 
 with him, and told him he was resolved to go through 
 with it, and had already caused brick to be burned, 
 and much of the wall to be built on his own land. 
 Upon which Cottington thought fit to acquiesce. 
 
 " The building of the wall before the people con- 
 sented to part with their land, or their common, 
 looked to them as if by degrees they should be shut 
 out from both, and increased the murmur and noise 
 of the people who were not concerned, as well as of 
 them who were ; and it was too near London not to 
 be the common discourse./ The Archbishop (who 
 desired exceedingly that the King should be possessed 
 as much of the hearts of the people as was possible, 
 at least that they should have no just cause to com- 
 plain), meeting with it, resolved to speak to the King 
 of it ; which he did ; and received such an answer 
 from him, that he thought his Majesty rather not in- 
 formed enough of the inconveniences and mischiefs of 
 the thing, then positively resolved not to desist from 
 it. Whereupon, one day he took the Lord Cottington 
 aside (being informed that he disliked it), and, ac- 
 cording to his natural custom, spoke with great 
 warmth against it, and told him, ' he should do very 
 well to give the King good counsel, and withdraw 
 him from a resolution in which his honor and jus- 
 tice were so much called in question.' Cottington 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 365 
 
 answered him very gravely, ' that the thing designed 
 was very lawful, and he thought the King resolved 
 very well, since the place lay so conveniently for his 
 winter exercise ; and that he should by it not be com- 
 pelled to make so long journeys as he used to do in 
 that season of the 3'ear for his sport ; and that nobody 
 ought to dissuade him from it.' 
 
 " The Archbishop, instead of finding a concurrence 
 from him, as he expected, seeing himself reproached 
 upon the matter for his opinion, grew into much pas- 
 sion, telling him, ' Such men as he would ruin the 
 King, and make him lose the affections of his sub- 
 jects ; that, for his own part, as he had begun, so he 
 woidd go on, to persuade the King from proceeding 
 in so ill a counsel ; and that he hoped it would appear 
 who had been his counsellor.' Cottington, glad to 
 see him so soon hot, and resolved to inflame him 
 more, very calmly replied to him, ' that he thought 
 a man could not, with a good conscience, hinder the 
 King from pursuing his resolutions ; and that it could 
 not but proceed from want of affection to his person ; 
 and that he was not sure that it misfht not be hio-h 
 treason.' The other, upon the wildness of his dis- 
 course, in great anger asked him, 'Why.'* from 
 v/hence had he received that doctrine.^' He said, 
 with the same temper, ' They who did not wish the 
 King's health, could not love him ; and they who 
 went about to hinder his taking recreation v^'diich 
 preserved his health, might be thought, for aught he 
 knew, guilty of the highest crimes.' Upon which 
 the Archbishop, in great rage and with many re- 
 proaches, left him ; and either presently, or upon the 
 
366 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 next opportunity, told the King, ' that he now knew 
 who was his great counsellor for making the park ; 
 and that he did not wonder that men durst not repre- 
 sent any arguments to the contrary, or let his Majesty 
 know how much he suffered in it, when such prin- 
 ciples in divinity and law were laid down to terrify 
 them,' and so recounted the conference he had with 
 the Lord Cottington, bitterly inveighing against him 
 and his doctrines, mentioning him with all the sharp 
 reproaches imaginable, and beseeching his Majesty 
 'that his counsel might not prevail with him;' tak- 
 ing some pains to make his conclusions appear very 
 false and ridiculous. 
 
 " The King said no more than but, ' My Lord, you 
 are deceived : Cottington is too hard for you. Upon 
 my word, he hath not only dissuaded me more, and 
 eiven more reason asrainst this business than all the 
 men in England have done, but hath really obstructed 
 the work, by not doing his duty as I commanded him, 
 for which I have been very much displeased with 
 him. You see how unjustly your passion hath trans- 
 ported you.' By which reprehension he found how 
 much he had been abused, and resented it accord- 
 ingly." — /did. 
 
 Hume ought not to have omitted this story. Every- 
 thing connected with it deserves attention. In the 
 first place, even Clarendon has thought proper to tell 
 it, though he contrives to divide the interest as much 
 as possible with Cottington's humor. This is a proof 
 how much noise it must have made ; and how dif- 
 ficult the author found it, in that age, to leave it out 
 of his history. The noise, indeed, is evident from 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 367 
 
 every part of it; and what is remarkable, the cour- 
 tiers agreed with the people. The design was not 
 only unjust to others ; it was inconvenient to them- 
 selves. The Chancellor of the Exchequer was puz- 
 zled for money for it. Laud, who had the direction 
 of the King's conscience, and was already disliked by 
 all classes for his arbitrary principles, was afraid he 
 should be thought to encourage it. Something also 
 is to be allowed him on the score of scandal to the 
 Bible. Here was the scene of Naboth's vineyard re- 
 opened. The Archbishop finds himself in the sit- 
 uation of Nathan. Cottington hates him for his 
 officiousness, perhaps envies him the chance of turn- 
 ing the King's intentions ; and the King first leaves 
 him to suppose that he had not made up his mind, 
 and afterwards is not sorry to have an opportunity of 
 rebuking him. His Majesty had been compelled, no 
 doubt, to take to himself much of the reproach 
 which the Prelate, in the course of his wrath, had 
 vented against the supposed adviser. Finally, the 
 project appears to have been obstinately gone through 
 with, and there is no knowing how much of the sub- 
 sequent bitterness between the King and his subjects, 
 how much of the general indignation, or of the vin- 
 dictiveness and apparent cruelty of individuals, may 
 have been owing to this single circumstance. 
 
 Of tliis Lord Cottington, who was an amusing 
 person, the reader shall have all that remains to be 
 jtold. He followed the fortunes of Charles the Second 
 jduring the civil wars ; and in proportion as the Stu- 
 arts grew weak, appears to have become more impu- 
 dent and entertaining. The King, in his exile, alarmed 
 
368 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 his court by an intention to make Colonel Windham 
 Secretary of State ; " an honest gentleman," says 
 Clarendon, " whose best pretension to the office was 
 that his wife had been his Majesty's nurse." — "One 
 day, the Lord Cottington, when the Chancellor (Clar- 
 endon himself) and some others were present, told 
 the King, very gravely (according to his custom, 
 who never smiled when he made othevs merry), 
 ' that he had a humble suit to him on behalf of an old 
 servant of his father ; and whom he assured him upon 
 his knowledge, his. father loved as well as he did any 
 man of that condition ; and that he had been many 
 years one of his falconers in England : ' and there- 
 upon enlarged himself (as he could do very well, in 
 all the terms of that science), to show how very skil- 
 ful he was in that art. The King asked him ' what 
 he would have done for him?' Cottington told him 
 ' it was very true that his Majesty kept no falconers, and 
 the poor man was grown old, and could not ride as 
 he used to do ; but that he was a very honest man, 
 and could read very well, and had as audible a voice 
 as any man need to have ; and therefore besought his 
 Majesty, that he would make him his Chaplain;' 
 which, speaking with so composed a countenance, 
 and somewhat of earnestness, the King looked upon 
 him with a smile to know what he meant ; when he, 
 with the same gravity, assured him the ' falconer 
 was in all respects as fit to be his Chaplain as Col- 
 onel Windham was to be Secretary of State ; ' which 
 so surprised the King, w4io had never spoken to him 
 of the matter, all that were present not being able to 
 abstain from laughing, that his Majesty was somewhat 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 369 
 
 out of countenance ; and this being merrily told by 
 some of the standers-by, it grew to be a story in all 
 companies, and did readily divert the King from the 
 purpose, and made the other so much ashamed of 
 pretending to it, that there was no more discourse of 
 \tr—BookXIL 
 
 Cottington was of a Roman Catholic family. When 
 he was in Spain on a former occasion,- he was recon- 
 ciled to the Church of Rome, and went regularly to 
 mass ; but on his return to England, he resumed his 
 misconformity with the Protestants. It was con- 
 venient to his views of office. During the exile of 
 Charles the Second he and Clarendon were sent by 
 that prince in an embassy to the King of Spain, and 
 Cottington, now aged and gouty, took the opportunity 
 of "patching up his old body for heaven," and dying 
 in the family faith. 
 
 He died not long after, at Valladolid, where he had 
 taken up his abode for the remainder of his days. 
 " He was a very wise niaii^' says Clarendon, " by 
 the great and long experience he had in business of 
 all kinds, and by his natural temper, which was not 
 liable to any transport of anger, or any other passion, 
 but could bear contradiction, and even reproach, 
 without being moved or put out of his way ; for he 
 was very steady in pursuing what he proposed to 
 himself, and had courage not to be frightened with 
 any opposition. It is true, he was illiterate as to the 
 grammar of any language, or the principle of any 
 science ; but by his perfect understanding of the 
 Spanish (which he spoke as a Spaniard), the French, 
 and Italian languages, and having read very much of 
 
 24 
 
370 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 them, lie could not be said to be ignorant in any part 
 of learning, divinity only excepted. He had a fine' 
 and extraordinary understanding in the nature of 
 beasts and birds, and above all in all kinds of planta- 
 tions, and arts of husbandry. He was born a gentleman 
 both by his father and mother, his father having a 
 pretty entire seat near Breton in Somersetshire, worth 
 above two hundred pounds a year, which had de- 
 scended from father to son for many hundred years, 
 and is still in possession of his elder brother's chil- 
 dren, the family having been always Roman Cath- 
 olics. His mother was a Stafford, nearly allied to 
 Sir Edward Stafford, who was Vice-Chamberlain to 
 Queen Elizabeth, and had been Ambassador in 
 France ; by whom this gentleman was brought up, 
 and was gentleman of his horse, and left one of his 
 executors of his will, and by him recommended Sir 
 Robert Cecil, Secretary of State ; who preferred him 
 to Sir Charles Cornwallis, when he went Ambassador 
 into Spain, in the beginning of the reign of King 
 James ; where he remained for the space of eleven 
 or twelve years, in the condition of Secretary or 
 Agent, without ever returning into England in all 
 that time. He made by his own virtue and industry 
 a pretty fair estate, of which, though the revenue did 
 not exceed above four thousand pounds by the year, 
 yet he had four very good houses, and three parks, 
 the value of which was not reckoned into that com- 
 putation. He lived very nobly, well served and at- 
 tended in his house ; had a better stable for horses, 
 better provisions for sports (especially of hawks, in 
 which he took great delight), than most of his quality, 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 37 1 
 
 and lived always with great splendor ; for though he 
 loved money very well, and did not ivarily enough 
 consider the circumstances of getting it^ he spent it 
 well all ways but in giving ; which he did not aflect. 
 He was of an excellent humor, and very easy to live 
 with ; and under a grave countenance covered the 
 most of mirth, and caused more than any man of the 
 most pleasant disposition. He never used anybody 
 ill ; but used many very well for whom he had no re- 
 gard. His greatest fault was, that he could dissemble 
 and make men believe that he loved them very well, 
 when he cared not for them. He had not very tender 
 affections, nor bowels apt to yearn at all objects which 
 deserved compassion. He was heartily tired of the 
 world, and no man was more willing to die ; which 
 is an argument that he had peace of his conscience. 
 He left behind him a greater esteem of his parts, than 
 love to his person." — Book XIII. 
 
 This is a portrait of a clever, selfish, entertaining 
 man of the world, whose success, after all, is a poor 
 business. By his own knavery and folly to boot 
 (for this " virtuous " money-getter, and " very wise 
 man," was evidently not without both in their way), 
 he gets rid of his good opinion of other men, and 
 his real relish of life; eats and drinks himself into a 
 good tormenting gout ; and before he dies, is heartily 
 weary of the world. His "peace of con'science " 
 (which he had a perfect right to, considering the way 
 he was brought up) means that he had little or no 
 conscience of any sort ; and what little he had, he 
 satisfies, by reposing it " in the bosom of an infalli- 
 ble church," who, it must be confessed, owes her 
 
372 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 children a good deal of indulgence, in return for the 
 pains she takes to spoil them.* 
 
 The wisdom and virtue of this courtier appear to 
 have done little good to the character of his brother 
 Ambassador. 
 
 Of the Earl of Arundel, v^ho w^as sent by Charles 
 against the Scots at the beginning of the troubles, 
 Clarendon gives the following pithy character : " He 
 did not love the Scots, he did not love the Puri- 
 tans ; which qualifications were much allayed by an- 
 other negative ; he did not much love anybody else." 
 — Book II. Perhaps the author might have added 
 something like v^'hat a friend of ours introduced at 
 the end of a similar character drawn of a modern 
 poet: — "He did not like meT Arundel, though a 
 court officer, was of a different way of thinking from 
 Hyde on many points, and had probabl}^ crossed hin> 
 with some of his stately manners. A good deal of 
 personal pique is evident here and there in the writ- 
 ings of this statesman. Hume speaks ill of Arun- 
 del's talents. He seems to have been a selfish man, 
 
 * Here is Fuller's character of Cottington. 
 
 "Sir Francis Cottington, Knight, was born nigh Mere, in this county [Wilt- 
 shire], and bred, when a youth, under Sir Stafford. He lived so long in 
 
 Spain, till he made the garb and gravity of that nation become his, and became 
 him. He raised himself by his natural strength, without any artificial advan- 
 tage : having his parts above his learning, his experience, and (some will say) his 
 success above all : so that at the last he became Chancellor of the Exchequer, 
 baron of Hanworth in Middlesex, and (upon the resignation of Doctor Juxon) 
 Lord Treasurer of England, gaining also a very great estate. But what he got in 
 a few years he lost in fewer days, since our civil wars, when the Parliament was 
 pleased (for reasons only known to themselves) to make him one of tlie ex- 
 amples of their severity, excluding him pardon, but permitting his departure 
 beyond the seas, where he died about the year 1650." — The Worthies of Eng- 
 land, Nuttall's Ed., vol. 3, p. 329. — Ed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 373 
 
 for he withdrew from the troubles, and lived and died 
 in Italy. He w^as the possessor of the marbles known 
 under his name. 
 
 The following anecdote of Windebank, Secretary 
 of State, a favorer of the Papists, would have shone 
 in Bandello : " I remember," says Clarendon, " one 
 story brought into the house concerning him, that ad- 
 ministered some mirth. A messenger (I think his 
 name was Newton), w4io principally attended the ser- 
 vice of apprehending priests, came one day to him in 
 his garden, and told him that he had brought with him 
 a priest, a stirring and active person, whom he had 
 apprehended that morning ; and desired to know to 
 what prison he should carry him. The Secretary 
 sharply asked him whether he would never give over 
 this bloodthirsty humor.? and in great anger calling 
 him a knave, and taking the warrant from him by 
 which he had apprehended him, departed without giv- 
 ing any other direction. The messenger, appalled, 
 thought the priest was some person in favor, and 
 therefore took no more care of him, but suffered him 
 to depart. The priest, freed from this fright, went 
 securely to his lodgings, and within two or three days 
 was arrested for debt, and carried in execution to 
 prison. Shortly after Secretary Windebank sent for 
 the messenger, and asked him ' what was become 
 of the priest he had at such a time brought before 
 him?' He told him, 'that he conceived his Honor 
 was offended with the apprehension of him, and 
 therefore he had looked no farther after him.' The 
 Secretary, in much passion, told him ' the dischar- 
 ging a priest was no light matter, and that if he speed- 
 
374 '^HE W:SHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ily found him not, he should answer the default with 
 his life ; that the priest was a dangerous fellow, and 
 must not escape in that fashion.' The messenger, 
 besides his natural inclination to that exercise, terri- 
 fied^with these threats, left no means untried for the 
 discovery, and at last heard where the man was in ex- 
 ecution in prison ; thither he went and demanded the 
 priest (who was not there known to be such) as his 
 prisoner formerly, and escaped from liira ; and by 
 virtue of his first warrant took him again into cus- 
 tody, and immediately carried him to the Secretary ; 
 and within a few days after the priest was discharged, 
 and at liberty. The jailer, in whose custody he had 
 been put for debt, was arrested by the parties grieved, 
 and he again sued the messenger, who appealed for 
 justice to the House of Commons against the Secre- 
 tary."— ^^^/^ ///. 
 
 From this and other charges, Windebank fled the 
 kingdom. He was a creature of Laud's. 
 
 HOW^ TO BE PREVAILED UPON TO ERADICATE 
 
 Bishops. — The House prepared a very short bill '' for 
 the utter eradication of Bishops, Deans, and Chap- 
 ters ; with all Chancellors, and officials, and all of- 
 ficers, and other persons belonging to either of them ; " 
 which they prevailed Sir Edward Deering, a man 
 very opposite to all their designs (but a man of levity 
 and vanity, easily flattered by being commended), to 
 present into the House ; which he did from the gal- 
 lery, with the two verses in Ovid, the application 
 whereof was his greatest ?notiv2 : " — 
 
 " Cuncta prius tentauda ; sed immedicabile vulnus 
 Ense recidendum est, ne pars sincera trahatur." 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 [I tried whatever in the godhead lay ; 
 
 But gangrened members must be lopt away, 
 
 Before the nobler parts are tainted to decay. — Dryden.] 
 
 375 
 
 A good thing was said of this upon a bill by Lord 
 Falkland : " It was so late every day before the 
 House was resumed (the Speaker commonly leaving 
 the chair about nine of the clock, and never resuming 
 it till four in the afternoon), that it was very thin ; 
 the}- only who prosecuted the bill with impatience 
 remaining in the House, and the others who abhorred 
 it, growing Weary of so tiresome an attendance, left 
 the House at dinner-time, and afterwards followed 
 their pleasures : so that the Lord Falkland was wont 
 to say, ' that they who hated the Bishops, hated them 
 worse than the Devil ; and that they who loved them, 
 did not love them so well as their dinner.' " — Ibid. 
 This is true. But how should thc}^? The dinner 
 was the more Episcopalian thing of the two. 
 
 Montrose. — Clarendon says, that when the King 
 arrived in Scotland, Montrose came privately to him, 
 and informed him, among other particulars, " that the 
 Marquis of Hamilton was no lest faulty and false to- 
 wards his Majesty than Argyle ; and offered to make 
 proof of all in the Parliament; but rather desired to 
 have them both made away ; " which he frankly 
 offered to do ; but the King, abhorring that expedient, 
 though for his own security, advised " that the proofs 
 might be prepared for Parliament." — Book IV. The 
 following is a note of Hume's upon this passage, ap- 
 pended to the 58th chapter of his History : " It is 
 not improper to take notice of a mistake committed 
 
376 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 by Clarendon, much to the disadvantage of this orallant 
 nobleman ; that he offered the King, when his Majesty 
 was in Scotland, to assassinate Argyle. At the time 
 the King was in Scotland, Montrose was confined to 
 prison." He refers for his authority. to Rushworth, 
 Vol. VI., p. 9S0. Montrose's imprisonment, however, 
 does not refute the charge of his having made the 
 offer. It only proves that he could not have made it 
 in person. Besides, Clarendon does not say that he 
 offered to assassinate Argyle, but to have him as- 
 sassinated. The additional vsords, '^ which he frank- 
 ly offered to do," might indeed be construed other- 
 wise ; but not with probability, especially after so 
 direct a mention of the offer, enforced upon the read- 
 er by marks of quotation. It is observable that 
 Clarendon carefully makes use of these marks when- 
 ever he repeats the observations of another. Though 
 Montrose was imprisoned at that time, he was of an 
 active disposition, and might have conveyed the offer 
 by another person. Even if Clarendon represented 
 him as undertaking to be the assassin himself, the 
 time of his liberation might have been contemplated ; 
 and the manners of those enraged and vindictive 
 times offer nothing very considerable against the like- 
 lihood of such a proposal ; Clarendon, for one, clearly 
 believed in it, or he would hardly have mentioned the 
 proposal without expressing astonishment. At the 
 same time it should be mentioned, that Clarendon 
 was no friend to the Aiarquis's person, though he 
 joined in commending his exploits. He appears to 
 have been jealous of him ; at least to have been mor- 
 tified tliat Montrose did not pay more deference to his 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 377 
 
 opinion. See Book XII., v/here they have an inter- 
 view near the Hague. The best argument in Mon- 
 trose's favor might be drawn from his bravery, and 
 his open, defying nature ; and yet very brave men in 
 those times could condescend to be assassins ; and 
 Montrose, with all his gallantry, could play a tricking 
 and lying part. There were fanatics on all sides, and 
 of all descriptions ; fanatics, too, in petty personal 
 feuds as well as in great party matters. Sir Walter 
 Scott has done his best to render Montrose a hero of 
 romance ; and a very good one he is, as far as valor 
 and military conduct can make him ; but he is much 
 fitter to be the hero of a modern Scotch ultra than 
 of an English gentleman at any time. Hume, him- 
 self a Scotchman and a Tory (though his philosophy 
 and cool temperament relieved him from many of 
 the absurdities connected with both of those watch- 
 words), was inclined enough to like Montrose and 
 his party, and yet hear how he begins his own ac- 
 count of the Marquis's history: — 
 
 " Before the commencement of these civil disorders, 
 the Earl of Montrose, a young nobleman of a distin- 
 guished family, returning from his travels, had been 
 introduced to the King, and had made an offer of his 
 services ; but by the insinuations of the Marquis, 
 afterwards Duke of Hamilton, who possessed much 
 of Charles's confidence, he had not been received with 
 that distinction to which he thought himself justly 
 entitled. Disgusted with this treatment, he had for- 
 warded all the violence of the Covenanters ; and agree- 
 ably to the natural ardor of his genius, he had em- 
 ployed himself, during the first Scottish insurrection, 
 
378 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 with great zeal, as well as success, in levying and con- 
 ducting their armies. Being commissioned by the 
 Tables to wait upon the King, while the royal army 
 lay at Berwick, he was so gained by the civilities and 
 caresses of that monarch, that he thenceforth devoted 
 himself entirely, though secretly, to his service, and 
 entered into a close correspondence with him. In 
 the second insurrection, a great military commauvl 
 was intrusted to him by the Covenanters ; and he 
 was the first that passed the Tweed, at the head of 
 their troops, in the invasion of England. He found 
 means, however, soon after to convey a letter to the 
 King : and by the infidelity of some about that Prince 
 — Hamilton, as was suspected — a copy of this letter 
 was sent to Leven, the Scottish general. Being ac- 
 cused of treachery and a correspondence with the 
 enemy, Montrose openly avowed the letter, and asked 
 the generals, if they dared to call their sovereign an 
 enemy : and by this bold and magnanimous be- 
 havior, he escaped the danger of an immediate 
 prosecution. As he was now fully known to be of 
 the royal part}^, he no longer concealed his princi- 
 ples ; and he endeavored to draw those who had 
 entertained like sentiments into a bond of association 
 for his master's service. Though thrown into prison 
 for this enterprise, and detained some time, he was 
 not discouraged ; but still continued, by his coun- 
 tenance and protection, to infuse spirit into the dis- 
 tressed royalists." 
 
 Let justice be done to Montrose, and to everybody : 
 but that it may be done to everybody, let us take care 
 how we allow the most interested misrepresentations 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 379 
 
 of history to pass without notice, especially in these 
 times. The servile have a sufficient re-action in their 
 favor, from the events of the world, without being 
 under the necessity of receiving further encourage- 
 ment. 
 
 Parliament Hours. — The old Parliament hours 
 were from eight o'clock in the morning till twelve at 
 noon. Afterwards, during the disputes of the House 
 with Charles, Clarendon mentions a debate that lasted 
 till after nine o'clock at night, which, he says, was the 
 latest ever known, except that upon the Remonstrance. 
 In his Life, an account is given of a bill, in which the 
 Duke of Buckingham took so much interest, that, 
 " contrary to his custom of coming into the House, 
 indeed of not rising till eleven of the clock, and sel- 
 dom staying above a quarter of an hour, except upon 
 some aftairs which he concerned himself in, he was 
 now always present with the first in the morning, 
 and staid till the last at night, for the debate often 
 held from the morning till four o'clock in the after- 
 noon, and sometimes till candles were brought in." 
 It was thought late to meet at ten. ''It is hard to 
 tell," says Hume, in a note on the reign of Elizabeth, 
 " v/hy, all over the world, as the age becomes more 
 luxurious, the hours become later. Is it the crowd 
 of amusements that push on the hours gradually? or 
 are the people of fashion better pleased with the 
 secrecy and silence of nocturnal hours, when the in- 
 dustrious vulgar are all gone to rest.^ In rude ages, 
 men have few amusements or occupations but what 
 daylight affords them." These are undoubtedly 
 
380 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 among the causes; but the progress of commerce 
 should be added. In proportion as traders and mer- 
 chants become of importance, their hours must be 
 considered ; and they Hke to have as many of these 
 as possible at a time. The rakes of Charles the 
 Second's time, and the rich merchants of the ensuing 
 reigns, became alike the encouragers of late hours ; 
 and fashion compelled what such opposite causes had 
 begun. Parliaments now are in the habit of sitting 
 up all night, and much worse they are for it. Their 
 heads are muddled with wine ; another line of sepa- 
 ration is drawn between them and the people ; and 
 the spirit of dissipation, of fiishion, and of money- 
 getting, alike conspire to render them sorry guardians 
 of public liberty. The true spirit of a House of 
 Commons is now to be found in a few members in- 
 side, and those who canvass their actions out of doors. 
 The great diffusion of knowledge and inquiry has 
 rendereti the represented superior tc^fieir represen- 
 tatives. Consider even the bodily vigor, the physical 
 manliness of the old Parliament men who procured 
 us our liberties, and then see what a poor set of shat- 
 tered men of the world we have now for their suc- 
 cessors, body as well as mind. And these two things 
 are very apt to go together in men of public action, 
 whether for good or evil. A solitary student who 
 does his best, may have something to say in behalf of 
 his infirmities; but how are a parcel of drinking, 
 gambling, nervous, and gouty men to wage war 
 with corruption at two o'clock in the morning.* 
 
 * Addison has an amusing little paper on late hours, in the Tatler. " It is 
 very plain," he says, "that the night was much longer formerly in this island 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 38 1 
 
 Notions of Regal Property. — The King asks 
 (Book V.) " what title any subject of his kingdom had 
 to his house and land, that he had not to his town of 
 Hull." Compare this with the story of the house 
 and grounds which he forced a man to part with, and 
 then read the following passage from our author's 
 own pen : — 
 
 *' A man shall not unprofitably spend his contem- 
 plation, that, upon this occasion, considers the method 
 of God's justice (a method terribly remarkable in 
 many passages and upon many persons, which we 
 shall be compelled to remember in this discourse), 
 that the same principles, and the same application of 
 those principles, should be used to wresting all sov- 
 ereign power from the crown, which the crown had a 
 little before made use of for extending its authority 
 and power beyond its bounds, to the prejudice of the 
 just rights of the subject. A supposed necessity was 
 then thought ground enough to create a power, and a 
 bare averment of that necessit}-, to beget a practice. 
 
 than it Is at present. By the night, I mean that portion of time which nature 
 has thrown into darkness, and which the wisdom of mankind had formerly dedi- 
 cated to rest and silence. This used to begin at eight o'clock in the evening, 
 and conclude at six in the morning. The curfew, or eight o'clock bell, was the 
 signal throughout the nation for putting out their candles, and going to bed. 
 
 "Our grandmothers, though they were wont to sit up the last in the family, 
 were all of them fast asleep at the same hours that their daughters are now 
 busy at crimp and basset. Modern statesmen are concerting schemes, and en- 
 gaged in the depth of politics, at the time when their forefathers were laid down 
 quietly to rest, and had nothing in their heads but dreams. As we have thus 
 thrown business and pleasure into the hours of rest, and by that means made 
 the natural night about half as long as it should be, we are forced to piece it out 
 with a great part of the morning ; so that near two thirds of the nation lie fast 
 asleep for several hours in broad daylight. This irregularity is grown so very 
 fashionable at present, that there is scarce a lady of qiaahty in Great Britain 
 that ever saw the sun rise." — Ed. 
 
382 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 to impose what they thought convenient upon the 
 subject, by writs of ship-money never before known : 
 and a supposed necessity now, and a bare averment 
 of that necessity, is as confidently and more fatally 
 concluded a good ground to exclude the crown from 
 the use of any power, by an ordinance never before 
 heard of, and the same maxim of salus populi su- 
 prema lex^ which had been used to the infringing the 
 liberty of the one, made use of for destroying the 
 rights of the other." 
 
 That it was ridiculous in one encroaching indi- 
 vidual, or his court, to use the maxim of salus popiili 
 for his own advantage, in contradistinction to theirs, 
 is evident ; but it is not so evident that it was absurd 
 or vicious in the people themselves to use the same 
 maxim against the encroachments of the individual ; 
 and by Clarendon's acknowledgment in many places, 
 however he may contradict it in others, the people at 
 large were really as much at issue with the King as 
 their representatives. Clarendon, with all his su- 
 periority to the rest of the court, argues this question, 
 after all, like a lawyer. The King is his client, the 
 people the defendants, and the most liberal concession 
 he makes is, that both have equal rights. But by 
 his own account, the people were in the right in 
 this great quarrel. Their representatives, no doubt, 
 sometimes committed great faults ; and what was 
 worse, mean ones. They had not escaped the con- 
 tagion of court example, and the cried-up craft of 
 King James. But the great question had now come 
 up ; of the many against the few. It was the few 
 who began it ; they would have trampled the many 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 3S3 
 
 into the dust forever ; and the many had a right to 
 bring them to their proper senses and situations. 
 The King up to this period has always averred, and 
 still avers, that he never intended to make war on 
 the Parliament. He solemnly protested it. And yet 
 Clarendon now says, as an excuse to those v/ho re- 
 proached the King with not making war, that the fact 
 was, he had no means of making it, not a barrel of 
 powder, nor musket, nor money ; but that he ex- 
 pected all these necessaries with impatience from the 
 Queen. (See Book V., in various places towards the 
 end.) The Parliament had notice of all these secret 
 wishes and manoeuvres : and yet both Clarendon and 
 his master are constantly reproaching them for not 
 putting faith in their practices ! 
 
 Goring's infinite Hypocrisy, which Claren- 
 don SEEMS TO admire. — " Coloucl Goring came, 
 upon the summons, with that undauntedness, that all 
 clouds of distrust immediately vanished, insomuch as 
 no man presumed to whisper the least jealousy of 
 him ; which he observing, came to the House of 
 Commons, of which he was a member ; and, having 
 sat a day or two patiently, as if he expected some 
 charge, in the end he stood up, with a countenance 
 full of modesty, and yet not without a mixture of an- 
 ger (as he could help himself with all insinuations of 
 doubt, or fear, or shame, or simplicity in his lace, 
 .that might gain belief, to a greater degree than I ever 
 saw any man ; and could seem the most confounded 
 when he was best prepared, and the most out of 
 countenance when he was best resolved, and to want 
 
384 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 words and the habit of speaking, when they flowed 
 from no man with greater power), and told them, 
 * that he had been sent for by them, upon some in- 
 formation given against him, and that, though he be- 
 lieved the charge being so ridiculous, they might have 
 received, by their own particular inquiry, satisfaction ; 
 yet the discourses that had been used, and his being 
 sent for in that manner, had begot some prejudices to 
 him in his reputation ; which if he could not pre- 
 serve, he should be less able to do them service ; and 
 therefore desired that he might have leave (though 
 very unskilful, and unfit to speak in so wise and judi- 
 cious assembl}') to present to them the state and con- 
 dition of that place under his command, and then he 
 doubted not but to give them full satisfaction in those 
 particulars, which possibl}' had made some impres- 
 sion on them to his disadvantage ; that he was far 
 from taking it ill from those who had given any in- 
 formation against him ; for what he had done, and 
 must do, might give some umbrage to well-affected 
 persons, w^ho knew not the grounds and reasons that 
 induced him so to do ; but that if any such persons 
 would, at any time, resort to him, he would clearly 
 inform them of whatever motives he had ; and would 
 be glad of their advice and assistance for the better 
 doing thereof.' Then he took notice of every partic- 
 ular that had been publicly said against him, or pri- 
 vately whispered, and gave such plausible answers 
 to the whole, intermingling sharp taunts and scorns 
 to what had been said of him, with pretty application 
 of himself and flattery to the men that spake it, 
 concluding, ' that they well knew in what esteem he 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETC:iES. 385 
 
 stood with others ; so that if, by his ill carriage, he 
 should forfeit the good opinion of that House, upon 
 which he only depended, and to whose service he 
 entirely devoted himself, he were madder than his 
 friends took him to be, and must be as unpitied in any 
 misery that could befall him, as his enemy would be 
 glad to see/ With which, as innocently and unaffect- 
 edly uttered as can be imagined, he got so general 
 an applause with the whole House, that not without 
 some little apology for troubling him, they desired him 
 again to repair to his government, and to finish those 
 works which were necessary for the safety of the 
 place ; and gratified him with consenting to all the 
 propositions he made in behalf of his garrison, and 
 paid him a good sum of money for their arrears ; with 
 which, and being privately assured (which was in- 
 deed resolved on) that he should be Lieutenant Gen- 
 eral when it should be formed, he departed again to 
 Portsmouth ; in the mean time assuring his Majesty, 
 by those who were trusted between them, ' that he 
 would be speedily in a posture to make his decla- 
 ration for his service, as he should be required ; ' 
 which* he was forced to do sooner than he was pro- 
 vided for, though not soonfer than he had reason to 
 expect." — Book V. 
 
 Goring afterwards surrendered Portsmouth back 
 again to the Parliament, but was still trusted by any- 
 body whom he chose to deceive, and went lying and 
 cheating on all sides of him. It is impossible, in 
 spite of one's indignation, not to admire the talents 
 which he so perverted ; but it is desirable in a writer 
 who affects integrity like Clarendon, that the indig- 
 2=; 
 
3S6 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 nation should be more prominent than he has chosen 
 to make it^ Besides, a great deal of our admiration 
 of such men is diminished, if we reflect, that they 
 very likely succeeded in deceiving so many others, 
 not because they are more clever than many of them, 
 but because they possess one accomplishment the 
 less, — namely, a sense of moral beauty. I suspect 
 (which is extrely probable) that Goring very spe- 
 cially deceived Clarendon himself; who then became 
 willing to think as higiily as possible of a man that 
 had overreached him ; for it is difficult not to see 
 that his tendency, after all, is to value intellect and 
 political dexterity above every other consideration. 
 He confounded too often the instrument with its 
 work. In Book VIII. is a capital summary of the 
 character of Goring. Clarendon excels in portraits. 
 He has here painted two sovereign debauchees to the 
 life. 
 
 Portraits of two Debauchees — Goring and 
 WiLMOT. — " Goring, who was now General of the 
 Horse, was no more gracious to Prince Rupert than 
 Wilmot had been ; had all the other's faults and 
 wanted his regularity, and preserving his respect with 
 the officers. Wilmot loved debauchery, but shut it 
 out from his business ; never neglected that, and 
 rarely miscarried in it. Goring had a much better 
 understanding, and a sharper wit (except in the very 
 exercise of debauchery, and then the other was in- 
 spired), a much keener courage and presentness of 
 mind in danger. Wilmot discerned it farther off, and 
 because he could not behave himself so well in it, 
 
ESSAY? AND SKETCHES. 387 
 
 commonly prevented, or warily declined it ; and 
 never drank when he was within distance of an 
 enemy ; Goring was not able to resist the temptation 
 when he was in the middle of them, nor would de- 
 cline it to obtain a victory: as in one of those fits, 
 he had suffered the horse to escape out of Cornwall ; 
 and the most signal misfortunes in his life in war 
 had their rise from that uncontrollable license. Nei- 
 ther of them valued their promises, professions, or 
 friendships, according to any rules of honor or integ- 
 rity ; but Wilmot violated them the less willingly, and 
 never but for some great benefit or convenience to 
 himself; Goring without scruple, out of humor, or 
 for wit's sake ; and loved no man so well but that 
 he would cozen him, and then expose him to public 
 mirth for having been cozened ; therefore he had al- 
 ways fewer friends than the other, but more com- 
 pany ; for no man had wit that pleased the company- 
 better. The ambition of both was unlimited, and so 
 equally incapable of being contented ; and both un- 
 restrained, by any respect to good nature or justice, 
 from pursuing the satisfaction thereof: yet Wilmot had 
 more scruples from religion to startle him, and would 
 not have attained his end by any gross or foul act 
 of wickedness. Goring could have passed through 
 pleasantly, and would without hesitation have broken 
 any trust, or done any act of treachery to have sat- 
 isfied an ordinary passion or appetite ; and, in truth, 
 wanted nothing but industry (for he had wit, and 
 courage, and understanding, and ambition, uncon- 
 trolled by any fear of God or man) to have been as 
 eminent and successful in the highest attempts of 
 
388 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 wickedness, as any man of the age he lived in or be- 
 fore. Of all his qualifications, dissimulation was his 
 masterpiece, in which he so much excelled, that men 
 were not ordinarily ashamed or out of countenance 
 with being deceived but twice by him." 
 
 There is a Bacchanalian " Health to Goring" inthe 
 Poems of Robert Herrick. If any charitable person 
 wishes to find an excuse for Lord Rochester, let him 
 know, if he does not know it already, that Wilmot 
 was his father. 1825. 
 
 GEORGE SELWYN AND HIS CONTEMPO- 
 RARIES.* 
 
 THERE is a charm in the bare title of this book. 
 It is an open sesaine to a world of pleasant 
 
 * Edinburgh Review, 1S44. — George Selwyn and his Contemporaries; with 
 Memoir and Notes. By John Heneage Jesse. 4 vols. 8 vo. London : 1843-4. 
 
 [The easy and idiomatic English of this paper, was not, it is to be feared, ap- 
 preciated by Mr. Macvey Napier, Jeffrey's successor in the editorship of the 
 Edinburgh Review ; for upon Hunt proposing to send him a "chatty article," 
 for the " buff and blue," he grew alarmed, and wrote the essayist a harsh letter on 
 dignity of style. The sensitive contributor was sorely wounded, and appealed to 
 Macaulay for counsel, who replied in a kind and cordial letter. See with what 
 tact Macaulay consoles the discomforted reviewer : " Napier would thoroughly 
 appreciate the merit of a writer like Bolingbroke or Robertson ; but would, I 
 think, be unpleasantly affected by the peculiarities of such a writer as Burton, 
 Sterne, or Charles Lamb. He thinks your style too colloquial ; and, no doubt, it 
 has a very colloquial character. I wish it to retain that character, which to me 
 is exceedingly pleasant. But I think that the danger against which you have to 
 guard is excess in that direction. Napier is the very man to be startled by the 
 smallest excess in that direction. Therefore I am not surprised that, when you 
 proposed to send him a chatty article, he took fright, and recommended dignity 
 and severity of style." — Ed] 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 389 
 
 things. As at the ringing of the manager's bell, the 
 curtain rises, and discovers a hx\\\vdi\\\. table ait of wits, 
 beauties, statesmen, and men of pleasure about town, 
 attired in the quaint costume of our great-grandfa- 
 thers and great-grandmothers ; or, better still, we feel 
 as if we had obtained the reverse of Bentham's wish 
 — to live a part of his life at the end of the next 
 hundred years — by being permitted to live a part 
 of ours about the beginning of the last^ with an ad- 
 vantage he never stipulated for, of spending it with 
 the pleasantest people of the day. 
 
 Let us now suppose that only twenty-four hours 
 were granted for us; how much might be done or 
 seen within the time ! We take the privilege of 
 long intimacy to drop in upon Selwyn in Chester- 
 field Street, about half-past ten or eleven in the morn- 
 ing ; we find him in his dressing-gown, playing with 
 his dog Raton : at twelve we walk down arm-in- 
 arm to White's, where Selwyn's arrival is hailed 
 with a joyous laugh, and Topham Beauclerk hastens 
 to initiate us into the newest bit of scandal. The 
 day is warm, and a stroll to Betty's fruit-shop (St. 
 James's Street) is proposed. Lord March is already 
 there, settling his famous bet with young Mr. Pigot, 
 that old Mr. Pigot would die before Sir William 
 Codrington. Just as this grave affair is settled, a 
 cry is raised <5f " the Gunnings are coming," and 
 out we all tumble to gaze and criticise. At Brookes', 
 our next house to call. Sir Charles Hanbury Wil- 
 liams is easily persuaded to entertain the party by 
 reading his verses, not yet printed, on the marriage 
 of Mr. Hussey (an Irish gentleman) with the Duch- 
 
390 
 
 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ess of Manchester (tlie best match in the kingdom), 
 and is made happy by our compliments; but looks 
 rather blank on Rigby's hinting that the author .will 
 be obliged to fight half the Irishmen in town, which, 
 considering the turn of the verses, seemed probable 
 enough. To change at once the subject and the 
 scene, we accompany him and Rigby to the House 
 of Commons, where we find the " great commoner" 
 making a furious attack on the Attorney-General 
 (Murray), who, as Walpole phrases it, suffered for 
 an hour. After hearing an animated reply from 
 Fox (the first Lord Holland), we rouse Selwyn, 
 who is dozing behind the treasury bench, and, wish- 
 ing to look in upon the Lords, make him introduce 
 us. We find Lord Chesterfield speaking, the Chan- 
 cellor (Hardwicke) expected to speak next, the Duke 
 of Cumberland just come in, and the Duke of New- 
 castle shuffling about in a ludicrous state of pertur- 
 bation, betokening a crisis ; but Selwyn grows im- 
 patient, and we hurry off' to Strawberry Hill, to join 
 the rest of the celebrated fai-tie quarree^ or " out 
 of town" party who are long ago assembled. The 
 petit soziper appears on the instant, and as the cham- 
 pagne circulates, there circulates along with it a 
 refined, fastidious, fashionable, anecdotic, gossiping 
 kind of pleasantry, as exhilarating as its sparkle, and 
 as volatile as its froth. We return too late to see 
 Garrick ; but time enough for the house-warming fete 
 at Chesterfield House, where the Duke of Hamilton 
 loses a thousand pounds at faro, because he chooses 
 to ogle Elizabeth Gunning instead of attending to 
 his cards. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 39! 
 
 We shall, perhaps, be reminded that we have seen 
 nothing of Fielding, Richardson, Smollett, Johnson, 
 Collins, Akenside, Mason, or Gray ; but our gay 
 friends, alas ! never once alluded to them, and for 
 us to waste any part of so short a period in look- 
 ing for men of letters, would be to act like the 
 debtor in the Qj-ieen's Bench prison, who, when he 
 got a day rule, invariably spent it in the Fleet. 
 
 According to Mr. Jesse, we owe this new glimpse 
 into these times to a habit of Selwyn's, which it is 
 difficult to reconcile with his general carelessness. 
 " It seems to have been one of his peculiarities to 
 preserve not only every letter addressed to him dur- 
 ing the course of his long life, but also the most 
 trifling notes and unimportant memoranda." Such 
 was -the practice of the most celebrated wit of the 
 eighteenth century ; the most celebrated wit of the 
 nineteenth does precisely the reverse. " Upon princi- 
 ple," said the Rev. Sydney ,Smith, in answer to an 
 application about letters from Sir John Mackintosh, 
 " I keep no letters, except those on business. I have 
 not a single letter from him, nor from any human 
 being in my possession." * We should certainly pre- 
 fer being our contemporary's correspondent ; but we 
 must confess that we are not sorry to come in for a 
 share of the benefits accruing from Selwyn's savings 
 to his posterity. 
 
 * Life of Mackintosh, by his Son, vol. ii , page 99. — "We talked of letter- 
 writing. ' It is now,' s&id Johnson, ' become so much the fashion to publish let- 
 ters, that, in order to avoid it, I put as little into mine as I can.' 'Do what you 
 will, sir,' replied Boswell, 'you cannot avoid it.' " — Boswell's Life of Johnson, 
 vol. vii., p. So. 
 
392 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 "To this peculiarity," continues Mr. Jesse, " the reader is 
 indebted for whatever amusement he may derive from the 
 perusal of these volumes. The greater portion of their con- 
 tents consists of letters addressed to Selwj'n by persons w^ho, 
 in their day, moved in the first ranks of w^it, genius, and 
 fashion. Independent of their general merit as epistolary 
 compositions, the editor conceives that they will be found in 
 a high degree valuable and entertaining, from the light 
 which they throw on the manners and customs of society in 
 the last age, from their presenting a faithful chronicle of the 
 passing events of the day, and from the mass of amusing 
 gossip and lively anecdote which they contain." 
 
 This is a rather injudicious paragraph. It excites 
 expectations which are not fulfiled. There is very 
 little anecdote — less altogether than will be found in 
 any half dozen consecutive letters of Walpole ; and 
 two volumes would contain everything in the book 
 calculated to throw the faintest light on manners. It 
 is, indeed, precisely of that kind which Bacon says 
 should be read by deputy, i. e., through the medium 
 of a Review ; for the real meaning of the aphorism — 
 " Bad books make good reviews, as bad wine makes 
 good vinegar" — is not, as the profane allege, be- 
 cause critics excel or exult in fault-finding, but be- 
 cause their chief utility consists in collecting scattered 
 beauties, distilling essences, or separating the true 
 metal from the dross. But it would be unjust to call 
 this a bad book ; it is certainly one which every pos- 
 sessor of a library should possess ; yet it is one in 
 which the quantity of print is out of all proportion to 
 the useful or amusing matter ; and the intelligent 
 editor is evidently conscious of the fact; for, on what 
 principle can his singularly liberal mode of annotation 
 be defended, except as compensating for the poverty 
 of the text.^ The le<ritlmate use of editorial notes is 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 393 
 
 to clear up doubtful allusions, or supply knowledge 
 necessary to the understanding of the work. For ex- 
 ample, it might be useful to tell us something about 
 Gilly Williams ; but the youngest reader knows 
 enough of Garrick not to be puzzled by the incidental 
 occurrence of his name. Yet we are favored with a 
 biographical notice of the great actor, occupying ten 
 pages, apropos of this solitary line in one of Dr. War- 
 ner's letters — " The chapter of Garrick (his death) 
 is a very melancholy one for poor Harry Hoare and 
 me." This is book-making with a vengeance ! At 
 the same time, tliis mode of proceeding has answered 
 the main purpose ; it has made the book more reada- 
 ble, and may save the indolently curious much trou- 
 ble, by placing all they can possibly wish to learn, or 
 refer to, within reach. Thus we find here a careful 
 compilation of most of the scattered notices regarding 
 Selwyn himself; and, with the help of the materials 
 thus collected, we will endeavor, before tapping (to 
 borrow Walpole's word) the chapter of his correspon- 
 dence, to sketch an outline of his life. 
 
 George Augustus Selwyn entered the world with 
 every advantage of birth and connection ; to which 
 that of fortune was added in good time. His father, 
 Colonel John Selwyn, of Matson, in Gloucestershire, 
 where the family ranked as one of the best in the 
 county, had been aide-de-camp to the Duke of Marl- 
 borough, commanded a regiment, sat many years in 
 Parliament, and filled various situations about the 
 court. His mother, a daughter of General Farring- 
 ton, was woman of the bedchamber to Qtieen Caroline, 
 and enjoyed a high reputation for social humor. As 
 
394 THK VVISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 his father was a plain, straightforward, commonphice 
 sort of man, it is fiiir to presume that he inherited his 
 pecuHar talent from her ; thus adding another to the 
 many instances of gifted men formed by mothers, or 
 endowed by them with the best and brightest of their 
 qualities. Schiller, Goethe, the Schlegels, Victor 
 Hugo, Canning, Lord Brougham, occur to us on the 
 instant ; and Curran said, " The only inheritance I 
 could boast of from my poor father, was the very 
 scanty one of an unattractive face and person, like his 
 own ; and if the world has ever attributed to me some- 
 thing more valuable than face or person, or than 
 earthly wealth, it was that another and a dearer par- 
 ent gave her child a fortune from the treasure of her 
 mind." 
 
 Selwyn was born on the irth August, 1719- He 
 was educated at Eton, and on leaving it entered at 
 Hertford College, Oxford. After a short stay at the 
 University, he started on the grand tour, and on his 
 return, though a second son, with an elder brother 
 living, made London and Paris his headquarters, be- 
 came a member of the clubs, and associated with the 
 wits and men of fashion. Before he had completed 
 his twenty-first year, he was appointed clerk of the 
 irons and surveyor of the meltings at the mint : offices 
 usually performed by deputy. At all events, occa- 
 sional attendance at the weekly dinner formerly pro- 
 vided for this department (5f the public service, was 
 the only duty they imposed on Selwyn ; the very man 
 to act on Colonel Hanger's principle, who, when a 
 friend in power suggested that a particular office, not 
 being a sinecure, would hardly suit him, replied, " Get 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. • 395 
 
 me the place, and leave me alone for making it a 
 sinecure." The salary must have been small, for in a 
 letter from Paris (September, 1742), he says that his 
 entire income, including the allowance made him by 
 his father, was only two hundred and twenty pounds 
 a year ; and he appears to have been constantly in 
 distress for money. In a letter to his former Eton 
 tutor, Mr. Vincent Mathias (Paris, November, 1742), 
 he entreats his advice as to the best mode of getting 
 the colonel to advance a small sum over and above 
 his yearly income ; and gives a pitiable description of 
 circumstances, — "without clothes, linen, books, or 
 credit." 
 
 In 1744 Selvvyn returned to Hertford College, and 
 resumed the life of a college student, — unaccountably, 
 enough, for he was then a formed man of the world, 
 and twenty-five. Probably he had the thoughts of 
 pursuing a profession, or, to please his father, pre- 
 tended that he had. His influential position in the 
 London world at this time, is shown by letters from 
 Rigby and Sir Charles Hanbury Williams. 
 
 " The Right Hon. Richard Rigby to George SeHvyn. 
 *■ Tuesday, March 12 (1745), 7 o'clock. 
 " Dear George : I thank jou for your letter, which I 
 have this moment received and read; and, that you may not 
 be surprised at my readiness in answering it, 1 will begin 
 vi^ith telling 3'ou the occasion of it. I am just got home from 
 a cock-match, where I have won fortj' pounds in ready money, 
 and, not having dined, am waiting till I hear the rattle of 
 p the coaches from the House of Commons, in order to dine at 
 White's; and now I will begin my journal, for in that style 
 I believe my letters will be best received, considerino- our 
 situations. 
 
 " I saw Garrick act Othello that same night, in which I 
 think he was very unmeaningly dressed, and succeeded in 
 
39^ THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 no degree of comparison with Quin, except in the scene 
 where lago gives him the first suspicion of Desdemona. 
 He endeavored throughout to play and speak everything 
 directly different from Qiiin, and failed, I think, in most of 
 his alterations." 
 
 This was the occasion when Qiiiii went to the pit 
 to see his rival act. It was at a time when Hogarth's 
 Marriage a la Mode was famihar to every one. One 
 of the prints of that series represents a negro boy 
 brincrinsf in the tea thing^s. When Garrick, with his 
 diminutive figure and blackened face, came forward 
 as Othello, Qiiin exclaimed, " Here is Pompey, but 
 where is the tray?" The effect was electrical, and 
 Garrick never attempted Othello again. When Dr. 
 Griffiths, many years afterwards, thoughtlessly in- 
 quired whether he had ever acted the part, " Sir," 
 said he, evidently disconcerted, " I once acted it to 
 my cost." 
 
 Sir Charles writes, — 
 
 " I hope you divert yourself well at the expense of the 
 whole University, though the object is not worthy you. The 
 dullest fellow in it has parts enough to ridicule it, and you 
 have parts to fly at nobler game." 
 
 By disregarding this sensible hint Selwyn got into 
 a scrape, which, had it happened in our time, would 
 have fixed a lasting stigma on his character. In 1745 
 he so far forgot himself, in a drunken frolic, as to go 
 through a profane mockery of a religious ceremony ; 
 and the circumstance having come to the knowledge 
 of the heads of the University, he was expelled. Most 
 of his gay friends looked on this affair in the same 
 light as Sir William Maynard, who writes thus : — 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 397 
 
 " Walthamstow, July 3, 1745. 
 "Dear George : I have this moment received jours, 
 and have only time to tell you the sooner you come here, 
 the greater the obligation will be to me. D — n the Univer- 
 sity ! — I 'jjisk they xvere both o)i fire, and one could hear the 
 ^proctors cry like roasted lobsters. Mv compliments to Dr. 
 Newton. Yours afFectionatelv, 
 
 "W. M." 
 
 Indeed, the only palliation or apology, and that a 
 poor one, that can be urged for Sehvyn, is to be found 
 in the bad taste and loose habits of his contempora- 
 ries. The famous Medenhani Abbey club was founded 
 soon afterwards. It consisted of twelve members, 
 who met at Medenham Abbey, near Marlow, to in- 
 dulge in ribaldry, profanity, and licentiousness. The 
 motto (from Rabelais) over the grand entrance was, 
 Fay ce que voudrais. Though the club became no- 
 torious, and their disgusting profanity was well known, 
 it proved no bar either to the reception of the members 
 in society, or to their advancement in the state. Sir 
 Francis Dashwood, the founder, who officated as high 
 priest, became Chancellor of the Exchequer ; Lord 
 Sandwich, First Lord of the Admiralty ; and Wilkes 
 everything that the sober citizens of London could 
 make him. 
 
 Selwyn's character at this time is given by one of 
 the Oxford magnates : " The upper part of society 
 here, with whom he often converses, hav^e, and always 
 have had, a very good opinion of him. He is cer- 
 tainly not intemperate nor dissolute, nor does he 
 game that I know or have heard of He has a 
 good deal of vanity, and loves to be admired and 
 caressed, and so suits himself with great ease to the 
 gravest and the sprightliest." 
 
398 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Colonel and Mrs. Selwyn were, on this occasion, 
 shocked and irritated in the highest degree ; but the 
 failing health of his elder brother John contributed to 
 soften them, and procure him an extent of indulgence 
 which would hardly have been granted, had it not be- 
 come apparent that the family estate and honors must 
 eventually devolve upon him. John Selwyn was the 
 intimate friend of Marshal Conway, to whom, so 
 early as 1740, Walpole writes, " I did not hurry my- 
 self to answer your last, but chose to write to poor 
 Selwyn upon his illness. He deserves so much love 
 from all that know him, and you owe him so much 
 friendship, that I can scarce conceive a greater shock." 
 He did not die till June, 1751, when George Selwyn 
 was in his thirty-second year. By this event he be- 
 came the heir, but the estate was unentailed, and his 
 prospects were still dubious enough to excite the ap- 
 prehensions of his friends. In November, 175^5 ^^^' 
 William Maynard writes, — 
 
 " The public papers informed me of your father's being 
 dangerously ill, which was confirmed to me last post. As 
 you have always convinced me of your love for your father 
 (though I can't persuade the world you will be sorry for his 
 death), I shall be glad to know, if you have one moment's 
 leisure, how he does, as you are so nearly concerned in his 
 doing well. I can't help thinking but it will be more for 
 your interest that your father should recover, as I don't yet 
 imagine you quite established in his good opinion, and as 
 you havB so powerful an enemy at home." 
 
 Who his powerful enemy at home was, does not 
 appear. His mother is mentioned in a preceding let- 
 ter as his advocate ; yet one of Walpole's anecdotes 
 implies that at one time he had forfeited the affection 
 of both parents. The notorious Lady Townshend 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 399 
 
 had taken an extraordinary fancy to the rebel, Lord 
 Kihnarnock, whom she had never seen until the 
 day of his trial. " George Selvvyn dined with her, 
 and not thinking her affliction so serious as she pre- 
 tended, talked ra4:her jokingly of the execution. She 
 burst into a flood of tears and rage, told hun she now 
 believed all his father and mother had said of him ^ 
 and, with a thousand other reproaches, flung up stairs. 
 George coolly took Mrs. Dorcas, her woman, and 
 made her sit down to finish the bottle. ' And pray, 
 sir,' says Dorcas, ' do you think my lady will be pre- 
 vailed upon to let me go and see the execution ? I 
 have a friend that has promised to take care of me, 
 and I can lie in the tower the night before.' " 
 
 His father died in 1751, without tying up the prop- 
 erty, which brought with it the power of nominating 
 two members for Ludgershall, and interest enough at 
 Gloucester to insure his own return for that city. The 
 change of circumstances made little change in his 
 course of life. He had sat in Parliament for the fam- 
 ily borough since 1747, when Gilly Williams writes, 
 " I congratulate you on the near approach of Parlia- 
 ment, and figure you to myself before a glass at your 
 rehearsals. I must intimate to you not to forget closing 
 your periods with a significant stroke of the breast, 
 and recommend Mr. Barry as a pattern, who I think 
 pathetically excels in that beauty." Spranger Barry, 
 the actor, is the intended model ; but Selvvyn was not 
 ambitious of senatorial honors, and when obliged to 
 attend the House, and be in readiness for a division, 
 he used either to withdraw to one of the committee- 
 rooms for conversation, or to fall asleep. He gener- 
 
400 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 ally sided with the court party, and was well reward- 
 ed for his constancy ; being at the same time clerk of 
 the irons, and surveyor of the meltings at the mint, 
 registrar of the court of chancery in Barbadoes (where 
 he had an estate), and paymaster of the works — de- 
 scribed as a very lucrative appointment. It was abol- 
 ished in 17S2 by Burke's economical reform bill ; but 
 in the course of the next year he was made surveyor- 
 general of the works by Mr. Pitt. 
 
 In 1768 he was opposed at Gloucester by a timber- 
 merchant, and the manner in which his friends speak 
 of his opponent is characteristic of the times. Gilly 
 Williams calls him "ad — d carpenter ; " and Lord 
 Carlisle asks, — 
 
 "Why did you not set his timber-yard afire? What can 
 a man mean who has not an idea separated from the foot 
 square of a Norway deal plank, by desiring- to be in Parlia- 
 ment ? Perhaps if you could have got anybody to have asked 
 him his reasons for such an unnatural attempt, the fact of 
 his being unable to answer what he had never thought about, 
 might have made him desist. But these beasts are mon- 
 strously obstinate, and about as wellbred as the great dogs 
 they keep in their yards." 
 
 It is currently related that Selwyn did his best to 
 keep Sheridan out of Brookes', and was only prevent- 
 ed from black-balling him for the third or fourth time 
 by a trick. According to one version, the Prince of 
 Wales kept Selwyn in conversation at the door till 
 the ballot was over. According to Wraxall's, he was 
 suddenly called away by a pretended message from 
 his adopted daughter. Some attribute his dislike to 
 aristocratic prejudice; others to party feeling; and 
 Mr. Jesse sa^s it arose in a great degree from Sheri- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 4OI 
 
 dan's " having been one of the party which had de- 
 prived Selwyn of a kicrative post " — that of Paymas- 
 ter of the Works. Yet Mr. Jesse himself states that 
 the black-balHng occurred in 1780, and that the place 
 was abolished in 17S2. We are uncharitable enough 
 to think that an established wit would feel something 
 like an established beauty at the proposed introduc- 
 tion of a rival, and that a tinge of jealousy might have 
 been the foundation of the dislike. 
 
 Selwyn had taken to gaming before his father's 
 death — probably from his first introduction to the 
 clubs. In 1748, Gilly Williams asks, "What do 
 you intend? I think the almanac bids you take care 
 of colds, and abstain from physic; I say, avoid the 
 knowing ones, and abstain from hazard." His stakes 
 were high, though not extravagantly so compared 
 with the sums hazarded by his contemporaries. In 
 1765 he lost a thousand pounds to Air. Shafto, who 
 applies for it in language of an embarrassed trades- 
 man : — 
 
 "July I, 1765. 
 
 " Dear Sir : I have this moment received the favor of 
 your letter. I intended to have gone out of town on Thurs- 
 day, but as you shall not receive your money before the end 
 of this week, I must postpone my journey till Sunday. A 
 month would have made no difference to me had I not had 
 others to pay before I leave town, and must pay; therefore 
 must beg that you will leave the whole before the week is 
 out, at White's, as it is to be paid away to others to whom 
 I have lost, and do not choose to leave town till that is 
 done. 
 
 *' Be sure you could not wish an indulgence I should not 
 be happy to grant, if in my power." 
 
 Mr. Jesse states, that latterly Selwyn entirely got the 
 better of his propensity to play ; observing, that it was 
 26 
 
402 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 too great a consumer of four things — time, health, 
 fortune, and thinking. But an extract from the late 
 Mr. Wilberforce's Diary throws some doubt on the 
 accuracy of this statement : " The first time I was 
 at Brookes', scarcely knowing any one, I joined 
 from mere shyness, at the faro-table, where George 
 Selwyn kept bank. A friend who knew my inex- 
 perience, and regarded me as a victim decked out 
 for sacrifice, called out to me, " What, Wilberforce ! 
 is that you.?" Selwyn quite resented this interfer- 
 ence, and turning to him said, in his most impres- 
 sive tone, " O, sir ! don't interrupt Mr. Wilberforce ; 
 he could not be better employed." This occurred in 
 1782, when Selwyn was sixty-three. 
 
 Previously we find him, in 1776, undergoing the 
 process of dunning from Lord Derby; and in 1779, 
 from Mr. Crawford, '• Fish Crawford," as he was 
 called, each of whom, like Mr. vShafto, " had a sum 
 to make up." 
 
 Gaming was his only vice. He indulged moder- 
 ately in the pleasures of the table. In 1765 Williams 
 writes, " You may eat boiled chicken and kiss Raton 
 (his dog) as well on this side the water." As regards 
 gallantry, we have good authority for doubting wheth- 
 er he was quite so much an anchorite as was sup- 
 posed ; but his coldness was a constant subject of ban- 
 ter among his friends. Lord Holland says, " My Lady 
 Mary goes (to a masquerade) dressed like Zara, and 
 I wish you to attend her dressed like a black eunuch." 
 Lord Carlisle — "In regard to her (a mysterious 
 unknown), in every other light but as a friend, you 
 shall see I shall be as cold as a stone, or as yourself." 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 403 
 
 Readers of the RolHad may recall a broader joke ; 
 and Mr. Jesse has ventured to print one of Gilly Wil- 
 liams's levelled at Walpole as well as Selwyn, which 
 we cannot venture to transcribe. As to his alleged 
 intrigue with the Marchesa Fagniani, there is no bet- 
 ter proof of it than his extreme fondness for her daugh- 
 ter (Maria, Dowager-Marchioness of Hertford), 
 whom the gossips thence inferred to be his own. In 
 contemporary opinion, Lord INIarch shared the honors 
 of paternity with Selvvyn. He was equally intimate 
 with her mother, and he left her an immense fortune 
 at his death. Resemblance, too, must go for some- 
 thing ; and Dr. Warner, after an interviev^ with Lord 
 March, says, " The more I contemplate his face, the 
 more I am struck with a certain likeness to the lower 
 part of it ; his very chin and lips, and they are rather 
 singular. But you will never be d' accoi'd upon this 
 interesting subject, as I am sorry to be too much con- 
 vinced ; but that you know better than I." In con- 
 sidering this question, it must not be forgotten that 
 Selvvyn's passion for children was one of the marked 
 features of his character. Lord Carlisle's and Lord 
 Coventry's, particularly Lady Anne Coventry (after- 
 wards Lady Anne Foley), were among his especial 
 favorites. 
 
 Selwyn paid frequent visits to Paris, and spoke 
 French to perfection. " I shall let Lord Huntingdon 
 know (says Lord March) that you are thought to have 
 a better pronunciation than any one that ever cam.e 
 from this country." The queen of Louis the Fifteenth 
 took pleasure in conversing with him. '' I dined to- 
 day (we are still quoting from Lord March) at what is 
 
404 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 called no dinner, at Madame de Coignie's. The Queen 
 asked Madame de Mirepoix, ' Si elle n'avait pas beau- 
 coup entendu medire de Monsieur Selvvyn etelle?* 
 Elle a repondu, ' Oui, beaucoup, Madame.' ' J'en 
 suis bien-aise,' dit la Reine." 
 
 He was received on a perfect footing of equality, 
 and, as it were, naturalized in that brilliant circle of 
 which Madame du Deffand was the centre ; and he 
 often lingered longer in it than w^as agreeable to his 
 English friends. " Lady Hertford (writes Lord 
 March in 1766) made a thousand inquiries about you ; 
 asked how long you intended to stay, and hoped you 
 would soon be tired of blind women, old presidents, 
 and premiers," — alluding to Madame du Deffand, the 
 president Henault, and the Due de Choiseul. Wil- 
 liams sarcastically inquires, " Cannot we get you an 
 hospital in this island, where you can pass your even- 
 ings with some very sensible matrons? and, if they are 
 not quite blind, they may have some natural infirmity 
 equivalent to it." 
 
 Nothing proves Selwyn's real superiority more 
 strongly than his reception in this brilliant coterie, 
 and the enjoyment he found in it ; for when he began 
 making his periodical visits to Paris, national preju- 
 dice was at its height; — the French regarded the 
 English as barbarians, and the English entertained a 
 contemptuous aversion for the French. So late as 
 1769, Lord Carlisle thus amusingly alludes to the sen- 
 timents of the former ; — 
 
 '• I am very sorry to hear Mr. Wood's family were splashed 
 by the sea. People who never travel know very little what 
 dangers we run. I dare say most of your French acquaint- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 405 
 
 ances here wonder you do not go to England by land, but 
 I believe they are very easy about us after we are gone. 
 They think we are very little altered since the landing of 
 Julius Coesar; that we leave our clothes at Calais, having 
 no further occasion for them, and that every one of us 
 
 has a sun-flower cut out and painted upon his , like 
 
 the prints in Clarke's Caesar. I do not think that all en- 
 tertain this idea of us; I only mean the scavans ; those who 
 can read." 
 
 The French might be pardoned for supposing that 
 the English left their clothes at Calais, for the tailors 
 of Paris were then as much in requisition as the milli- 
 ners ; and Selvvyn is invariably loaded with com- 
 missions for velvet coats, silk small-clothes, brocade 
 dressing-gowns, lace ruffles, and various other arti- 
 cles, by the gravest as well as the gayest of his 
 friends. As for the notion of reaching England by 
 land^ geography and the use of the globes were rare 
 accomplishments in both countries. When Whiston 
 foretold the destruction of the world within three 
 years, the Duchess of Bolton avowed an intention 
 of escaping the common ruin by going to China. 
 
 Selwyn not only overcame the national prejudice 
 in his own individual instance, but paved the way 
 for the reception of his friends. It was he who 
 made Horace Walpole acquainted with Madame du 
 Deftand, and Gibbon with Madame de Geoffrin. 
 
 His habit of dozing in the House of Commons 
 has been already noticed. He occasionally dozed in 
 society. " We hear," says Williams, " of your fall- 
 ing asleep standing at the old President's (He- 
 nault's), and knocking him and three more old wo- 
 men into the fire. Are these things true } " Wal- 
 pole also hints at it. " When you have a quarter 
 
4o6 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 of an hour, azvake and to spare, I wish you would 
 bestow it on me." He is by no means singular, as 
 might be shown by many remarkable instances be- 
 sides that of Lord North, who, according to Gib- 
 bon, "• might well indulge a short slumber on the 
 treasury bench, when supported by the majestic 
 sense of Thurlow on the one side, and the skilful 
 eloquence of Wedderburne on the other." Lord 
 Byron, in one of his journals, records a dinner party 
 of twelve, including Sheridan, Tierney, and Erskine, 
 of whom five were fast asleep before the dessert was 
 well upon the table. In another, he relates, "At 
 the opposition meeting of the peers in 1812, at Lord 
 Grenville's, where Lord Grey and he read to us the 
 correspondence upon Moira's negotiation, I sat next 
 to the present Duke of Grafton, and said', 'What is 
 to be done next?' ' Wake the Duke of No7'folk' 
 (who was snoring away near us), replied he; 'I 
 don't think the negotiators have left anything else 
 for us to do this turn.' " Considering the hours kept 
 by modern wits and senators, they may be excused 
 for dropping into a pleasing state of forgetfulness 
 occasionally ; but Selwyn had no such excuse. His 
 mode of life is exhibited in a droll sketch, in a let- 
 ter to himself, written by Lord Carlisle at Spa, in 
 1768. "I rise at six; am on horseback till break- 
 fast ; play at cricket till dinner ; and dance in the 
 evening till I can scarce crawl to bed at eleven. 
 There is a life for you ! You get up at nine ; play 
 with Raton till twelve in your night-gown ; then 
 creep down to White's to abuse Fanshawe ; are five 
 hours at table ; sleep till you can escape your sup- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 407 
 
 per reckoning ; then make two wretches carry you, 
 with three pints of chiret in you, three miles for a 
 shining." 
 
 Wits are seldom given to ruralities. Jekyll used 
 to say that, if compelled to live in the country, he 
 would have the road before his door paved like a 
 street, and hire a hackney coach to drive up and 
 down all day long. Selwyn partook largely of this 
 feeling. The state of a gentleman's cellar was then, 
 whatever it may be now, a fair indication of the 
 use he made of his house, and Matson was very 
 slenderly stocked. When Gilly Williams took up his 
 quarters there in passing through Gloucester, he 
 writes, " I asked Bell to dine here, but he is too 
 weak to venture so far; so the Methodist and I will 
 taste your new and old claret. I have been down 
 in the cellar: there are about nine bottles of old, 
 and five dozen of new.*' Yet Matson was a highly 
 agreeable residence, charmingly situated, and rich 
 in historical associations. Charles the Second and 
 James the Second (both boys at the time) were 
 quartered there during the siege of Gloucester by the 
 Royalists in 1643 ; and they amused themselves by 
 cutting out their names, with various irregular em- 
 blazonments, on the window-shutters. 
 
 During one of his brief electioneering visits at 
 Matson, Selwyn took it into his head to perform 
 justiceship ; for (as Fielding observes with reference 
 to the similar attempt on the part of Squire Wes- 
 tern), it was, indeed, a syllable more than justice. 
 "What the devil," exclaims Gilly Williams, "could 
 tempt you to act as justice of the peace.? This is 
 
4oS THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Trapolin with a vengeance ! What ! evidence, party, 
 and judge too ! If you do not make it up with the 
 man soon, some rogue of an attorney will plague 
 your heart out in the King's Bench." His gardener 
 had been guilty of some peculation, for which Sel- 
 wyn, without ceremony, committed him. 
 
 A little over-eagerness might be excused, as one 
 of his strongest peculiarities was a passion for the 
 details of criminal justice, from the warrant to the 
 rope. His friends made a point of gratifying it by 
 sending the earliest intelligence of remarkable crimes, 
 criminals, trials, and executions, as well as every 
 anecdote they could collect concerning them. When 
 Walpole's house in Arlington Street was broken 
 open, his first care, after securing the robber, was 
 to send for Selwyn. " I despatched a courier to 
 White's for George, who, you know, loves nothing 
 upon earth so well as a criminal, except the exe- 
 cution of him. It happened very luckily that the 
 drawer who received my message has very lately 
 been robbed himself, and had the wound fresh in his 
 memory. He stalked up into the club-room, stopped 
 short, and with a hollow, trembling voice said, ' Mr. 
 Selwyn, Mr. Walpole's compliments, and he's got a 
 housebreaker for you.'" Gilly Williams, having no 
 housebreaker for him, sends him a story about one 
 instead : " I will give you a Newgate anecdote, 
 which I had from a gentleman who called on 
 P. Lewis the night before the execution, and heard 
 one runner call to another and order a chicken 
 boiled for Rice's supper ; ' but,' says he, ' you need 
 not be curious about the sauce, for he is to be 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 409 
 
 hanged to-morrow.' ' That is true," says the other, 
 ' but the orcUnary sups with him, and you know he 
 is a devil of a fellow for butter.' If the continental 
 air has not altered you, this will please 3^ou ; at least 
 I have known the time when you have gone a good 
 way for such a morsel." 
 
 The best stories regarding his taste for executions 
 are related by Walpole, and well known. Innumer- 
 able are the jokes levelled at him for this peculiarity. 
 The best is the first Lord Holland's, who was dying. 
 " The next time Mr. Selv/yn calls, show him up. If 
 I am alive, I shall be delighted to see him ; and if I 
 am dead, he will be glad to see me." Lord Hol- 
 land was not the only statesman of the period who 
 could joke under such circumstances. Mr. Legge 
 (the story is Gilly Williams's) told a very fat fellow 
 who came to see him the day he died, " Sir, you are 
 a great weight ; but, let me tell you, you are in at tlie 
 death." Another of the same gentleman's stories is 
 probably meant as a warning — " I remember a man 
 seeing a military execution in Hyde Park, and when 
 it was over he turned about and said, ' By G — , I 
 thought there was more in it ! ' He shot himself the 
 next morning." 
 
 The writer of a letter in the Gentleman's Maga- 
 zine, for April, 1791, supposed to be the Rev. Dr. 
 Warner, makes a gallant effort to rescue Selwyn's 
 memory from what he terms an unjust and injurious 
 imputation. After urging that nothing could be more 
 abhorrent from Selw^yn's character, and that he had 
 the most tender and benevolent of hearts, he thus pro- 
 ceeds : " This idle but wide-spread idea of his be- 
 
4IO THE WISHING-OAP PAPERS. 
 
 ing fond of executions (of which he never in his life 
 attended but at one, and that rather accidentally from 
 its lying in his way, than from design) arose from 
 the pleasantries which it pleased Sir Charles Hanbury 
 Williams, and the then Lord Chesterfield, to propa- 
 gate from that one attendance, for the amusement of 
 their common friends. Of the easiness with which such 
 things sat upon him, you may judge from the follow- 
 ing circumstance, which I have heard him more than 
 once relate. Sir Charles was telling a large company 
 a similar story to that of his attending upon executions, 
 with many strokes of rich humor received with great 
 glee, before his face, when a gentleman who sat next 
 to the object of their mirth, said to him in a low voice, 
 'It is strange, George, so intimate as we are, that 
 I should never have heard of this story before.' 'Not 
 at all strange,' he replied in the same voice, ' for Sir 
 Charles has just invented it, and knows that I will not, 
 by contradiction, spoil the pleasure of the company 
 he is so highly entertaining.' And such was his good- 
 nature in everything." This may account for the pleas- 
 antries, but hardly for the fiicts stated by Walpole and 
 others ; or for such an epistle as the following : 
 " I can with great pleasure inform you, my dear 
 Selwyn, that the head is ordered to be delivered on 
 the first application made on your part. The ex- 
 pense is a little more than a guinea ; the person 
 who calls should pay for it. Adieu, mon cher mon- 
 dain. T. Phillips." 
 
 As to tenderness and benevolence, there surely was 
 no necessity for assuming that the taste in question 
 was irreconcilable with such qualities. It was simply 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 4I I 
 
 a craving for strong excitement ; a inoclification of 
 the feeling which still induces the Spanish women to 
 attend bull-fights, and formerly lured the gentlest and 
 noblest of the sex to tournaments. Moreover, people 
 were by no means so refined or squeamish in Sel- 
 wyn's time as now, when the spectacle of blood} 
 heads over Temple Bar would not be tolerated for ar 
 hour. Crowds of all classes pressed round to gaze or, 
 those of the rebel lords in 1746 ; and telescopes were 
 fixed for the use of the curious at a halfpenny a peep. 
 " I remember " says Johnson, as reported by Bos- 
 well, " once being with Goldsmith in Westminster 
 Abbey. While we surveyed the Poets' Corner, I 
 said to him, — 
 
 'Forsitan et nomen nostrum miscebitur istis.' 
 
 When we got to Temple Bar, he stopped me, point- 
 ed to the heads upon it, and slyly whispered me, — 
 
 ' Forsitan et nomen nostrum miscebitur istts.^ " 
 
 Nay, not much more than twenty years ago, it was 
 customary for the governor of Newgate to give a 
 breakfast to thirteen or fourteen persons of distinction 
 on the morning of an execution. The party attended 
 the hanging, breakfasted, and then attended the cut- 
 ting down, but few had any appetite for the second 
 and third parts of the ceremonial. A very pretty 
 girl (the governor's daughter, we believe), who 
 spoke of the sufferers as "• our people^"" distributed 
 the tea and coffee. She assured us, in confidence, 
 that the first call of the incipient amateur was invari- 
 ably for brandy ; and that the only guest who never 
 
412 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 failed to do justice to the broiled kidneys (for which 
 she was famous) was the ordinary. 
 
 Storer (one of the Selwyn set) writes in 1774, 
 " You will get by your edition of Madame de Se- 
 \i gene's Letters enough to pay for as much Viiz dc 
 Grave as ever she drank en Bi-etagne.^^ Selwyn 
 rivalled, or outran Walpole in his admiration of Ma- 
 dame de Sevigne, and paid a visit to her residence, 
 Les Rockers (excellently described; as at present 
 existing, in Lady Morgan's " Book of the Boudoir ; ") 
 but we find no other proof of direct literary intentions 
 on his part ; and there is consequently no ground for 
 disputing the applicability of the remark with which 
 Mr. Jesse introduces the topic of his wit : — 
 
 " Perhaps no individual has ever acquired so general a 
 reputation for mere wit as George Selwyn. Villiers, Duke 
 of Buckingham, Lords Dorset, Rochester, Chesterfield, and 
 Hervey, Sir Charles Hanburj' Williams, Bubb Doddington, 
 Sheridan, and (perhaps the most brilliant luminary in this 
 galaxy of wit) the late Theodore Hook, were men who 
 had, one and all, distinguished themselves in following the 
 paths of literature, while more than one of them had ren- 
 dered himself eminent in the senate. Thus the character 
 which each maintained for wit was supported by the adven- 
 titious aid of a reputation for literary or oratorical talents, 
 while the fame of George Selwyn stands exclusively on his 
 character for social pleasantry and conversational wit." 
 
 Not quite, we must observe. It stood also on his 
 three seats in Parliament, and his family connections. 
 These, at the very outset, procured him that vantage- 
 ground to which Sheridan and Hook were obliged 
 to win. their way at the risk of fretting a thousand 
 vanities. This may not apply to the rest on Mr. 
 Jesse's list ; but then it is a very imperfect one, and 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 413 
 
 admits of large additions — as (omitting all living ex- 
 amples) Foote, Wilkes, Jekyll, Curran, Colman. 
 
 Dr. Johnson disliked Foote ; but when one of the 
 company, at a dinner party at Dilly's, called him a 
 merry-andrew, a buffoon, the sage at once declared 
 that he had wit, and added, " The first time I was 
 in company with Foote was at Fitzherbert's. Hav- 
 ing no good opinion of the fellow, I was resolved 
 not to be pleased ; and it is very difficult to please 
 a man against his will. I went on taking my din- 
 ner pretty sullenly, atiecting not to mind him. But 
 the dog was so very comical, that I was obliged to 
 lay down my knife and fork, throw myself back on 
 my chair, and foirly laugh it out. No, sir, he was 
 irresistible." It was said to be impossible to take 
 Foote unawares, or put him out. As he w^as tell- 
 ing a story at a fine dinner party, a gentleman, to 
 try him, pulled him by the coat-tail, and told him 
 that his handkerchief was hanging out. " Thank you, 
 sir," said Foote, replacing it, " you know the com- 
 pany better than I do," and went on with his story. 
 
 Wilkes's fame ma)^ be rested on his reply to Lord 
 Sandwich, and his fling at Thurlow. Jekyll needs 
 no trumpeter. Lord Byron says of Colman, " If 
 I had to choose, and could not have both at a time, 
 I would say, ' Let me begin the evening with Sheri- 
 dan, and finish it with Colman.' " Of Curran he 
 says, '' I have met him at Holland House ; he beats 
 everybody — his imagination is beyond human, and 
 his humor (it is difficult to define what is wit) per- 
 •fect. Then he has fifty faces, and twice as many 
 voices, when he mimics." This, we may add, was 
 
414 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Hook's great charm. His best stories were dramatic 
 representations a la Mathews^ little inferior to that 
 fine observer's " At Homes." 
 
 Why, again, since Mr. Jesse has gone back so far, 
 did he not go back a little farther, and mention the 
 old Earl of Norwich — a singular illustration of the 
 fickleness of taste, and the truth of the maxim, 
 '' A jest's prosperity lies in the ear of him who hears 
 it." He was the acknowledged wit of Charles the 
 First's court, but was voted a dead bore when he 
 attempted to resume his wonted place at Whitehall, 
 after the Restoration. 
 
 It should be remembered, moreover — to be placed 
 on the opposite column of the account — that high 
 reputation in one line may sometimes prevent a man 
 from acquiring much in another; not merely because 
 of the prevalent dislike to pluralities, but because 
 the less is merged in the greater. Thus it was ad- 
 mirably said of Sir James Mackintosh, b}^ the Rev. 
 Sydney Smith, " that he had not only humor, but 
 wit also ; at least, new and sudden relations of ideas 
 flashed across his mind in reasoning, and produced 
 the same effect as wit, aiid would have been called 
 wit^ if a se7tse of their utility and impoi'tance had 
 not ofteji overpowered the admiration of novelty T 
 Wilberforce, speaking of Pitt, said, " He was the wit- 
 tiest man I ever knew, and (what was quite peculiar 
 to himself) had at all times his wit under entire 
 control. Others appeared struck by the unwonted 
 association of brilliant images, but every possible 
 combination of ideas seemed always present to his 
 mind, and he could at once produce whatever he de- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 415 
 
 sired. I was one of those who met to spend an even- 
 ing in memory of Shakespeare, at the Boar's Head, 
 Eastcheap. Many professed wits were present, but 
 Pitt was the most amusing of the party, and the readi- 
 est and most apt in the required allusions." 
 
 In addition to Selwyn's other places, the voice of 
 his contemporaries conferred on him that of receiver 
 general of waif and stray jokes — a sufficient proof 
 that he had plenty of his own ; for as D'Alembert 
 sarcastically observed to the Abbe Voisenan, who 
 complained that he was unduly charged with the 
 absurd sayings of others " Monsietir V Abbe^ on ne 
 j)rete qiiaux riches'' Selwyn's droits^ in respect 
 of his anomalous office, were not limited to the clubs. 
 Lord Holland writes in 1770, " As the newspapers 
 impute so much wit to you, I hope they give you 
 the invention of that pretty motto they have jDut upon 
 Lord Carlisle's cap." Lord Carlisle, in 1776 — 
 " What the witty Mr. G. S. says in the newspapers 
 is admirable about the red-hot poker, though I like 
 Dii's placuit better." Lord March, in 1767 — '' The 
 king talked of you at his dressing, and told me 
 something that you had said of the Macaronis that 
 he thought very good." It was Mr. Jesse's duty as 
 editor to find out what these good things were ; but 
 he leaves us in entire ignorance regarding them. At 
 the same time, we must do him the justice to say, 
 that he has brought together quite enough to support 
 Selwyn's reputation, and render superfluous the gQW- 
 i erally just remark with which he prefaces them. " No 
 task can be more disappointing in its result tlian 
 that of collecting the scattered bon-mots of a man 
 
^^l6 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 of professed wit, with a view to prove tliat his rep- 
 utation is well deserved. Many of his best sayings 
 have, probably, been lost to us ; others, perhaps, 
 have suffered in the narrative ; and, moreover, the 
 charm of manner, which must greatly have enhanced 
 their value at the moment they were uttered, can 
 now, of course, only be taken on credit." 
 
 According to Walpole, it was Selwyn's habit to 
 turn up the w4iites of his eyes, and assume an ex- 
 pression of demureness, when giving utterance to 
 a droll thought ; and Wraxall says, that the effect 
 of his witticisms was greatly enhanced by his listless, 
 drowsy manner. Nor is this all. What makes a 
 man like Selwyn the delight of his contemporaries, 
 is that lightness, richness, and elasticity of mind, 
 which invests the commonest incidents with amus- 
 ing or inspiriting associations, lights intuitively on 
 the most attractive topics, grasps them one moment, 
 lets them go the next, and, in a word, never suffers 
 companionship to become tiresome, or conversation 
 to grow dull. He may do tliis without uttering any- 
 thing that will be generally recognized as wit. 
 
 We shall here quote some of the best of Selwyn's 
 witticisms and pleasantries : they occupy little room, 
 and there is nothing more provoking than to be told 
 of " the well-known anecdote " which one does not 
 know. 
 
 When a subscription was proposed for Fox, and 
 some one was observing that it would require some 
 delicacy, and wondering how Fox would take it, — 
 " Take it.'' Why, quarterly^ to be sure." 
 
 When one of the Foley family crossed the Chan- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 417 
 
 nel to avoid his creditors — "It is a pass over that 
 will not be much relished by the Jews." 
 
 When Fox was boasting of having prevailed on 
 the French court to give up the gum trade — " As 
 you have permitted the French to draw your teeth^ 
 they would be fools, indeed, to quarrel with you 
 about your gitjnsy 
 
 When Walpole, in allusion to the sameness of the 
 system of politics continued in the reign of George 
 the Third, observed, " But there is nothing new un- 
 der the sun." •' No," said Selvvyn, " nor under the 
 grandsonr One night, at White's, observing the 
 postmaster-general. Sir Everard Favvkener, losing a 
 large sum of money at piquet, Selwyn, pointing to 
 the successful player, remarked, " See how he is 
 robbing the mail ! " 
 
 On another occasion, in 1756, observing Mr. Pon- 
 sonby, the Speaker of the Irish House of Commons, 
 tossing about bank bills at a hazard table at New- 
 market — '"Look how easily the speaker passes the 
 money bills'' 
 
 The beautiful Lady Coventry was exhibiting to 
 him a splendid new dress, covered with large silver 
 spangles, the size of a shilling, and inquired of him 
 whether he admired her taste, " Why," he said, 
 " you will be chaiige for a guinea'' 
 
 This bears a strong resemblance to one of Lord 
 Mansfield's judicial pleasantries. Serjeant Davy was 
 cross-examining a Jew at great length, in order to 
 prove his insufficiency as bail. The sum was small, 
 and the Jew was dressed in a suit of clothes bedizened 
 with silver lace. Lord Mansfield at length interfered 
 27 
 
4l8 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 — "Come, come, brother Davy, don't you see the 
 man would burn for the money ? " 
 
 At the sale of the effects of the minister, Mr. Pel- 
 ham, Selwyn, pointing to a silver dinner-service, ob- 
 served, '' Lord, how many toads have been eaten off 
 these plates ! " 
 
 A namesake of Charles Fox having been hung at 
 Tyburn, Fox inquired of Selwyn whether he had at- 
 tended the execution — " No, I make a point of never 
 frequenting rehearsals.'"' 
 
 A fellow-passenger in a coach, imagining from his 
 appearance that he was suffering from illness, kept 
 wearying him with good-natured inquiries as to the 
 state of his health. At length, to the repeated ques- 
 tion of "How are you now, sir?" Selwyn replied, 
 " Very well, I thank you ; and I mean to continue so 
 for the rest of the journey." 
 
 He was one day walking with Lord Pembroke, 
 when they were besieged by a number of young chim- 
 ney-sweepers, who kept plaguing them for money. 
 At length Selwyn made them a low bow. "I have 
 often," he said, " heard of the sovereignty of the peo- 
 ple ; I suppose your Highnesses are in court mourn- 
 ing." 
 
 "On Sunday last," sajs Walpole, "George Selwyn was 
 strolling home to dinner at half an hour after four. He saw 
 my Lady Townshend's coach stop at Caraccioli's chapel. 
 He watched, saw her go in; her footman laughed; he fol- 
 lowed. She went up to the altar, a woman brought her a 
 cushion; she knelt, crossed herself, and prayed. He stole 
 up and knelt by her. Conceive her face, if you can, when 
 she turned and found him close to her. In his demure 
 voice he said, ' Pray, madam, how long has j'our ladyship 
 left the pale of our church.?' She looked furious, and made 
 no answer. Next day he went to her, and she turned it off 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. . 419 
 
 upon curiosity; but is anything more natural? No, she cer- 
 tainly means to go armed with every viaticum; the Church 
 of England in one hand, Methodism in the other, and the 
 Host in her mouth." 
 
 Wraxall stands godfather to the next : — 
 
 " The late Duke of Qiieensberry, who lived in the most 
 intimate friendship with him, told me that Selwyn was pres- 
 ent at a public dinner with the mayor and corporation of 
 Gloucester, in the year 1758, when the intelligence arrived 
 of our expedition having failed before Rochfort. The may- 
 or, turning to Selwyn, 'You, sir,' said he, 'who are in the 
 ministerial secrets, can, no doubt, inform us of the cause of 
 this misfortune. ' Selwyn, though utterly ignorant on the 
 subject, 3'et unable to resist the occasion of amusing him- 
 self at the inquirer's expense — '1 will tell you, in confi- 
 dence, the reason, Mr. Major,' answered he ; ' the fact is, that 
 the scaling-ladders prepared for the occasion were found, on 
 trial, to be too short.' This solution, which suggested itself 
 to him at the moment, was considered by the mayor to be 
 perfectly explanatory of the failure, and as such he com- 
 municated it to all his friends — not being aware, though 
 Selwyn was, that Rochfort lies on the River Charente, some 
 leagues from the sea-shore, and that our troops had never 
 even eflfected a landing on the French coast." 
 
 Mr. Jesse has omitted the capital reply to the man, 
 who, being cut by Selwyn in London, came up and 
 reminded him that they had been acquainted at Bath. 
 '' I remember it very well ; and when we next meet 
 at Bath, I shall be happy to meet you again." 
 
 Once, and once only, was he guilty of verse — 
 
 On a Pair of Shoes found in a Lady's Bed. 
 "Well may suspicion shake its head, 
 
 Well may Clarinda's spouse be jealous, 
 When the dear wanton takes to bed 
 Her very shoes because they're fellows." 
 
 Selwyn died at his house in Cleaveland Row, Jan- 
 uary 25, 1791. He had been for many years a severe 
 sufferer from gout and dropsy ; and VVilberforce de- 
 
420 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 scribes him as looking latterly like the wax figure of 
 a corpse. He continued to haunt the clubs till within 
 a short period before his death ; but Mr. Jesse assures 
 us that he died penitent, and that the Bible was fre- 
 quentl)' read to him at his own request during his last 
 illness. By his will he gave thirty-three thousand 
 pounds to Maria Fagniani ; one hundred pounds each 
 to his two nephews ; his wardrobe and thirty pounds 
 a year to his valet ; and the residue of his property to 
 the Duke of Qiieensberry, with the exception of Lud- 
 gershall, which was entailed on the Tov/nshend fami- 
 ly. Mr. Jesse quotes some lines from a poetical 
 tribute published soon after his death, in which the 
 Graces are invoked to fulfil several appropriate du- 
 ties : — 
 
 " And fondly dictate to a faithful IMuse 
 Tho prime distinction of the friend they lose, 
 'Twcis social wit, whicli, never kindling strife, 
 Blazed in the small, sweet courtesies of life." 
 
 Had we been at the writer's elbow, we should have 
 suggested sJione or glowed in preference to blazed. 
 
 Walpole, writing to Miss Berry, on the day of Sel- 
 wyn's death, says, " I am on the point of losing, or 
 have lost, my oldest acquaintance and friend, George 
 Selwyn, who was yesterday at the extremity. These 
 misfortunes, though they can be so but for a short 
 time, are very sensible to the old: but him I really 
 loved, not only for his infinite wit, but for a thousand 
 good qualities." 
 
 Again: "Poor Selwyn is gone, to my sorrow; 
 and no wonder Ucalegon feels it ! " 
 
 The heartlessness of the French set to which Sel- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 
 
 421 
 
 wyn and Walpole belonged is beyond a question. 
 Madame du Defland's colloquy with one lover, as to 
 the cause of their fifty years' unbroken harmony, and 
 her behavior on the death of another, are not invented 
 pleasantries, but melancholy facts. Yet either we 
 were wrong in supposing that the malady was in- 
 fectious, and Miss Berry was right in her generous 
 and able vindication of her friend, or Selwyn pos- 
 sessed the peculiar talismanic power of kindling and 
 fixing the affections of his associates ; for not only 
 does Walpole invariably mention him when living, 
 and mourn over him when dead, in terms of heartfelt 
 sincerity, but the same influence appears to have 
 operated on one whom (possibly with equal injus- 
 tice) we should have suspected of being, in his own 
 despite, a little hardened by a long course of selfish 
 indulgences — Lord March. Here are a few, and but 
 a few, of the proofs : — 
 
 "As to your banker," says his lordship, " I will call there 
 to-morrow; make yourself easy about that, for I have threfe 
 thousand pounds now at Cout'ts'. There will be no bank- 
 ruptcj' without we are both ruined at the same time. How 
 can you think, my dear George, — and I hope you do not 
 think, — that anjbodj^ or anything, can make a tracasserie 
 between you and me! I take it ill that you even talk of it, 
 which you do in the letter I had by Ligonier. I must be 
 the poorest creature upon earth, — after having known you 
 so long, and always as the best and sincerest friend that any 
 one ever had, — if any one alive can make any impression 
 upon me when you are concerned. I told you, in a letter some 
 time ago, that I depended more upon the continuance of our 
 friendship than anytiiing else in the world, which I certainly 
 do, because I have so many reasons to know you, and I am 
 sure I know myself." 
 
 This speaks well for both head and heart : and 
 how much unhappiness would be prevented by the 
 
422 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 universal adoption of the principle — never to listen 
 to, much less believe, the alleged unkindness of a 
 friend. All of us have our dissatisfied, complaining, 
 uncongenial moments, when we may let drop words 
 utterly at variance with the habitual suggestions of 
 our hearts. These are repeated from design or care- 
 lessness ; then come complaints and explanations ; 
 confidence is destroyed ; " the credulous hope of mu- 
 tual minds is over ; " and thus ends at once the solace 
 of a life. 
 
 Lord March's letters are, on the whole, the most 
 valuable in the collection — most characteristic of the 
 writer, and most redolent of the times. This unfold- 
 ing of his private relations and inmost feelings is 
 highly favorable to him. As we see him now, he is 
 the very impersonation of his class — shrewd, sensi- 
 ble, observing, generous, and afiectionate, amid all 
 his profligacy ; with talents uncultivated, because cul- 
 tivation was not the passion of that age, but amply 
 sufficient to make him a president of the council or 
 first lord of the admiralty in this. His letters are 
 dashed off' in clear, manly, unaffected language, on 
 the spur of the occasion ; and though they are ac- 
 tually better written than those of many of his noble 
 contemporaries who pretended to literature, it is ob- 
 vious that the last thing he ever thought of was the 
 style. Walpole's are epistolary compositions ; Lord 
 March's are letters in the ordinary acceptation of the 
 term. In their pregnant brevity, they often resemble 
 Swift's hasty dottings down of public events, or pri- 
 vate chit-chat in the journal to Stella. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 433 
 
 " November, 1766. 
 " My DEAR George : I intended to have written to you 
 last Tuesday, but we sat so late at the House of Lords that 
 I had no time. It was a dull debate, though it lasted a great 
 while. Lord Chatham spoke very well, and with a great 
 deal of temper, and great civility towards the Duke of Bed- 
 ford; who spoke and approved of the measure at the time 
 of laying the embargo, because of the necessity; but com- 
 plained of Parliament not being called sooner, because what 
 had been done was illegal, and only to be justified from ne- 
 cessity, which was the turn of the whole debate. Lord 
 Mansfield trimmed in his usual manner, and avoided declar- 
 ing his opinion, though he argued for the illegality. Lord 
 Camden attacked him very close upon not speaking out his 
 opinion, and declared strongly for the legality. Upon the 
 whole, I think we t^hall have very little to do in Parliament, 
 and your attendance will be very little wanted." 
 
 This was Lord Chatham's first appearance in the 
 
 House of Lords. In letters dated the same month 
 
 we find — 
 
 "Monday, 19th November, 1766. 
 
 "My dear George: For fear that I should not have 
 any other moment to write you, I write this in the king's 
 rooms. I was obliged to dress early to come here, it being 
 the princess's birthda3\ I dine at Lord Hertford's, which, 
 with the ball at night, will take up the whole day; you 
 know that he is chamberlain. The Duke of Bedford comes 
 to-day, and, on Wednesday, I suppose they will kiss hands; 
 but nothing is known. Everybody agrees that this resig- 
 nation of the Cavendishes is, of all the resignations, the 
 most foolish; and I hear they begin already to repent of it. 
 They make a fine opportunity for Chatham to strengthen 
 his administration. They want T. Pelham to resign ; Ash- 
 burnham certainly will now. The only ^people that do iv ell 
 are those that never resign ; which Lord Hertford seems to 
 have found out long ago. Saunders and Keppel resign to- 
 morrow. " 
 
 " November, 1766. 
 
 "My dear George: Jack Shelly has kissed hands for 
 Lord Edgecombe's place. He was offered to be of the bed- 
 chamber, which he has refused, and wants to have the post- 
 office, which they won't give him. I find it is imagined that 
 ive shall be obliged to send troops into North America to bring 
 them to a proper obedience. It is whispered about that the 
 
434 THE Wr^HING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Cavendishes and Rockingham's friends will take the first 
 opportunity thej'can to be hostile to government; and like- 
 wise, that Norton and Wedderburne will certainly oppose : 
 if these things are so, we may perhaps have some more con- 
 vulsions in the state." 
 
 Such letters are excellent correctives of history ; 
 hut we are not writing history just now, and must 
 turn to those which throw light on manners : — 
 
 " HiNCHiNBROOKE, Thursday (1770). 
 
 "My dear George: Our party at Wakefield went off 
 very well. We had hunting, racing, whist, and quinze. 
 My horse won, as I expected, but the odds were upon him, 
 so that I betted very little. 
 
 "After hunting on Monday I went to Ossory's, where I 
 lay in my way here. He came with me, and went back yes- 
 terday. I imagine he would have liked to have staid if 
 Lady Ossory had not been alone. They live but a dull life, 
 and there must be a great deal of love on both sides not to 
 tire. I almost promised to go back for Bedford races, but 
 believe I shall not. T go to Newmarket to-night, and to 
 London to-morrow. Sandwich's house is full of people, and 
 all sorts of things going forward. Miss Ray does the honors 
 perfectly M^ell. While I am writing they are all upon the 
 grass plot at a foot-race." 
 
 To make this intelligible, we must go behind the 
 scenes. Wakefield Lodge was the seat of the minis- 
 ter, Duke of Grafton. Lady Ossory was his ci-de- 
 vant duchess. She had divorced him on account of 
 his intimacy with Nancy Parsons, described by Wal- 
 pole as " one of the commonest creatures in London ; 
 once much liked, but out of date. He is certainly 
 erown immensely attached to her; so much so, that 
 it has put an end to all his decorum." The culpable 
 excesses into which the duke was hurried by his pas- 
 sion are stigmatized by Junius: "It is not the pri- 
 vate indulgence, but the public insult, of which 1 
 complain. The name of Miss Parsons would hardly 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 425 
 
 have been known, if the first lord of the treasury had 
 not led her in triumph through the opera-house, even 
 in the presence of the queen." Hinchinbrooke, from 
 which the letter is dated, was the seat of Lord Sand- 
 wich, another cabinet minister. Miss Ray, who did 
 the honors so well, was his mistress — shot at Covent 
 Garden in 1779. The story is told by Dr. Warner in 
 a paragraph which may serve as a pattern of goos 
 condensation : — 
 
 "The history of Hackman, Miss Ray's murderer, is this 
 He was recruiting at Huntingdon; appeared at the ball-, 
 was asked by Lord Sandwich to Hinchinbrooke; was in- 
 troduced to Miss Ray; became violently enamoured of her; 
 made proposals, and was sent into Ireland, where his regi- 
 ment was. He sold out; came back on purpose to be near 
 the object of his affection ; took orders, but could not bend 
 the inflexible fair in a black coat more than in a red. He 
 could not live without her. He meant only to kill himself, 
 and that in her presence; but seeing her coquet it at the 
 play with a young Irish Templar, Macnamara, he determined 
 suddenly to despatch her too. He is to be tried on Friday, 
 and hanged on Monday." 
 
 The Morning Post, for April 9, 1799, has this an- 
 nouncement : " When the news of the above mis- 
 fortune was carried to the admiralty, it was received 
 by her noble admirer with the utmost concern. He 
 wept exceedingly, and lamented, with every other 
 token of grief, the interruption of a connection which 
 liad lasted for seventeen years, with great and unin- 
 terrupted felicity on both sides." 
 
 The catching character of notorious insanity has 
 often been remarked. While *the Hackman aftair 
 was the popular topic, it seems that no woman, young 
 or old, ugly or pretty, could venture forth without 
 alarm. Lady Ossory writes, — 
 
426 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 *' This Asiatic weather has certainlj' affected our cold con- 
 stitutions. The Duchess of B is afraid of being shot 
 
 wherever she goes. A man has followed Miss Clavering on 
 foot from the East Indies; is quite mad; and scenes are 
 daily expected even in the drawing-room. Another man 
 has sworn to shoot a Miss Something, niinporte, if she did 
 not run away with him from the opera. 
 
 " Sir Joshua Reynolds has a niece who is troubled with 
 one of these passionate admirers, to whom she has refused 
 her hand and her door. He came, a few days since, to Sir 
 Joshua's, asked if she was at home, and on being answered 
 in the negative, he desired the footman to tell her to take 
 care, for he was determined to ravish her (pardon the word) 
 whenever he met her. Keep our little friend (Mie Mie) at 
 Paris whilst this mania lasts, for no age will be spared to be 
 in fashion, and I am sure Mie Mie is quite as much in dan- 
 ger as the person I quoted in my first page" 
 
 Before quoting those letters of Lord March which 
 refer to topics of a strictly personal character, we 
 will mention the few authentic particulars that have 
 been recorded of him. 
 
 He was born in 1725, succeeded his father in the 
 earldom of March in 1731? his mother in the earldom 
 of Ruglen in 17485 ^"d his cousin in the dukedom of 
 Qtieensberry in 1778? being then in his fifty-third 
 year. Few men of his day acquired greater noto- 
 riety, or were more an object of inquiry and specu- 
 lation ; yet he took little part in political events, ex- 
 cept so far as his own interests were affected by them, 
 and it would have been t)etter for his reputation had 
 he taken none. When the king's malady grew se- 
 rious, in 1788, he gave in his allegiance to Fox, and, on 
 the recovery of his royal master, was unceremoniously 
 dismissed from his situation of lord of the bedcham- 
 ber, which he had held for twenty-eight years, not- 
 withstanding the known profligacy of his life. Wrax- 
 all says he took a journey to Windsor to learn the 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 427 
 
 exact condition of the king, but was misled by Dr. 
 Warren. The mistake mattered little. His business 
 was pleasure, his passions were women and the turf; 
 and he contrived to gratify both, without impairing 
 either his fortune or his constitution. As regards the 
 turf, he was thoroughly versed in all its mysteries, 
 and seldom indulged in any sort of gaming uncon- 
 nected with it, or relating to matters where any 
 undue advantage could be taken of him. On the 
 contrary, he was generally on the lookout for oppor- 
 tunities of turning his own shrew^dness and coolness 
 to account. A curious instance is related in Edge- 
 worth's memoirs. 
 
 Lord March had noticed a coach maker's journey- 
 man running with a wheel, and on minuting him by 
 a stop watch, found that he actually ran a consider- 
 able distance faster with it than most men could run 
 unencumbered. A waiter in Betty's fruit shop was 
 famous for speed. Lord March adroitly introduced 
 the topic, and maintaining what appeared a paradox, 
 easily got bets to a large amount, that the waiter 
 would run faster for a mile than any one could run 
 with the hind-wheel of his lordship's carriage, then 
 standing at the door. But he committed a trifling over- 
 sight. The wheel was lower than the wheel the man 
 was used to run with ; and the biter would have been 
 bit, had not Sir Francis Delaval suggested an expe- 
 dient. The night before the match, planks were ob- 
 tained from the Board of Works, and a raised groove, 
 for the wheel to run in, was constructed across the 
 course. The journeyman won, and the Jockey Club 
 decided in Lord March's favor. Another of his bets 
 
428 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 came before the court of King's Bench. He had laid 
 a wager of five hundred guineas with young Mr. 
 Pigot, that old Mr. Pigot (the father) would die be- 
 fore Sir William Codrington. Old Mr. Pigot died 
 the same morning before the making of the wager, 
 but neither of the parties were acquainted with the 
 fact. The court held that the dutiful and hopeful 
 heir must pay. A startling example of this style of 
 bet is mentioned by Walpole. " I, t'other night at 
 White's, found a very remarkable entry in our very 
 
 remarkable wager-book. Lord — ■ — bets Sir 
 
 twenty guineas that Nash outlives Gibber. J^ow 
 odd that these two old creatures should live to see 
 both their zvagerers put an end to their own lives I " 
 Lord March's rate of betting was never very high. 
 The largest sum he appears to have won or lost at 
 any race or meeting, during the period over which 
 this correspondence extends, was four thousand one 
 hundred pounds, and this is mentioned as a rare oc- 
 currence. 
 
 Lie also managed his intercourse with the fair sex 
 in such a manner as to prevent them from interfering 
 with his peace, or even his caprices ; and few things 
 are more amusing than his mode of keeping his oc- 
 casional liaisons from clashing with his permanent 
 ones — for we are obliged to speak of both classes in 
 the plural number. His parting with one of his fa- 
 vorites is pecuh'arly touching : — 
 
 *' I am just preparing to conduct the poor little Tondino to 
 Dover. Mj heart is so full that I can neither think, speak, 
 nor write. How I shall be able to part with her, or bear to 
 come back to this house, I do not know. The sound of her 
 voice fills my eyes with afresh tears. My dear George, yai 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 439 
 
 le ccBtir si serre que je ne suis bon a ^present qti" a pleurei'. 
 Take all the care jou can of her. ye la recommende a vous, 
 my best and only real friend." 
 
 In return for the care Selwyn was to take of the 
 Tondino, Lord March, it seems, was to keep an eye 
 to Raton. 
 
 "I wrote to you last night, but I quite forgot Raton. I 
 have not had him to see me to-day, having been the whole 
 morning in the city with Lady H. ; but I have sent to your 
 maid, and she says that her little king is perfectly well and 
 in great spirits." 
 
 Besides the Tondino, Selwyn had the principal 
 care of the Rena, a beautiful Italian, who stood in 
 nearly the same relation to Lord March as Madame 
 de Pompadour to Louis the Fifteenth. That sagacious 
 favorite, it will be remembered, troubled herself very 
 little about the Fare aux Cerfs so long as she re- 
 tained the chief place in his Majesty's confidence. 
 Queen Caroline is said to have preserved her in- 
 fluence over George the Second by the same policy. 
 The Rena's prudence was put to a severe trial by the 
 arrival of Signora Zamperini, a noted dancer and 
 singer, in 1766. His lordship writes to Selwyn in 
 Paris, — 
 
 " I wish I had set out immediately after Newmarket, 
 which I believe I should have done, if I had not taken a 
 violent fancy for one of the opera girls. This passion is a 
 little abated, and I hope it will be quite so before you and 
 the Rena come over, else I fear it will interrupt our society. 
 But whatever is the case, as I have a real friendship and af- 
 fection for the Rena, I shall show her every mark of regard 
 and consideration, and be vastly happy to see her. I con- 
 sider her as a friend, and certainly as one that I love very 
 much ; and as such, I hope she will have some indulgence 
 for my follies." • 
 
430 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 A few days afterwards, — 
 
 "The Rena must be mad if she takes anything of this 
 sort in a serious way. If she does, there is an end of our 
 society- If she does not, we shall go on as we did. I am 
 sure I have all the regard in the world for her, for I love her 
 vastly, and I shall certainl}' contrive to make her as easy 
 and as happy as I can. I like this little girl, bzit hovj long 
 this liking -will last I cannot tell ; it maj' increase, or be 
 quite at an end, before you arrive." 
 
 His lordship had not attained to equal proficiency 
 with Madame de Girardin's hero : " Albert ne vien- 
 dra pas — il est amoureux pour una quinzaine, il me 
 I'a dit, et il est toujours a la minute dans ces choses- 
 la." In a subsequent letter we find all three (the 
 Tondino, the Rena, and the Zamperini) mixed up 
 together. 
 
 "You see what a situation I am in with my little Buffa. 
 She is the prettiest creature that ever was seen ; in short, I 
 like her vastly, and she likes me, because I give her mojiey. 
 
 " I have had a letter from the Tondino to-day. She tells 
 me that she never passed her time so well at Paris as she 
 does now. ' Monsieur du Barri est un homtne charmante, et 
 nous donne des bals avec dcs Princesses,' Pray, my dear 
 George, find out something that will be agreeable to the 
 little Teresina. Consult the Rena about it. 
 
 " I shall write two or three words to the Rena by this post. 
 I told her, in x^y last letter, that I was supposed to be very 
 much in love with the Zamperini, which certainly' would not 
 prevent me from being very happy to see her. I have been 
 too long accustomed to live with her not to like her, or to be 
 able to forget her, and there is nothing that would give me 
 more pain than not to be able to live with her upon a foot- 
 ing of great intimacy and friendship; but I am always 
 afraid of every event inhere tvoinen are concertied — they 
 are all so exceedingly 'wrong-headed.'" 
 
 It might be deemed useless, if not impertinent, to 
 keep on repeating that obviously wrong things are 
 wrong ; but in connection with the next extract, the 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 4^1 
 
 reader should bear in mind that, at the time in ques- 
 tion, and for twelve years afterwards, the writer was 
 a lord of the bedchamber in the decorous court of 
 George the Third and Qiieen Charlotte. 
 
 " I was prevented from writing to you last Friday, by be- 
 incr at Newmarket with my little girl. I had the whole 
 family and Cocchi. The beauty went with me in my chaise, 
 and the rest in the old landau." 
 
 The family consisted of father, mother, and sister. 
 "As March finds a difficulty (says Williams) in sep- 
 arating her from that rascally garlic tribe, whose very 
 existence depends on her beauty, I do not think he 
 means to make her what our friend the countess (the 
 Rena) was." In another place — "March goes on 
 but heavily with his poor child (she was only fifteen). 
 He looks miserable, and yet he takes her off in her 
 opera dress every night in his chariot." 
 
 Numerous allusions, in these volumes, show that 
 Lord March was not devoid of taste for female society 
 of a better order. He is repeatedly spoken of as about 
 to marry this or that lady of quality ; and Wraxall 
 says that he cherished an ardent passion for Miss 
 Pelham, the daughter of the minister, who persevered 
 in refusing his consent to their union, on account 
 of the dissipated habits of the peer. He died un- 
 married, and continued his libertine habits till death. 
 During the first ten years of the present century, he 
 might constantly be seen in the bow-window of his 
 house in Piccadilly (now divided into two houses 
 occupied by Lord Cadogan and Lord Roseberry), 
 examining the street passengers through an eye-glass 
 with his remaining eye (it vvas currently stated that 
 
432 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 the other was of glass), and when a female pedestrian 
 struck his fancy, an emissary was instantly despatched 
 after her. That no time might be lost, a pony was 
 always kept saddled for the purpose. " It is a fact," 
 says Wraxall, " that he performed in his own draw- 
 ing-room the scene of Paris and the goddesses. This 
 classic exhibition took place in his house opposite the 
 Green Park." We do not believe that any exhibition 
 took place at all — founding our scepticism more on 
 the folly than the vice ; yet it is melancholy to think to 
 what human nature may be degraded by sensuality. 
 
 A striking illustration of his shrewdness was given 
 by Lord Brougham, in his evidence before the Lords' 
 Committee on Lord Campbell's libel bill : — 
 
 " The late Duke of Qiieensberry was a great alarmist in 
 1792, like many other very noble, very rich, and very honor- 
 able men. He thought there was an end of all things, and 
 he used to be abusing principally the seditious writings of 
 the day, giving them and their authors ill names in great 
 abundance and variety, as infamous, detestable, abominable 
 — when one day some toad-eater, who attended his person, 
 added, ' Ay, indeed, and full of such falsehoods.' ' No,' 
 said the duke, ' not falsehoods — they are all so true; that 
 is what makes them so abominable and so dangerous.' If 
 his grace had felt all that was said on the corruptions of 
 Parliament and office to be groundless, he would have let 
 them write on in the same strain to the end of time." 
 
 A characteristic trait has been preserved by Mr. 
 Wilberforce : — 
 
 " I always observe that the owners of 3'our grand houses 
 have some snug corner in which they are glad to shelter 
 themselves from their own magnificence.* I remember 
 dining, when I was a young man, with the Duke of Queens- 
 
 * "And thus the most luxurious court in Europe, after all its boasted refine- 
 ments, was glad to return at last, by this singular contrivance (the table volante 
 at Chnisy), to the quiet and privacy of humble life." — Rogers's Poems, ^Icfg. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 433 
 
 berry, at his Richmond villa. The party was very small 
 and select — Pitt, Lord and Lady Chatham, the Duchess of 
 Gordon, and George Selwyn (who lived for society, and 
 continued in it till he really looked like the waxwork figure 
 of a corpse) were amongst the guests. We dined early, 
 that some of our party might be ready to attend the opera. 
 The dinner was sumptuous, the views from the villa quite 
 enchanting, and the Thames in all its glory; but the duke 
 looked on with indifference. ' What is there,' he said, ' to 
 make so much of in the Thames.-* I am quite tired of it — 
 there it goes, flow, flow, flow, always the same.' " 
 
 This is precisely what we should have expected 
 from the duke ; and no one was better qualified than 
 Mr. Wilberforce to explain why the glorious scene 
 before them was a sealed book to the worn volup- 
 tuary — why his spirit's eye was blind to it — why 
 every simple, innocent, unforced gratification was 
 denied to him — and why the full enjoyment of nat- 
 ural beauty and sublimity is reserved for men of purer 
 lives and higher minds than his. 
 
 The duke's notions of comfort, on which his opin- 
 ion was worth having, were expressed in a letter to 
 Selwyn : ^ I wish you were here (the place is not 
 stated). It is just the house you would wish to be in. 
 There is an excellent library, a good -parson^ the 
 best English and French cookery you ever tasted, 
 strong coffee, and half-crown whist." 
 
 It has been stated that he paid his physicians on 
 the plan adopted by the Chinese emperors — so much 
 per week for keeping him alive. If so, he cheated 
 them ; for the immediate cause of his death was im- 
 prudence in eating fruit. He died in iSio, firm and 
 self-possessed. His death-bed w^as literally covered 
 with unopened billets (more than seventy) from wo- 
 men of all classes, which he ordered to be laid on the 
 
 38 
 
434 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 counterpane as they were brought. His personal 
 property exceeded a million, and his will, with its 
 twenty-five codicils, was a curious document. He 
 left one hundred and fifty thousand pounds and three 
 houses to Mie Mie, and made her husband (the late 
 Marquis of Hertford, a congenial spirit) his residuary 
 legatee. 
 
 Selwyn's most immediate friends and frequent cor- 
 respondents, after the duke, were George James (alias 
 Gilly) Williams and Lord Carlisle. 
 
 Of Williams little is known. He was the son of 
 Peere Williams, the compiler of three volumes of 
 chancery cases, highly esteemed by equity lawyers. 
 He was connected by marriage with Lord North, 
 and in 1774 was appointed receiver-general of ex- 
 cise. Selwyn, Edgecumbe, Walpole, and Williams, 
 used to meet at stated periods at Strawberry Hill, 
 and form what Walpole called his out-of-town party. 
 Gilly's letters convey a highly favorable impression 
 of his social pleasantry ; and it seems that he soon 
 acquired some reputation as a wit. " I have desired 
 Lord R. Bertie," he writes in 1751, " to propose me at 
 White's. Don't let any member shake his head at 
 me for a wit ; for, God knows, he may as well reject 
 me for being a giant." 
 
 Frederick, fifth earl of Carlisle, was a remarkable 
 man in many ways. He filled some important public 
 situations with credit ; and on his being appointed 
 lord-lieutenant of Ireland, his intimate friend, Storer, 
 writes, " I wish he was secretary of state. It is a 
 joke to think it too high a step. I am of the old 
 king's opinion, that a 7nan in this country is Jit for 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 435 
 
 any ^lace he can get, and I am sure Carlisle will be 
 fit for any place he will take." 
 
 In literature he distinguished himself as a poet ; 
 but, unluckily, he is principally known in that capacity 
 through Lord Byron, who, in his English Bards 
 and Scoth Reviewers, levels twelve unjust and acri- 
 monious lines at him. In the first sketch of the 
 poem these twelve lines were wanting, and their 
 place was occupied by two — 
 
 " On one alone Apollo deigns to smile, 
 And crowns a new Roscommon in Carlisle." 
 
 Lord Carlisle had offended his young relation, be- 
 tween the writing and the printing of the poem, by 
 refusing to introduce him on his taking his seat in the 
 House of Lords. Lord Byron afterwards deeply re- 
 gretted the injury. There is a beautiful atonement in 
 the third canto of Childe Harold ; and in writing, in 
 1814, to Mr. Rogers, he thus expresses himself : 
 " Is there any chance or possibility of making it up 
 with Lord Carlisle, as I feel disposed to do anything, 
 reasonable or unreasonable, to effect it?" 
 
 In private life and early youth, Lord Carlisle, en- 
 dowed with warm feelings, a lively fancy, and an 
 excitable disposition, was peculiarly liable to be led 
 astray by the temptations which assail young men of 
 rank. In 1769, being then in his twenty-first year, he 
 went abroad, desperately in love with some wedded 
 fair one. She forms the burden of many a paragraph 
 in his letters to Selwyn, who, though nearly thirty 
 years older, entered warmly into all his feelings. 
 
 *' I thought I had got the better of that extravagant pas- 
 sion, but I find I am relapsed again. I tremble at the con- 
 
436 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 sequences of the meeting, and yet I have not the courage, 
 even in thought, to oppose its temptations. I shall exert all 
 the firmness I am capable of, which, God knows, is very lit- 
 tle, upon that occasion. If I am received with coolness, I 
 shall feel it severely. I shall be miserable if I am made too 
 welcome. Good God, what happiness would I not exchange, 
 to be able to live with her without loving her more than 
 •friendship will allow! Is my picture hung up, or is it in the 
 passage with its face turned to the walls.'' " 
 
 From the allusion to the picture, and other indi- 
 cations, it is clear that the mysterious lady (who has 
 given rise to much surmise) was the beautifnl Lady 
 Sarah Bunbury {nee Lennox), "whom it is said his Ma- 
 jesty George the Third would have married, had he 
 been allowed. His Majesty gave up his own wishes 
 for the good of the country, but the impression re- 
 mained. Mrs. Pope, the actress, was very like Lady 
 Sarah. On one occasion, at the theatre, many years 
 after his marriage, the king turned round to the queen 
 in a fit of melancholy abstraction, and saitl, pointing 
 to Mrs. Pope, " She is like Lady Sarah still." 
 
 Lord Carlisle got the better of this passion, and 
 married at twenty-two. It would have been well for 
 his peace of mind had he been equally successful in 
 getting the better of a still more fatal one for play. 
 Letter after letter is filled with good resolutions, but 
 the fascination was too strong. The blow came at last. 
 
 "July, 1776. 
 
 " My dear George : I have undone myself, and it is to 
 no purpose to conceal from you my abominable madness and 
 folly, though perhaps the particulars may not be known to 
 the rest of the world. I never lost so much in five times as 
 I have done to-night, and am in debt to the house for the 
 whole. You may be sure I do not tell you this with an idea 
 that you can be of the least assistance to me; it is a great 
 deal more than your abilities are equal to. Let me see you, 
 though I shall be ashamed to look at you after your good- 
 ness to me." 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 437 
 
 This letter is indorsed by Selwyn, " After the loss 
 of the ten thousand pounds ; " which, following on 
 other losses, appears to have sunk the earl to the low- 
 est depths of despondency. 
 
 " / do -protest to you, tJiat I am so tired of my present man- 
 ner of passing my time, — hovjcver I may be kept in coiin- 
 tena?ice by the niitnber of those in my oxv?i ratik and superior 
 fortune, — that I never reflect on it ivithout shame. If they 
 will employ me in any part of the world, I will accept the 
 employment; let it tear me, as it will, from everything dear 
 to me in this country. .... 
 
 " If any ot our expectations should be gratified in the 
 winter, I cannot expect anything sufficient to balance the 
 expenses of living in London. If I accept anything, I must 
 attend Parliament — I must live in London. If I am not 
 treated with consideration, I can live here, if that can be 
 called living which is wasting the best years of my life in 
 obscurity; without society to dispel the gloom of a northern 
 climate; left to myself to brood over my follies and indis- 
 cretions; to see my children deprived of education by those 
 follies and indiscretions; to be forgotten; to lose my tem- 
 per; to be neglected; to become cross and morose to those 
 whom I have most reason to love ! Except that the welfare 
 and interest of others depefid upott my existence, I should not 
 Tvish that existence to be of long duration." 
 
 So thought and felt a man apparently possessed of 
 every blessing — youth, health, talent, birth, fortune, 
 connection, consideration, and domestic ties of the 
 most endearing kind — 
 
 "Medio de fonte leponim 
 Surgit amari aliquid quod in ipsis floribus angat." 
 
 The very accident (miscalled advantage) of his 
 l^osition commends the poisoned chalice to his lips, 
 and the Lord of Castle Howard longs for death at 
 twenty-seven ! But a truce to reflection till we have 
 introduced another, and a more memorable subject for 
 it. Lord Carlisle's embarrassments were inextricably 
 mixed up with those of Charles James Fox ; and it 
 
438 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 can therefore hardly be deemed a digression to turn 
 at once to the passages in these volumes which relate 
 to him. The few letters of his own that occur in 
 them are principally remarkable for ease and sim- 
 plicity. For example, — 
 
 "Paris, November, 1770. 
 " Quantities of cousins visit us ; amongst the rest the Duke 
 of Berwick. What an animal it is ! I supped last night 
 with Lauzun, Fitz-James, and some others, at what thev call 
 a Clolf a rAn^lai'se. It was in a fetite maison of L.auzun's. 
 There was Madame Briseau, and two other women. The 
 supper was execrably bad. However, the champagne and 
 tokaywere excellent; notwithstanding which the fools made 
 (ill poficke with bad rum. This club is to meet every Satur- 
 day, either here or at Versailles : I am glad to see that we 
 cannot be foolisher in point of imitation than they are." 
 
 Principally, through Selwyn's introduction, Fox 
 
 was on a familiar footing with Madame du Defland 
 
 and her set. 
 
 *' Madame GeofFrin m'a ckafite la paltnodie. I dine there 
 to-day ; she inquires after you very much. I have supped 
 at Madame du DefFand's, who asked me if I was deja sous la 
 ttit'ele de M. Selvin P I boasted that I was." 
 
 In August 23, 1 771, he writes what is most worthy 
 
 of notice, as follows : — 
 
 " I am reading Clarendon, but scarcely get on faster than 
 you did with 3'our Charles the Fifth. I think the style bad, 
 and that he has r good deal of the old woman in his way 
 of thinking, biU hates the of posite party so much that it gives 
 one a kind of partiality for him." 
 
 His marvellous powers as a debater were remarked 
 
 very soon after his first entrance into Parliament. In 
 
 March, 1770, his delighted father writes to Selwyn, — 
 
 "You know by this time that your panegyric upon 
 Charles came about an hour after I had wrote mine to you 
 of the 9th. He writes word that upon February the 12th he 
 spoke very ill. I do not mind that, and when he speaks so 
 well, as to be, as Lady Mary says, the wonder of the age, it 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 439 
 
 does not give me so much pleasure as what you very justly, 
 I think, tell me de sou cceur. And jet that may not signify. 
 I have been honest and good-natured, nor can I repent of 
 it: though convinced now that honesty is not the best 
 policy, and that good-nature does not meet with the return 
 it ought to do." 
 
 It appears from a letter addressed by Lord Carlisle 
 
 to Lady Holland (Fox's mother), in 1773, that he 
 
 had become security for Fox to the amount of fifteen 
 
 or sixteen thousand pounds ; and a letter to Selwyn, 
 
 in 1777? P^ts the ruinous character of their gambling 
 
 transactions in the strongest light. Lord Ilchester 
 
 (Fox's cousin) had lost thirteen thousand pounds at 
 
 one sitting to Lord Carlisle, who offered to take three 
 
 thousand pounds down. Nothing was paid ; but ten 
 
 years afterwards, when Lord Carlisle pressed for his 
 
 money, he complains that an attempt was made to 
 
 construe the offer into a remission of ten thousand 
 
 pounds : — 
 
 "The only way, in honor, that Lord I. could have ac- 
 cepted my otFer, would have been by taking some steps to 
 pay the three thousand pounds. I remained in a state of 
 uncertainty, I think, for nearly three years; but his taking 
 no notice of it during that time convinced me that he had 
 no intention of availing himself of it. Charles Fox was 
 also at a much earlier period clear that he never meant to 
 accept it. There is also great justice in the behavior of the 
 family in passing by the instantaneous payment of, I be- 
 lieve, five thousand pounds to Charles, won at the same 
 sitting, without anj' observations. At one period of the 
 play, I retnember., there was a balance in favor of one of 
 those gentlemeti, but ofzvhich I protest I do not remember, 
 of about fifty thousand^ 
 
 At the time in question. Fox was hardly eighteen. 
 The following- letter from Lord Carlisle, written i 
 
 m 
 
 1 77 1, contains some highly interesting information 
 respecting the youthful habits, and already vast intel- 
 lectual pre-eminence of this memorable statesman : — 
 
440 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 "It gives me great pain to hear that Charles begins to be 
 unreasonably impatient at losing. I fear it is the prologue 
 to much fretfulness of temper; for disappointment in rais- 
 ing money, and any serious reflections upon his situation, 
 ■will (in spite of his affected spirits and dissipation, which 
 sit very well upon Richard) occasion him many disagreeable 
 moments. They will be the more painful when he reflects 
 that he is not following the natural bent of his genius; for 
 that would lead him to all serious inquiry and laudable pur- 
 suits, which he has in some measure neglected, to hear Lord 
 Bolingbroke's applause, and now is obliged to have recourse 
 to it and play, to hinder him from thinking how he has 
 perverted the ends for which he was born. I believe there 
 never -was a ferso7i yet created who had the faculty of reason- 
 ing like him. His judgments are tiever -wrong; his decisiofi 
 is fortned quicker thatt any m.an''s I ever conversed tvith ; and 
 he never seems to mistake but in his own affairs.'' 
 
 Lord Carlisle's fears proved groundless in one re- 
 spect. Fox's sweetness of temper remained with him 
 to the last ; but it is most painful to think how much 
 mankind has lost through his recklessness. There is no 
 saying what might not have been effected by such a 
 man, had he simply followed the example of his great 
 rival in one respect. " We played a good deal at 
 Goosetree's," says Wilberforce, " and I well remem- 
 ber the intense earnestness which Pitt displayed when 
 joining in these games of chance. He perceived 
 their increasing fascination, and soon after abandoned 
 it forever." Wilberforce's own cure is thus recorded 
 by his biographers, on the authority of his private 
 journal : '^ * We can have no play to-night,' com- 
 plained some of the party at the club, ' for St. An- 
 drew is not here to keep bank.' ' Wilberforce,' said 
 Mr. Bankes, who never joined himself, ' if you will 
 keep it I will give )^ou a guinea.' The playful chal- 
 lenge was accepted, but as the game grew deep, he 
 rose the winner of six hundred pounds. Much of this 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 44I 
 
 was lost by those who were only heirs to future 
 fortunes, and could not therefore meet such a call 
 without inconvenience. The pain he felt at their 
 annoyance cured him of a taste which seemed but too 
 likely to become predominant." 
 
 Goosetree's being then almost exclusively com- 
 posed of incipient orators and embryo statesmen, the 
 call for a gaming-table there may be regarded as a 
 decisive proof of the universal prevalence of the vice. 
 But most of these were the friends and followers of 
 Pitt; and when his star gained the ascendant, idle- 
 ness was no longer the order of the day among poli- 
 ticians, and rising young men gave up faro and haz- 
 ard for Blackstone and Adam Smith. We know of 
 no candidate for high office, entering public life after 
 17S4, who did not affect prudence and propriety ; and 
 probably we sliall never again see a parliamentary 
 leader aspire, like Bolingbroke, 
 
 '• To shine a Tully and a Wilmot too." 
 
 Gaming, however, continued a blot on our manners 
 and morals for many years afterwards ; and it may 
 not be uninstructive to trace its progress and decline. 
 During the whole of the last century, gaming of some 
 sort was an ordinary amusement for both sexes in the 
 best society.* Till near the commencement of the 
 present, the favorite game was faro ; and as it was a 
 decided advantage to hold the bank, masters and mis- 
 
 * In General Burgoyne's play of The Heiress, Mrs. Blandish exclaims, 
 " Time thrown away in the country ! as if women of fashion left London to turn 
 freckled shepherdesses. No, no ; cards, cards and backgammon, are the de- 
 lights of rural life ; and, slightly as you may think of my skill, at the year's end 
 I am no inconsiderable sharer in the pin-money of my society." 
 
442 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 tresses of noble houses, less scrupulous than Wilber- 
 force, frequently volunteered to fleece and amuse their 
 company. But scandal having made busy with the 
 names of some of them, it became usual to hire a 
 professed gamester at five or ten guineas a night to 
 set up a table for the evening, as we should hire La- 
 blache for a concert, or Weippart for a ball. Faro 
 gradually dropped out of fashion ; macao took its 
 place ; hazard was never wanting, and whist began 
 to be played for stakes which would have satisfied 
 Fox himself, who, though it was calculated that he 
 might have netted four or five thousand a year by 
 games of skill, complained that they afforded no ex- 
 citement. 
 
 Watier's club, in Piccadilly, was the resort of the 
 macao players. It was kept by an old inaitre cV hotel 
 of George the Fourth, a character in his way, who 
 took a just pride in the cookery and wines of his es- 
 tablishment. All the brilliant stars of fashion (and 
 fashion was power then) frequented it, with Brum- 
 mell for their sun. " Poor Brummell dead, in misery 
 and idiocy, at Caen ! and I remember him in all his 
 glory, cutting his jokes after the opera at White's, in 
 a black velvet great-coat, and a cocked hat on his 
 well-powdered head." * Nearly the same turn of re- 
 flection is suggested as we run over the names of his 
 associates. Almost all of them were ruined ; three 
 out of four irretrievably. Indeed, it was the forced 
 expatriation of its supporters that caused the club to 
 be broken up. During the same period (from 1810 
 
 * Private MS. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 443 
 
 to 1815 or thereabouts) there was a great deal of high 
 play at White's and Brookes', particularly whist. At 
 Brookes' figured some remarkable characters — as 
 Tippoo Smith, by common consent the best whist- 
 player of his day ; and an old gentleman nicknamed 
 Neptune, from his having once flung himself into the 
 sea in a fit of despair at being, as he thought, ruined. 
 He was fished out in time, found he was not ruined, 
 and played on during the remainder of his life. 
 
 The most distinguished player at White's was the 
 nobleman who was presented at the salon in Paris 
 as Le Wellington des youeurs ; and he richly mer- 
 ited the name, if skill, temper, and the most daring 
 courage, are titles to it. The greatest genius, how- 
 ever, is not infallible. He once lost three thousand 
 four hundred pounds at whist by not remembering 
 that the seven of hearts was in. He played at haz- 
 ard for the highest stakes that any one could be got to 
 play with him, and at one time was supposed to have 
 won nearly a hundred thousand pounds ; but it all 
 went, along with a great deal more, at Crockford's. 
 
 There was also a great deal of play at Graham's, 
 the Union, the Cocoa-Tree, and other clubs of the 
 second order in point of fashion. Here large sums 
 were hazarded with equal rashness, and remarkable 
 characters started up. Among the most conspicuous 
 was the late Colonel Aubrey, who literally passed his 
 life at play. He did nothing else, morning, noon, 
 and night ; and it was computed that he had paid 
 more than sixty thousand pounds for card-money. 
 He was a very fine player at all games, and a shrewd, 
 clever man. He had been twice to India, and made 
 
444 '^^^^ WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 two fortunes. It was said that he lost the first on his 
 way home, transferred himself from one ship to 
 another without landing, went back, and made the 
 second. His life was a continual alternation between 
 poverty and wealth ; and he used to say, the greatest 
 pleasure in life is winning at cards — the next great- 
 est, losing. 
 
 For several years deep play went on at all these 
 clubs, — fluctuating both as to locality and amount, — 
 till by degrees it began to flag. It had got to a low 
 ebb when Mr. Crockford came to London, and laid 
 the foundation of the most colossal fortune that was 
 ever made by play. He began by taking Watier's old 
 club-house, in partnership w^ith a man named Taylor. 
 They set up a hazard-bank, and won a great deal of 
 money, but quarrelled, and separated at the end of 
 the first year. Taylor continued where he was, had a 
 bad year, and broke. Crockford removed to St. 
 James' Street, had a good year, and instantly set about 
 building the magnificent club-house which bears his 
 name. It rose like a creation of Aladdin's lamp ; and 
 the genii themselves could hardly have surpassed the 
 beauty of the internal decorations, or furnished a more 
 accomplished viaitre d'hotel than Ude. To make 
 the company as select as possible, the establishment 
 was regularly organized as a club, and the election of 
 members vested in a committee. " Crockford's" be- 
 came the rage, and the votaries of fashion, whether 
 they liked play or not, hastened to enroll themselves. 
 The Duke of Wellington was an original member, 
 though (unlike Blucher, who repeatedly lost every- 
 thing he had at play) the great captain was never 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 445 
 
 r 
 
 known to play deep at any game but war or politics. 
 Card-tables were regularly placed, and whist was 
 played occasionally ; but the aim, end, and final cause 
 of the whole was the hazard-bank, at which the pro- 
 prietor took his nightly stand, prepared for all comers. 
 There was a recognized limit, at which (after losing 
 a certain sum) he might declare the bank broke for 
 the niglit ; but he knew his business too well to stop. 
 The speculation, it is hardly necessary to add, was 
 eminently successful. During several years, every- 
 thing that anybody had to lose and cared to risk, was 
 swallowed up. Le Wellington des Joueurs lost twen- 
 ty-three thousand pounds at a sitting, beginning at 
 twelve at night, and ending at seven the following even- 
 ing. He and three other noblemen could not have lost 
 less, sooner or later, than a hundred thousand pounds 
 apiece. Others lost in proportion (or out of propor- 
 tion) to their means ; but we leave it to less occupied 
 moralists and better calculators to say how many ruined 
 families went to make Mr. Crockford a millionnaire 
 — iox 2i millionnaire \\Q was and is, in the English 
 sense of the term, after making the largest possible 
 allowance for bad debts. A vast sum, perhaps half a 
 million, is due to him ; but as he won all his debtors 
 were able to raise, and easy credit was the most fatal 
 of his lures,* we cannot make up our minds to con- 
 
 * Brookes was equally accommodating : — 
 
 "From liberal Brookes, whose speculative skill 
 Is hasty credit and a distant bill ; 
 Who, nursed in clubs, disdains a vulgar trade, 
 Exults to trust and blushes to be paid." 
 
 Verses, From, the Hon. Charles yames Fox, partridge- shoot 171^, to the Hon. 
 jfoh?i Townshend, cruising ; by Tickeil, whom Mr. Jesse praises for his poefn of 
 "Anticipation." 
 
44<5 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 dole with him on that amount, frightful though it be. 
 He retired, three or four years ago, much as an Indian 
 chief retire's from a hunting-country when there is not 
 game enough left for his tribe ; and the club is said 
 to be now tottering to its fall. 
 
 Some good was certainly produced by it. In the 
 first place, private gambling (between gentleman and 
 gentleman) with its degrading incidents, illustrated by 
 the foregoing letters, is at an end. In the second 
 place, this very circumstance brings the worst part of 
 the practice within the reach of the law. Public 
 gambling, which only exists by and through what are 
 popularly termed " hells," may be easily suppressed. 
 There are at present more than twenty of these estab- 
 lishments in Pall Mall, Piccadilly, and St. James', 
 called into existence by Mr. Crockford's success. 
 Why does not the police interfere.? If the police 
 cannot, why does not the legislature? Not an hour 
 should be lost in putting down this monstrous evil. 
 We claim to be superior in morals and public order 
 to the French ; yet all the public gaming-tables of 
 Paris were suppressed four or five years ago, and 
 (what is more) suppressed without difiiculty, the mo- 
 ment the police set to work in good earnest.* 
 
 Space permitting, we should be glad to make a few 
 extracts from the numerous letters, in this collection, 
 of the Rev. Dr. Warner, who has described many ob- 
 jects of interest, and hit ofi' some curious traits of 
 character, in a gay, vivacious style, which would be 
 
 * Since this was written, a few of the most notorious London estabhshments 
 have been suppressed. 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 447 
 
 much more pleasing had there been less effort to make 
 it so. He apparently took for his model the well- 
 known letter of Madame de Sevigne, announcing the 
 marriage of " la grande Mademoiselle," in which the 
 main object seems to be to keep beating about the 
 bush as long as possible. But the reverend doctor is 
 inexcusably coarse and loose, and has often tempted 
 us to exclaim, like Dr. Johnson when some clergy- 
 men were endeavoring to show off in his company 
 by assuming the lax jollity of men of the world, 
 " This merriment of parsons is mighty offensive." 
 Independently of the indecorous tone, there are sev- 
 eral expressions and allusions in Dr. Warner's letters, 
 and two or three in Gilly Williams's and Lord Car- 
 lisle's, which offend, not merely against good taste, 
 but common decency ; and Mr. Jesse has exposed 
 himself to much censure by printing them. 
 
 We are also obliged to omit many passages from 
 the letters of Lord Holland, Miss Townshend, Mr. 
 Storer, the Dowager Lady Carlisle, and Lady Sarah 
 Bunbury, which we had marked for insertion ; as 
 well as an entire letter of Horace Walpole's (vol. i., 
 p. 4), which maintains his superiority as a writer of 
 epistolary compositions. 
 
 In conclusion, we are happy to say that the com- 
 parison, suggested by these volumes, between the 
 manners and morals of the last century and our own, 
 is highly satisfactory. Intellectual tastes have nearly 
 superseded the necessity, formerly felt by the unoc- 
 cupied classes, of resorting to coarse indulgences or 
 strong excitements ; and respect for public opinion 
 induces those among them who continue unreclaimed, 
 
44^ THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 to conceal their transgressions from the world. It is 
 also worthy of note, that the few persons of noble 
 birth or high connection who have recently attracted 
 attention by their laxity, are professed votaries of 
 (what they call) pleasure, and are no longer en- 
 couraged by the example, or elevated by the com- 
 panionship, of men distinguished in the senate, the 
 cabinet, or the court. No prime minister escorts a 
 woman of the town through the crush-room of the 
 opera ; no first lord of the admiralty permits his 
 mistress to do the honors of his house, or weeps 
 over her in the columns of the Morning Post ; no 
 lord of the bedchamber starts for Newmarket with 
 a danseuse in his carriage, and her whole family 
 in his train ; our parliamentary leaders do not dis- 
 sipate their best energies at the gaming-table ; our 
 privy councillors do not attend cock-fights ; and 
 among the many calumnies levelled at our public 
 men, not one has been accused (as General Bur- 
 goyne was by Junius) of lying in wait for inexpe- 
 rienced lads to plunder at play. 
 
 Though the signs are less marked, the improve- 
 ment in the female sex is-iiot less certain; for it 
 may safely be taken for granted, that the practice of 
 gambling was fraught with the worst consequences 
 to the finest feelings and best qualities of the sex. 
 The chief danger is hinted at in The Provoked Hus- 
 band. 
 
 ''■Lord Townley. 'Tis not your ill hours that always dis- 
 turb me, but as often the ill company that occasion those 
 hours. 
 
 " Lady Townley. Sure I don't understand you now, my 
 lord. What ill company do I keep?" 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. * 449 
 
 '-'■ Lord Townlcy. Why, at best, women that lose their 
 money, and men that win it; or perhaps men that are vol- 
 untarily bubbles at one game, in hopes a lady vj ill give them 
 fair play at another." 
 
 The facts confirm the theory. Walpole's Letters, 
 and the vokimes before us, teem with allusions to 
 proved or understood cases of matrimonial infidelity ; 
 and the manner in which notorious irregularities 
 were brazened out, shows that the offenders did not 
 always encounter the universal reprobation of society. 
 Miss Berry, speaking, in her very instructive book, 
 of the Duchess of Norfolk's divorce in 1697, ob- 
 serves, — 
 
 "Many circumstances of this lady's case show how much 
 the ordinary habits of life were overstepped, and what pre- 
 cautions were thought necessary previous to such miscon- 
 duct. A house taken at Lambeth, then a small and little 
 frequented village, whose nearest communication with West- 
 minster was by a horse-ferry, — this house, hired and re- 
 sorted to under feigned names, and occupied by foreign ser- 
 vants, who, it was supposed, could not identify the lady, are 
 not measures taken in a country where the crime they were 
 meant to conceal was frequent." — England and France^ 
 vol. i., p. 297. 
 
 This test w^ould be fatal to the female nobility of 
 England half a century later ; for many of them 
 took no pains whatever to conceal their immoralities. 
 We are obliged, from obvious motives, to refrain from 
 mentioning some conclusive instances ; but it is noto- 
 rious that Lady Vane gave Smollett the materials for 
 the Memoirs of a Lady of Qiiality (herself) published 
 in Peregrine Pickle ; that Lady Townshend sat (per- 
 haps not so willingly) for the portrait of Lady Bellas- 
 ton in Tom Jones ; and we can hardly do wrong in 
 copying a note, which Lord Dover has annexed to 
 29 
 
450 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 the name of a Miss Edwards, in his edition of Wal- 
 pole's Letters : " Miss Edwards, an unmarried lady 
 of great fortune, who (1742) openly kept Lord A. 
 Hamilton." 
 
 Gilly Williams mentions a caprice of a more re- 
 spectable kind, which was far from uncommon at the 
 period : — 
 
 "Lord Rockingham's youngest sister has just married 
 her footman, John Sturgeon. Surely he is the very first of 
 that name that ever had a Right Honorable annexed to it. 
 I made the Duchess of Bedford laugh yesterday with the 
 story of Lord March's handsome Jack wanting to go to live 
 with Lady Harrington." 
 
 "The girls talk of nothing but the match between Lord 
 
 Rockingham's sister and her footman. Never so much 
 
 and discretion met together; for she has entailed her for- 
 tune with as much circumspection as Lord Mansfield could 
 have done, and has not left one cranny of the law unstopped. 
 They used to pass many hours together, which she called 
 teaching John the mathematics." 
 
 Unless John was a very unapt scholar, he must soon 
 have become as worthy an object of a lady's favor, so 
 far as mental culture was concerned, as Sir John Ger- 
 maine ; who, after occasioning the Duchess of Nor- 
 folk's divorce, married a noble heiress. Lady Betty 
 Berkeley, and lived till the middle of the last century. 
 Miss Berry tells us that he actually left a legacy to Sir 
 Matthew Decker, under a belief that he was the au- 
 thor of the Gospel of St. Matthew ! 
 
 It has been thought by some that w^e have lost in 
 grace w^hat we have gained in decency, and that so- 
 ciety is no longer so gay, easy, accomplished, or 
 even lettered, as it used to be. Miss Berry, though 
 she commends the fashion w^hich encouraged occupa- 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 45 1 
 
 tion and mental acquirements, cannot refrain from a 
 sl}^ sarcasm at the "new prodigies, who were ah'eady 
 great orators at Eton, and profound politicians before 
 they left Christ-church or Trinity," — the gentlemen 
 to whom " it was easier to be foolishly bustling than 
 seriously employed ; " and Mr. Moore maintains a 
 yet more startling doctrine : " Without any disparage- 
 ment of the many and useful talents which are at 
 present nowhere more conspicuous than in the upper 
 ranks of society, it may be owned, that for wit, social 
 powers, and literary accomplishments, the political 
 men of the period under consideration (1780) formed 
 such an assemblage as it would be flattery to say that 
 our times can parallel. The natural tendency of the 
 French revolution was to produce in the higher classes 
 of England an increased reserve of manner, and of 
 course a proportionate restraint on all within their 
 circle, which have been fatal to conviviality and hu- 
 mor, and not very propitious to wit — subduing both 
 manners and conversation to a sort of polished level, 
 to rise above which is often thought almost as vulgar 
 as to sink below it. Of the greater ease of manners 
 that existed some foity or fifty years ago, one trifling, 
 but not the less significant, indication was the habit, 
 then prevalent among men of high station, of calling 
 each other by such familiar names as Dick, Jack, 
 Tom, &c., &c. — a mode of address that brings with 
 it in its very sound the notion of conviviality and play- 
 fulness, and, however unrefined, imphes at least that 
 ease and sea-room in which wit spreads its canvas 
 most fearlessly." — Life of Sheridan. 
 
 We differ, with unfeigned reluctance, from Mr, 
 
452 THE WISHING-CAP PAPERS. 
 
 Moore ; but he is surely mistaken in supposing that 
 the higher classes of England have contracted an 
 increased reserve of manner in consequence of the 
 French revolution, or showrn more anxiety on that 
 account to intrench themselves vs^ithin the privileges 
 of their rank. On the contrary, the tendency of that 
 event, and our own reform bill, was and is to make 
 them more anxious to identify themselves in feeling 
 and interest with the people. If they have ceased to 
 be familiar, it is because they have ceased to be ex- 
 clusive ; restraint is necessary, because society is 
 mixed ; and there is no reason why men of rank 
 should change their mode of address to men of rank, 
 except that they live less with one another, and more 
 with the world at large. The very peculiarity in 
 question was observed by Mrs. TioUope in the most 
 exclusive coterie in Europe, the creme de la creme of 
 Vienna. "All the ladies address each other by their 
 Christian names, and you may pass evening after 
 evening, surrounded by princesses and countesses, 
 without ever hearing any other appellations than 
 Therese, Flora, Laura, or Pepe." 
 
 This may be very agreeable for the privileged few, 
 and we readily admit that intimacy is a great pro- 
 moter of humor. Few of Selwyn's bon-m.ots could 
 have been hazarded at a mixed party. But we are 
 as far as ever from admitting Mr. Moore's proposition 
 in the main. It is not flattery, but sober truth, to say 
 that our public men have contracted no reserve beyond 
 that which the voluntary enlargement of their circle 
 has entailed upon them. It would be difficult to con- 
 tend that they have impaired their social powers by 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 453 
 
 mixing with eminent authors, men of science, and 
 artists, whatever influence these may have exercised 
 upon their wit or humor ; and, even as regards wit 
 or humor, it would simply be necessary to run over a 
 few known names to vindicate our equality in both. 
 Modern conversation is rich with the product of every 
 soil, the spoils of every clime ; and it would be a 
 grave error to suppose that those who contribute most 
 to it seldom meet in intimacy. They meet very often, 
 but they belong to several coequal and intersecting 
 circles, instead of keeping to one, and making that 
 the sole object of interest. 
 
 There are signs, moreover, that he who runs may 
 read. It is clear that they talk politics as much as 
 we do ; perhaps more, since their eagerness was so 
 manifest to a French woman. " Madame de Bouf- 
 flers (writes Williams in 1763) is out of patience with 
 our politics, and our ridiculous abuse of every person 
 who either governs or is likely to govern us." This 
 was a serious drawback, but not the most serious. 
 Selwyn's principal correspondents were not dandies 
 and fine ladies, but the most cultivated men and 
 women of the highest class ; including several on 
 whom Mr. Moore would rely, if we came to a di- 
 vision on the question. The masterpieces of English 
 light literature, and several other standard works, ap- 
 peared during their correspondence. Yet neither Field- 
 ing, Richardson, Smollett, Gray, Goldsmith, Hume, 
 Robertson, Johnson, Gibbon, or even Burke, elicits a 
 remark. There is one allusion to Garrick (by Rigby) ; 
 one to Reynolds (by Lord Carlisle) ; and one to 
 Gainsborough (by Gilly Williams), as *' the painter 
 
454 '^^E wisniNG-cAP papers. 
 
 by whom, if you remember, we once saw the carica- 
 ture of old Winchelsea." 
 
 There was no want of chissical acquirement, it is 
 true ; many wrote graceful verses ; and Fox and Wal- 
 pole had a taste for contemporary literature ; but Fox 
 kept it to himself for lack of sympathy, and Walpole 
 was ashamed of it. By literature, however, must be 
 understood merely the Belles Lettres ; for Fox con- 
 fessed, late in life, that he had never been able to get 
 through the Wealth of Nations. 
 
 Familiarity, again, is a great charm, but the habits 
 which are the conditions of its existence, beget mo- 
 notony. In Charles the Second's reign, when it was 
 the fashion to go to sea and fight the Dutch, instead 
 of taking lodgings at Melton or attending Battues, 
 Sheffield, Duke of Buckingham, tells us in his Mem- 
 oirs, that a party of gay, witty, lettered profligates 
 were becalmed on board the Duke of York's ship, 
 and got so tired of one another, that the first care each 
 took on landing was to ascertain where the rest were 
 going, in order to get away from them. We are not 
 aware whether the habitues of White's or Brookes', 
 seventy or eighty years ago, were ever brought to 
 such a pass ; but we know (and there is no getting 
 over this) that they habitually resorted to the gaming- 
 table, — 
 
 "Unknown to such, when sensual pleasures cloy, 
 To fill the languid pause with finer joy." 
 
 With rare exceptions, the most accomplished per- 
 sons, about to risk more than they can afford to lose, 
 will be found both ill disposed and ill qualified for 
 the easy, equable enjoyment of conversation ; though 
 
ESSAYS AND SKETCHES. 455 
 
 (with the aid of wine) they may have their occasional 
 bursts of sparkhng pleasantry. 
 
 To sum up all — there is a halo floating over cer- 
 tain periods ; dazzling associations may cluster round 
 a name : " 'tis distance lends enchantment to the 
 view ; " and living witnesses, who have known both 
 generations, will always, by a law of our nature, 
 award the palm to the companions of their youth. 
 But it will require stronger arguments than have been 
 adduced yet to convince us that the social powers of 
 any class have fallen off, whilst morality, taste, knowl- 
 edge, general freedom of intercourse, and liberality 
 of opinion, have been advancing ; or that the mind 
 necessarily loses any portion of its playfulness, when 
 it quits the enervating atmosphere of idleness and 
 dissipation for the purer air and brighter skies of 
 art, literature, and philosophy. 
 

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