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MEMORIES 
 
 OF 
 
 Familiar Books. 
 
 WILLIAM B; KEED, LL.D. 
 
 WITH A MEMOIR OF THE AUTHOR, 
 
 EDITED BY 
 
 makto:n" makble. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 
 E. J. HALE & SON, PUBLISHEES, 
 
 Murray Street. 
 1876. 
 
T^ 'Ji <^<^ 
 
 Ttf 
 
 
 /OSl^ 
 
 7V 
 
ADVERTISEMENT. 
 
 The publication of old books under new names is 
 said to be a growing evil in the book trade. The pub- 
 lishers, therefore, think it right to explain the change 
 of title under which a new edition of Mr. Reed's de- 
 lightful Essays is offered to the public. 
 
 Before these were collected and issued by the present 
 publishers — indeed, while they were in course of pub- 
 lication in the World — a great publishing house issued 
 a volume of Essays, by an author of high repute, bear- 
 ing the same title. Mr. Reed's publishers antici- 
 pated and advised him of the probable result of using 
 fur his book the title he had selected and used in 
 tiie columns of the World. But he had learned 
 to love the words " Among My Books," justly 
 thought them most appropriate to his work, and, 
 believing himself their proper owner, held firmly to 
 his own, yielding only to a suggestion to use the words 
 "World Essays" as an outer title, in the hope of 
 avoiding confusion. The result was as the pub- 
 lishers anticipated. His book, published without 
 the advantage of an author's name, and by a house 
 then little known in that section of the United States 
 which, after the war, could afford the luxury of books, 
 
IV 
 
 AD VERTISEMENT. 
 
 yet received (it is believed) as kindly and affectionate 
 a welcome, and as judicious commendation, as any 
 volume ever published in this country. But the laws 
 of trade are not readily broken. The praises lavished 
 upon Mr. Eeed's book mainly served to swell the sales 
 of the volume known to the Trade as "Among My 
 Books." Mr. Reed's book was bought, and read, and 
 cherished by a smaller circle of readers. 
 
 Hence the new name for the book, which the pub- 
 lishers take, in Mr. Reed's own words, from his chap- 
 ter of " Introduction." The few who have read these 
 Essays under their old title will be glad to own the 
 volume now issued, with its author's name and a brief 
 record of his life ; or will be amply repaid, if beguiled 
 into reading them again : while the many Avill now 
 have an opportunity to obtain the little volume they 
 vainly sought to possess in 1871, and have again 
 eagerly sought for, without success, in 1876, the book 
 having long since passed out of print. 
 
 In all other respects Mr. Reed's wojk is unchanged, 
 and, from title page to his farewell words, is reprinted 
 as it passed from his hands to the printer's. 
 
WILLIAM BRADFORD REED. 
 
 The first collected edition of these Essays by the late 
 "William B. Eeed, was published anonymously some 
 five years ago, under the title, " Among my Books." 
 They had been written from week to week, as the 
 humor took him, for the literary columns of the Neio 
 York World. Now that his death removes all reasons 
 for further privacy, the little volume is ascribed to 
 its author, and published under a title which better 
 serves to define its character than the title which Mr. 
 Lowell had also chosen for a volume of more labored 
 Essays, and to indicate the remarkable culture and 
 tenacity of mind of one who, at advanced years, and 
 during a period of disaster and mental suffering, could 
 so securely rely upon his mere 
 
 Memokies of Books. 
 
 William B. Reed was born on the 30th of June, 
 1806. He was the son of Joseph Reed, for thirty years 
 Recorder of Philadelphia, and grandson of General 
 Joseph Reed, a distinguished patriot of the Revolution. 
 
 Mr. Reed was graduated from the University of 
 Pennsylvania, in 1822, at the early age of 16. After 
 
 y 
 
vi MEMOIR. 
 
 two years of preliminary study lie was admitted to the 
 Bar in 1826, and later in the same year became Secre- 
 tary of the American Mission to the Congress of the 
 Spanish-American Eepublics at Panama. During the 
 few months before the Mission, and the two following 
 years which he spent in Mexico, he devoted liimself to 
 the study of Spanish, and became proficient in that 
 language. He returned, in 1827, to an active practice 
 of his profession, and soon afterward wrote a series of 
 Essays in the American Quarterly lieview, on the 
 country he had just left. When it is considered that 
 these were the first considerable literary efforts of a 
 young man of twenty-one, it will be conceded that they 
 exhibit an unusual precocity and great promise. He- 
 con tinned to be a contributor to the same Review dur- 
 ing the next ten years, writing in the leisure hours of a 
 busy professional life, upon a variety of subjects, but 
 chiefly those relating to American Revolutionary his- 
 tory, of which he had begun to be a diligent student. 
 In 1834 he was elected to the Lower House of the 
 Legislature from the old city of Philadelphia, and 
 served two years, having been re-elected in 1835. A 
 year later he was made Attorney Greneral of Pennsyl- 
 vania, the youngest man Avho ever held that position. 
 In 1841 he was elected a State Senator from the city 
 of Philadelphia, serving one session, at the end of which 
 he resigned. The same year, declining the Whig nom- 
 ination for Congress, he i-eturned to the practice of the 
 
MEMOIR. yii 
 
 law. In 1847 he was again offered tlie Attorney Gen- 
 eralship of the State by Governor JoHisrsTON", but de- 
 clined, and became the successful candidate for the 
 elective office of District Attorney of Philadelphia. 
 He held this position, with one re-election, for two 
 terms of three years each, declining a re-nomination 
 in 1856. 
 
 In the mean time, after years of careful reading, 
 compilation, and study, Mr. Eeed made his first essay 
 in authorship by publishing a life and correspondence 
 of his grandfather. General Joseph Reed, who was 
 WAsniisraTO^S"' s first secretary, a member of Congress, 
 and President of the Executive Council of Pennsyl- 
 vania. Chance had thrown into his hands an invaluable 
 collection of Eevolutionary papers, and with their aid, 
 supplemented by the thorough study he had made of 
 the subject, he was able to do the memory of his ances- 
 tor the fullest justice. He was afterwards opposed to 
 the historian Geokge Bancroft in a controversy con- 
 cerning various historical points nearly affecting the 
 reputation of General Eeed, and was successful in 
 his vindication. Mr. Eeed subsequently prepared a 
 memoir of his grandmother Esther DeBerdt, who 
 was an Englishwoman married to an American "rebel," 
 immediately before the outbreak of the Eevolution 
 and to whose energy in raising supplies for the im- 
 poverished Continental army, letters of Washington 
 and Lafayette still bear testimon v. This memoir was 
 
viii MEMOIR. 
 
 printed merely for private circulation ; but it has a 
 certain amount of general historical interest, as being 
 the letters of an intelligent woman to her family in 
 England during the darkest vicissitudes of our strug- 
 gle for independence. Thackeray made use of it, 
 in his search for details of domestic life at that epoch, 
 while Avriting " The Virginians." Mr. Keed made 
 many minor contributions to the literature of Eevolu- 
 tionary history. He was a prolific pamphleteer. In 
 1840, he delivered the oration at the re-interment of 
 General Hugh Mercer, and later, as a personal friend 
 of both of those distinguished historians, was deeply in- 
 terested in the controversy between Mr. Jaked Sparks 
 of Boston and the late Lord Stanhope [Mahon]. 
 
 In 1854, Mr. Reed and his family met with a mis- 
 fortune of which the circumstances are set forth in 
 the last of the following Essays. Professor Henry 
 Eeed and his sister-in-law Miss Bronson of Philadel- 
 phia, with some three hundred fellow passengers, were 
 lost at sea in the terrible disaster which befell the 
 steamship " Arctic," on her passage between Liverpool 
 and New York. After the tributes paid by one brother 
 to the memory of the other in this volume and else- 
 where, there remains little to be said. Henry Eeed 
 was Pi'ofessor of English Literature at the University 
 of Pennsylvania. Like his brother, he had been 
 educated to the bar, but, unlike him, he had left it for 
 a more congenial career. He was a "refined, gentle- 
 
MEMOIR. ix 
 
 man of letters/' to whose ability and unobtrusive 
 scholarship many distinguished names have borne 
 testimony. He was a friend of Wordsworth, of Dr. 
 Arnold, and of the Coleridges. His unpublished 
 lectures on English literature and history were edited 
 in 1855, with a prefatory notice by his elder brother, 
 which has been cited as a model of affectionate and 
 critical eulogy. 
 
 In 1857, Mr. Reed was appointed Minister to China 
 by President Buchanan, and this experience of his life 
 is among the most important of those whose threads 
 may be traced in these pages. The " Chapter on the 
 East," slight as it is, has a separate interest, as written 
 by a competent looker-on, from a position offering the 
 best facilities for observation. He was offered and 
 accepted the mission at a critical period, and his incum- 
 bency extended over one of the most important epochs 
 of the later history of the East. He sailed outward 
 bound on the man-of-war '"Minnesota," under the late 
 Admiral, then Captain, Dupont, and touching at Cape- 
 town, in September, 1857, found the garrison removed 
 to the scene of the Sepoy rebellion. On the home- 
 ward route, in January, 1859, he dined with Lord 
 Elphixstoxe, at Bombay, soon after the later rebels 
 had been blown from tlie guns. In China, the four 
 powers. Great Britain, Franco, Russia, and the United 
 States, were striving for commercial privileges and 
 admission into the empire ; two of them, England and 
 
X MEMOIR. 
 
 France, as belligerents, the others as easily disaffected 
 neutrals. The European powers were represented by 
 men of high rank and experience in diplomacy. Lord 
 Elgiivt, who made the famous march to Pekin in 1860, 
 and afterwards became Viceroy of India, was the Eng- 
 lish plenipotentiary ; Baron Gros and Count Poutia- 
 TiNE were the ambassadors of France and Eussia. The 
 first hostilities occurred in the Spring or early Summer 
 of 1858, at tlie Taku forts in the North of China, at 
 which Mr. Eeed was a spectator. The representatives 
 of the various powers afterwards advanced as far as 
 Teintsin, where they were met by the high Commis- 
 sioners of the emperor, with whom satisfactory treaties 
 were negotiated. The American treaty contained the 
 most favorable provisions. All of them held out the 
 prospective right of access to the capital, and addi- 
 tional commercial conventions were made, arranging 
 the tariff and securing indemnity to our citizens for 
 claims long deferred. This treaty and its pendants, 
 modified to iio appreciable extent by the supplement 
 of Mr. Burlinga:me, many years later, laid the foun- 
 dation of our commerce with the East, and still regu- 
 late our intercourse with China. Mr. Reed returned 
 by the overland route by way of India, the Red Sea 
 and Europe. Tliis was his third and last journey 
 abroad. Soon after reaching home, he wrote an article 
 iu the North Americati Review, on our diplomatic 
 service in the East, which attracted considerable 
 
MEMOIR. xi 
 
 attention. He subsequently received the degree of 
 Doctor of Laws from Harvard University. 
 
 He returned to find tlie country on the verge of 
 civil war, and himself identified with the unpopular 
 principles of his party. He attempted to resume his 
 interrupted profession, but it is enough to say that 
 during this period his lucrative practice deserted him. 
 It Avas after the close of the war that he became 
 associated with Chakles O'Ooi^or of New York, as 
 counsel for Jefferson" Davis, then a prisoner in 
 Fortress Monroe, but subsequently released on bail 
 and never brought to trial. 
 
 In 1864, Mr. Eeed privately printed a slight memo- 
 rial of Thackeray, tlien recently dead, whose friend- 
 ship he had long enjoyed and for whom he cherished 
 a profound admiration. This little monograph, 
 '^ Hmid Immenwr," was afterwards republished in 
 BlackwoocTs Magazine for June, 1873, and more re- 
 cently in the first volume of the Bric-a-Brae Series, 
 edited by Mr. R. H. Stoddard. These letters of 
 Thackeray have been quoted by Shirley Brooks as 
 the most charming of his printed relics. 
 
 In 1869, overcome by tlie disasters which beclouded 
 the last years of his life, Mr. Reed left Philadelphia 
 to reside in New York or its neighborhood. He 
 became a regular contributor to the metropolitan press, 
 writing chiefly for the New York World, in which 
 journal these Essays were first printed, and for other 
 
xii MEMOIR. 
 
 journals in Philadelphia, Baltimore, and "Washington. 
 He remained a vigorous literary worker until his death, 
 at the age of seventy, on the 18th of February, 1876. 
 
 This is a brief summary of the public and profes- 
 sional incidents of an active life, clouded, it may be, by 
 errors, but of whicli it can be truly said that the 
 penalties were more grave than the faults. From 
 early life Mr. Reed was deeply interested in politics, 
 and they were for him what they have been for so 
 many others, the rock upon which his prosperity was 
 shattered; but this part of his career does not come 
 within the province of a slight memoir like this. He 
 traveled far enough into the region of letters to give 
 the results an abstract interest of their own, apart 
 altogether from the work of his life. He was a man 
 of large intellectual force, and at times a hard student 
 without aspiring to become a profound scholar. His 
 reading was very wide and varied, as these Essays alone 
 may attest ; but in general literature he seldom 
 studied for a purpose, unless we are to except his 
 excursions in American history, witli which he became 
 perfectly conversant. In the leisure hours of his 
 laborious profession, books were his recreation, his 
 solace, and his delight, as in adversity they were his 
 refuge and his consolation. Literature only became his 
 profession late in life, and then dilettanteism was at 
 an end, and it was work for daily bread. It was then. 
 
MEMOIR. xiii 
 
 during the Winter of 1870-71, while out of reach of 
 books or references, that this " slight bundle of liter- 
 ary egotisms " was gathered up from the harvest floor 
 of a well stored mind. Of their quality, it is for others 
 to judge; of the way in which it was collected, and 
 of the varied experiences which added to the treasure, 
 a few words may be said. 
 
 Mr. Eeed was one of those old-fashioned students 
 who resorted to the Index Kerum and Common Place 
 Book. These, which accumulated with years, were 
 his constant companions to the end of his life. They 
 were, in a way, tables of contents of the facts which 
 were hidden away in his mind, and which in his old 
 age were held at their full value. This mechanical 
 process was used, not only for the acquisition of know- 
 ledge, but of the style which is now considered either 
 innate or out of reach. His note-book tells us that he 
 would master whole pages of the Spectator, and then 
 re-write them in Addisonian phrase, the result, as 
 he says, being " as much like Addisox as John Bun"- 
 YAiT." In his diary of the 18th of September, 1823, 
 we find that he " translated a large portion of the 
 oration 2'>i'0 Archid Poetd into English, and then back 
 into Latin." To this last method of attaining ease in 
 composition he attached the utmost importance. 
 
 Like John Quincy Adams, he wrote diaries to an 
 extent that has long gone out of fashion, although 
 they were not, as is so often the case, mere outlets for 
 
xiv MEMOIR. 
 
 feeble egotism. In his travels at different times he had 
 visited the most of Europe, tlie Cape of Good Hope, 
 China, India, Egypt, and Mexico, and he kept a simple 
 record of sights and events for his family at home. 
 These afterwards were invaluable to him for refer- 
 ence, and their use for recalling the dim memories of 
 familiar faces and places, as well as of books, may be 
 traced throughout these Essays, which, as he explained 
 in the preface to the first edition, pretend to nothing 
 new. They are the recollections pure and simple of 
 an old man, looking back over a life of activity and 
 hard work, and many of them are connected with pro- 
 minent men both here and abroad. In the days of his 
 prosperity, in fact up to the hour of his death, Mr. Reed 
 had the faculty of making friends, and among them were 
 some whom he wasjustly proud of calling by that title. 
 As has been said, he only adopted literature as a pro- 
 fession during the last six years of his life. Within 
 that time, he did an amount of work not often exceeded 
 by journalists of tlie longest training. He was a ready 
 and rapid writer, depending upon memory for his 
 library, and working con amore. He was never so con- 
 tent as when writing, or surrounded by the parapher- 
 nalia of literature. It became not only his staff of 
 life, but the intoxicating draught in which he drowned- 
 care and buried the past. His last written words 
 were in reference to a new work he did not live to see 
 begtin. But its motto at least was well chosen, being 
 
MEMOIR. XV 
 
 til's passage from Barkow, which appeared on the title 
 of the original edition of these Essays, viz : " He 
 that loveth a book will never want a faithful friend, a 
 wholesome counselor, a cheerful companion, an effec- 
 tual comforter. By study, by reading, by thinking, 
 one may innocently direct and pleasantly entertain 
 himself, as in all weathers, so in all fortunes." 
 
Among My Books. 
 
 IIk that loveth a book will never want a faithful friend, a wholesome coun- 
 sellor, a cheerful companion, an effectual comforter. By study, by reading, 
 by thinkinfT, one may innocently divert and pleasantly entertain himself, as 
 in all weathers, so iu all fortune«. — Barrow. 
 
 When this bundle of egotisms is bound up together, as they may be one 
 day, if no accident prevents this tongue from wagging, or this ink from 
 running, they will bore you, very likely ; so it would to read through " Howell's 
 Letters" from beginning to end. or to eat up the whole of a ham : but a slice 
 oa occasion may have a relish: a dip into the volume at random, and 
 60 on for a page uc two : and now and then a smile ; and presently a gape ; 
 and the book drops out of your hand ; and so, bon soir, and pleasant dreama 
 to you. — Thackeray. 
 
 NEW YORK: 
 E. J. HALE & SON, PUBLISHERS, 
 
 MURRAY STREET. 
 
 1876. 
 
Entered according to Act of Congress, in tlie year l«7' >>» 
 
 E. J. HALE & SON, 
 
 In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washmgtoo. 
 
to 
 
 yviy Young Dau 
 
 GHTER, 
 
 COMPANION OF THE LONELY HOURS WHEN 
 THESE ESSAYS WERE WRITTEN, 
 
 THIS VOLUME 
 
 13 AFFECTIONATELY INSCRIBED. 
 
CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Swift 12 
 
 bolingbroke 21 
 
 Clarendon 27 
 
 Junius 32 
 
 Quotation Books 40 
 
 Books of Travel 55 
 
 Memories of the East 66 
 
 The Prater Book 77 
 
 Autographs 90 
 
 William Cobbett 105 
 
 Blackstone 119 
 
 Sermons— Barrow to Manning 129 
 
 The Napiers 146 
 
 The Stuart Books 155 
 
 The Theatre 169 
 
 Novels— Defoe to Thackeray 182 
 
 Thackeray 199 
 
 Walter Scott 212 
 
 Lord Palmerston 225 
 
 American History 238 
 
 Henry Reed 256 
 
INTEODUCTIOK 
 
 These Essays were meant to be purely fugitive, and 
 the idea of their being collected in a volume never 
 entered the writer's mind till it was suggested and 
 kindly urged by those near and at a distance to whom 
 he was personally a stranger. In this form they need 
 a word of preface. The student will find in them 
 nothing new. All that they are designed to effect is to 
 freshen the dim memories of familiar books, and what- 
 ever merit they have is their success in doing this — no 
 more. It is a very slender bundle of literary egotisms. 
 They have accidentally the same title as one of Mr. 
 Lowell's productions; but while his volume relates 
 only to three or four books or writers, these memories 
 float round and grasp, in perhaps a feeble way, many 
 more. Such as they are, they are submitted diffi- 
 dently to the public judgment. The volume is too 
 slight to bear the burden of notes and authorities, 
 and they are as a general rule omitted. If errors are 
 detected, it should be borne in mind that it is the 
 memory rather than the contact with books these crit- 
 
INTRODUCTION. 
 
 icisms are meant to represent. It would be great 
 ingratitude were the expression of thanks to be 
 omitted to the Editor of the JVew York World, 
 through whose kindness these little essays found their 
 way to the public, and their author was encouraged 
 to continue theui. 
 
Among My Books. 
 
 WHEN" Southey, at the end of life, fell into mental 
 decay, he used to walk around his library, take book 
 after book from the shelves, look at the binding and 
 titles, and, without the ability to read, seem to com- 
 mune with them as with old friends on the edge of 
 separation. I am becoming an old man now, but I 
 hope not childish, and, looking at my books, the accu- 
 mulation of some forty years, the melancholy feeling 
 comes over me that we, before long, shall have to part. 
 Let me, then, with no parade of learning, jot down 
 some thoughts on these familiar volumes, not grouped 
 in regular or scientific order, and read with quite as 
 little method. In other words, without preface or 
 promise, my idea is to write my thoughts on books — 
 an American student's rambling notes on the prose 
 literature of his mother-tongue — and that student, not 
 a technical scholai*, but a professional man, who has 
 always had to work hard for a living, and now, when 
 life is nearly over, finds all that is left to him is the 
 memory of books. 
 
SWIFT. 
 
 What is the strange ftiscination of this most repul- 
 sive being, and, in the common sense of the word, 
 unattractive writer ? Eead his life, as told by him- 
 self and others, and you find nothing that can be 
 called winning, and yet Bolingbroke, and Harley, and 
 Pope, and Arbuthnot were fond of him, and Stella and 
 Vanessa loved him dearly. From the time when, as a 
 boy, I read Gulliver and believed it, till relatively late 
 in life, Swift was one of my postponed studies; and 
 yet so entangled did I at last become in the vague 
 fascination to which I have alluded, that, on reaching 
 Dublin, years ago, my first visit was to St. Patrick's 
 Cathedral to look at the Dean's " fearful bust," and as 
 fearful epitaph, the 
 
 " Ubi scEva indignatio, 
 Ulterius cor lacerare nequit," 
 
 and poor Stella's tombstone alongside; and, had I 
 known it then, should have gone to see the plaster cast 
 taken after death, which Sir Walter Scott describes as 
 at Trinity College — " with the unequivocally maniacal 
 expression of countenance, and the left side of the 
 mouth horribly contorted downward, as if convulsed 
 by pain." I was tempted to make a pilgrimage to 
 Laracor. Whv all this, in one who disavows admira 
 
SWIFT. 13 
 
 fcion of Swift, it is not easy to say. Must it not be the 
 influence of the bright association which shone around 
 him, and which is so charmingly illustrated in the 
 letters, rather to him, than from him ? As, when 
 Bolingbroke writes in 1730 : " Pope is now in the 
 library wath me, and writes to the world, to the present 
 and to future ages, while I begin this letter, which he 
 is to finish, to you." There is a note in Scott's Swift, 
 of Bowles, on this subject : " These letters of Boling- 
 broke, of Pope, and of Swift, which almost set us 
 among the very persons who wrote them, create a 
 melancholy interest. We hear of their acquaintances, 
 friends, pursuits, studies, as if we knew them; we see 
 the process of years and infirmities, and follow them 
 through the gradations from youth to age, from hope 
 to disappointment, and partake of their feelings, their 
 partialities, aversions, hopes, and sorrows, till all is 
 dust and silence." The centre, as Swift seems to have 
 been, of this circle of companionship, could not fail to 
 magnetize any one. 
 
 The most painful, hideous narrative is the "Journal 
 to Stella;" not so much in its nasty details (for, as 
 Mr. Thackeray says, "he was filthy in word, filthy in 
 thought, furious, raging, obscene"), as in the revela- 
 tions of the temper of the man, and the cruelty of 
 making them to a gentlewoman. His very conviviality 
 seems grim, and it is with a smile, rather at the Quaker 
 than the Dean that we read : " Called at Mr. Har- 
 ley's. The porter told me his master was just gone to 
 dinner with much company, and desired I would come 
 an hour hence, which I did, expecting to hear Mr. 
 Harley was gone out; but they had just done dinner. 
 
14 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 Mr. Harley came out to me, brought me in, and pre- 
 sented me to his son-in-law. Lord Dublane, and his 
 own son, and among others, to Will Penn, the Quaker; 
 and we sate two hours drinking as good wine as you 
 do ; and two hours he and I were alone." But night 
 and bedtime coming, then "I come home, rolling 
 resentment in my mind, and forming schemes of re- 
 venge, full of which, having written down some hints, 
 I go to bed." This was his court-life when he was a 
 Tory leader, managing rival statesmen and guiding 
 policy. Then it was, he laid his head upon a thorny 
 pillow, having dispatched, daily or weekly, packets of 
 nettles to sting poor Esther Johnson. This was in 
 1710, and, by way of contrast — though the sceva indig- 
 natio burns up there too — note what he was proud of, 
 twenty years later, in exile, and seclusion, and decay, 
 when Stella was dead, and he had no companion, a 
 deaf, remorseful, proud old man, "the lonely eagle 
 chained behind the bars." What he was then proud 
 of, this letter tells : " My popularity," he writes to 
 Pope, in 1730, "is wholly confined to the common 
 people, who are more constant than those we miscall 
 their betters. I Avalk the streets, and so do my lower 
 friends, from whom, and from whom alone, I have a 
 thousand hats and blessings upon old scores, which 
 those we call the gentry have forgot. But I have not 
 the love, or hardly the civility, of any one man in 
 power or station, and I can boast that I neither visit 
 nor am acquainted with any 'lord temporal or spiritual' 
 in the whole kingdom." It is on this letter that Dr. 
 Warton has the following note: "We see in it the steps 
 by which this great genius sank into discontent, into 
 
SWIFT. 15 
 
 peevishness, into indignity (sic), into torpor, into iur 
 sanity." It may show discontent and peevishness, but 
 surely there are no signs of torpor. The last fall of 
 intellect was very sudden, for the best, the clearest, 
 tlie most agreeable of all Swift's letters are those after 
 1736, when he was complaining of a " total want of 
 memory." It was not when at home in Ireland, with 
 the common people taking oflF their hats to him as 
 they passed, but in London, within the bright radiance 
 of Queen Anne's court, that he used to have the third 
 chapter of Job read to him on his birthday, and think 
 of " the kings and counsellors of the land which build 
 desolate places for themselves." 
 
 If a student, led by a stray impulse, will read Swift's 
 life and writings from an American point of view, he 
 will find not a little of peculiar interest. His biogra- 
 pher says, though the authority is not given, that 
 about the year 1707, when Swift was a Whig and a 
 friend of Addison and Lord Somers, it was proposed 
 he should accompany Governor Hunter to America, 
 and be consecrated "Bishop of Virginia." Now, had 
 Swift, with his turbulent spirit, come to these colonies, 
 what a course might his have been, and how different 
 his fame, had the eloquence which was in him been 
 evoked on this stage — a nation, not a party, to applaud 
 the swelling act — instead of the narrow one of Dublin 
 politics ; but the offer of such a mitred exile was too 
 closely kin to insult to be submitted to. If made, it 
 Avas, no doubt, contemptuously declined; and it is 
 curious to see what he and others of his day (the 
 golden age of English literature) thought of us Ameri- 
 cans, and, as we may infer, of such a diocese. Vindi- 
 
16 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 eating the people of Ireland from some metropolitan 
 grievance, he breaks out, as if unable to control the 
 insolence of his spirit, and the utter scorn with which 
 an Englishman of those days looked down upon us : 
 " It is clear that some Ministers are apt to look from 
 their high elevation on this kingdom of Ireland as if it 
 were only one of our colonies of outcasts in America." 
 Thus spoke the Irish ecclesiastic of those days, reflect- 
 ing the popular sentiment of the times ; and may not 
 the American student find something, even here, worthy 
 of a moment's complacent meditation ? In little over 
 a century from the time these words of scorn were 
 uttered by one of England's wisest men, an American 
 frigate, chartered by the charity of these very outcasts, 
 lay at anchor in the Cove of Cork, dispensing bounty 
 to save Ireland from starvation, and the royal standard 
 of a Queen ten times more powerful and a thousand 
 times more queenlike than Queen Anne, gracefully 
 and gratefully saluted American grain-ships hasten- 
 ing through the Irish Channel on an errand of mercy 
 to her subjects.* 
 
 Scorning, or unable, to secure an American mitre, 
 thwarted by the antipathy of the Queen, who never 
 forgave " The Tale of a Tub," Swift took refuge in 
 an Irish deanery ; and then it was, that, thrust in exile 
 among a people he detested, he wrote the political 
 works which have immortalized his name. He wrote 
 the " Drapier's Letters," to arouse Ireland, not merely 
 against Wood's half-pence, but their principle; against 
 
 * A graceful account of this charity will be found in Miss Seaton'« 
 charming " Biographical Sketch" of her father, recently issued. 
 
SWIFT. 17 
 
 oppression which legislated for her without her con- 
 sent; taxed her, cut off her manufactures, restricted 
 her commerce, screwed tighter that great engine of 
 imperial tyranny, the Navigation act ; in short (and 
 this is the application), did everything to Ireland 
 which, forty years later, made the American Eevolu- 
 tion. If ever history suggests a prototype, here it is ; 
 the chief difference being, that Sir Eobert Walpole was 
 "wiser than George Grenville, and Ireland, not America. 
 The student, reading Swift's almost forgotten vol- 
 umes in an American spirit, will realize all this; and 
 here, in the dark perplexity of Irish politics, from 
 which, then and now, every one shrinks, will be found 
 a germ of the mighty struggle which created this 
 republic. The statutes which, for years, oppressed 
 America, and which, quite as much as the speculative 
 question of taxation, led to the overthrow of imperial 
 power here, were resisted in Ireland. The machinery 
 of resistance too — non-importation, and non-consump- 
 tion — was the same. Some of Swift's very phrases, 
 their origin probably not traced, became current coin 
 of American declamation, and were habitually used 
 by the pamphleteers of 1775. The common one of 
 *' uniting as one man" is in the "Drapier's Letters;" 
 and there, too, the student will find other sentences 
 and phrases of captivating power, with the ring of 
 those which, a few years later, were uttered in Car- 
 penter's Hall and the court-house of Williamsburg in 
 defiance of the same imperial and imperious authority. 
 It sounds very much like American rebellion to hear 
 Swift say to Ireland : " The remedy is wholly in your 
 hands, and therefore I have digressed a little in order 
 
18 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 to refresh and continue that spirit among you, and to 
 let you see, that, by the laws of God, of nations, of 
 nature, and of your country, you are and ought to be 
 as free as your brethren of England." Or again, when, 
 rising to a higher pitch of masculine downright elo- 
 quence, his agitated spirit goaded to look toward 
 these " colonies of outcasts" as the place of freedom's 
 refuge, he says : " For my own part, who am but oi:;e 
 man, of obscure condition, I do solemnly declare, in 
 the presence of Almighty God, that I will suffer the 
 most ignominious and torturing death rather than 
 submit to receive this accursed coin, or any other that 
 shall be liable to the same objection, until they shall 
 be forced on me by a law of my own country. If that 
 shall ever happen, I will transport myself into some 
 foreign land and eat the bread of poverty among a 
 free people." There was something very like " Brother 
 Jonathan" in the tone of these remonstrances, and yet 
 the courtly writer who has described these wrongs and 
 their redress, who sees in England's commercial treat- 
 ment of Ireland " nothing but a short-sighted mer- 
 cantile policy, alike impolitic and cruel, more worthy 
 the monopolizing corporation of a peddling borough 
 than the enlightened Senate of a free people," never 
 recognized in it the foreshadow of the kindred blun- 
 dering which aroused American rebellion, and made 
 the American Eevolution. At the time, too, few or 
 none of those reputed wise, saw the progress of colonial 
 misgovernment and abuse of metropolitan authority. 
 
 But there was an observant eye that noted what was 
 happening ; for, at the very period when Swift was 
 hurling defiance in the face of Walpole and his col- 
 
SWIFT. 19 
 
 leagues, and vindicating the wrongs of his provincial 
 countrymen against parliamentary oppression, there 
 was a poor American printer, lodging in a by-street 
 of London, who was watching the struggle closely, 
 and no doubt laying up, in a mind which grasped and 
 retained everything, the Dean's lessons of resistance 
 for future use in a distant land. During the time 
 when Swift was publishing the "Drapier's Letters" 
 and other pamphlets in defense of Ireland, Doctor 
 Franklin was, on his first visit to England, a vigilant 
 and reflective watcher of the scene before him, and 
 then it Avas that one of those odd incidents of variety 
 occurred which mark his sing^^lar career and brought 
 him in contact with one of the Drapier's nearest 
 friends. 
 
 "One of these days," says Franklin, "I was, to my 
 surprise, sent for by a great man, I knew only by 
 name. Sir William Wyndham" (all remember him as 
 the Tory leader of his day, the friend of Bolingbroke, 
 and patron of Swift), " and I waited upon liim. He had 
 heard, by some means or other, of my swimming from 
 Chelsea to Blackfriars, and of my teaching a young 
 man to swim in a few hours. He had two sons about 
 to set out on their travels, and he wished to have them 
 first taught swimming, and proposed to gratify me 
 handsomely if I would teach them. They were not 
 yet come to town, and my stay was uncertain, so I 
 could not undertake it. But from this incident I 
 think it likely that if I were to remain in England 
 and open a swimming school, I might get a great deal 
 ot money." 
 
 When Franklin next returned to England, Swift's 
 
20 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 career was run; Wyndham and Bolingbroke were 
 dead ; one of the boys whom Franklin had refused to 
 teach to swim was Earl of Egremont, and had suc- 
 ceeded Mr. Pitt as Minister of the Crown ; and the 
 muttering of a greater rebellion than Ireland had ever 
 dreamed of, was audible on this side of the Atlantic. 
 
BOLINCtBROKE. 
 
 Every student, old or young, has had his spasm of 
 infidelity — a time, long or short, when he thought it 
 a manly thing to be a skeptic. Mine, very long ago, 
 was a slight attack, and I then read, and have now 
 forgotten. Lord Bolingbroke's " Essay, or Letters, on 
 History," which contains the distillation of his doubts. 
 The Bible my father used to read to us — the Bible 
 History (it was a certain dull one by Kempton or 
 Kimpton) ; the homely engravings of Eoyaumont, 
 which, especially one of the luckless man with a huge 
 ligneous beam protruding from his eye, won the won- 
 der of my childhood ; the catechism which my dear 
 mother taught to me — these were my guardian influ- 
 ences. There were legends of religion in the nurseries 
 of those days, and in them, for me at least, there really 
 "lurked a deeper import" than lay on the surface of 
 truths learned later. In one of the skeptical books of 
 this day, the sentimental diflBculty of infidelity is hon- 
 estly stated : " II faut etre bieu stir de soi," says M. 
 Eenan ; "pour ne point se troubler, quand les femmes 
 et les enfants joignent leur mains pour vous dire ; 
 ' croyez, comme nous.' " M. Ren an and his followers, 
 and Hegel with his " Almighty Nothing," now poison- 
 ing the minds of a large and amiable school in this 
 country, and Theodore Parker, and Comte, at whose 
 door, to my personal knowledge, lies ono sad suicide, 
 
22 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 the wreck of a brilliant American intellect — all these, 
 no donbt, feel lofty scorn for the women's and the 
 children's prayer, and say they are very sure of them- 
 selves. But in their inner hearts they are not so con- 
 fident as was John Wesley when he said (Avhere it is 
 recorded I cannot say) : " When I Avas young I was 
 sure of everything. In a few years, having been mis- 
 taken a thousand times, I was not half so sure of most 
 things as before. Now that I am an old man, I am 
 hardly sure of anything hut ivliat God has revealed to 
 me." It has been said of Bolingbroke, to whom my 
 rambling pen returns, that if a reader wishes to test 
 the value of any of his opinions he must inquire 
 whether he is thinking of Christianity or Sir Eobert 
 Walpole, for as to them he cannot be trusted, and my 
 notes do not take me in the direction of either. 
 
 I now read Bolingbroke's political and strictly mis- 
 cellaneous writings, not only without prejudice, but 
 with an enthusiasm as to their literary merit which it 
 is not easy to express. Better critics have been equally 
 enthusiastic. " Until I read Bolingbroke," says Lord 
 Chesterfield, " I did not know the extent and power of 
 the English language." " I would have you," he writes 
 to his son in 1751, " read his works over and over 
 again. Transcribe, imitate, emulate if possible. It 
 will be of real use to yoiT in the House of Commons." 
 His style seems to me the perfection of eloquence; 
 and there is a critical theory on Bolingbroke's diction, 
 hinted at by Chesterfield, which is not without signifi- 
 cance in accounting for the natural, apparently unar- 
 tistic, flow which characterizes it. A recent biographer, 
 Mr. Macknight, says, speaking of the lost speeches for 
 
BOLINQBBOKE. 23 
 
 which Pitt mourned : " Far more than almost any 
 other man that ever wrote, St. John's literary works 
 resemble spoken eloquence. They are clearly the com- 
 position of an orator who, being prevented from ad- 
 dressing an audience by word of mouth, uses the pen 
 as his instrument, and writes what he would have 
 spoken. To make this resemblance, or rather identity, 
 complete, we know that Bolingbroke disliked the 
 mechanical drudgery of writing ; that he could not 
 bear to sit down with a paper before him and the pen 
 in his hand to develope his ideas ; that it was his cus- 
 tom to employ an amanuensis, and to dictate many of 
 his literary productions. This habit was evidently 
 formed in the House of Commons ; and having learned 
 to make speeches before he was obliged to confine 
 himself to writing essays, the author was merely a 
 transcript of the orator. His compositions, when ex- 
 amined, fully confirm this idea. Their style is, both 
 in its excellencies and defects, thoroughly oratorical ; 
 glowing, animated, and vehement, and, if never bom- 
 bastic, frequently declamatory, tautological, and diffuse. 
 Graceful and flowing as Bolingbroke in the best of his 
 writings is, he not unfrequently tires the reader with 
 repetitions and amplifications to which, when set off 
 by his fine person and pleasing intonations, an audi- 
 ence might always listen with interest and delight. 
 Any one who will give himself up to the spirit of the 
 * Letter to Sir William Wyndham,' or the ' Disserta- 
 tion on Parties,' can scarcely fail to form a vivid idea 
 of what St. John's oratory was in the House of Com- 
 mons. When he wrote, he was addressing an imaginary 
 audience, exciting imaginary cheers, and frequently 
 
24 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 defying and assailing a hated rival, who was not at all 
 imaginary; but, whether in youth or age, — while St. 
 John, speaking in the House of Commons, or, as 
 Viscount Bolingbroke, composing the letters to the 
 Craftsman, — still the same unconquered and uncon- 
 querable foe." 
 
 We read that, long ago, Cicero wrote at least parts 
 of his Philippics as a pamphlet oration, and one can 
 easily imagine the " Letter to Wyndham" to be a 
 written speech. It is Bolingbroke's " Apologia pro 
 Vitd Sua''' (its venial egotism, frank confession, and 
 fierce inculpation, not unlike the theological apology 
 of our day), and in it we have the peculiar beauty of 
 his rhetoric in all its force. See how, from time to 
 time, he turns on Harley, and how proudly conscious 
 he is of his own superiority as a parliamentary cham- 
 pion. One is reminded of the octogenarian of our own 
 day, not long gone to his rest, in the passage where he 
 says : " In the House of Commons his [Oxford's] 
 credit was low, and my reputation very high. You 
 know the nature of that assembly; they grow, like 
 hounds, fond of the man who shows them game, and 
 by whose halloo they are used to be encouraged." 
 
 Every Bolingbroke student has fresh in his memory 
 the celebrated description of the Pretender's court, 
 where, as Lord Stair said in his rough, familiar way, 
 "poor Harry could not play his part with a grave 
 enough face; he could not help laughing at such 
 kings and queens." " Care and hope," writes Boling- 
 broke, "sate on every busy Irish face. Those who 
 could write and read, had letters to show, and those 
 who had not arrived at this pitch of erudition, had 
 
BOLINGBROEE. 25 
 
 their secrets to whisper. No sex was secluded from 
 this ministry. Fanny Ogletliorpe, whom you have 
 seen in England, kept her corner in it, and Olive 
 Trant was the great wheel of the machine." Then, 
 too, the description of his last interview with the 
 Pretender, which, using it elsewhere, I refrain from 
 quoting here. 
 
 There is a word of justice which Bolingbroke's biog- 
 raphy, and especially his letters to Swift and Lord 
 Marchmont, prompt. He has hardly had fair play. 
 History and biography, till very lately, have been per- 
 sistently AVhig, and when a Tory, or prerogative man, 
 like Dr. Johnson, undertook to talk of Bolingbroke, 
 party sympathies were acidulated by theological re- 
 sentments. (I am actually catching the Doctor's 
 style.) St. John's " fell spirit" and Mallet's " blunder- 
 buss" survive when amiable and gentle traits are 
 forgotten. Yet he was attractive, wonderfully so, per- 
 sonally, socially, intellectually. Men were his devoted 
 friends; though by a strange incongruity, while Stella 
 and Vanessa were in love, desperately so, with SAvift, 
 Bolingbroke seems to boast of no woman's deep affec- 
 tions, unless it be in his wreck, the pupil of St. Cyr, 
 on whose dying bed he flung himself in an agony of 
 honest grief and begged forgiveness, and who, in her 
 strange French way, once told him, when he was 
 boasting of former gallantries, that he reminded her 
 of an " ancient aqueduct, a noble ruin, in which no 
 water flowed." She clung to tlie ruin to the end; and 
 among the few agreeable things to be noted in Lord 
 Marchmont's diary, — that dreary record of an old poli- 
 tician's restlessness, — is the frequent and affectionate 
 
 3 
 
26 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 reference to his wife. The critical scholar observes in 
 some of Bolingbroke's later letters the influence of his 
 French wife and French residence and association on 
 his diction, in such words as "coalited" and "volupty." 
 But the main web is glorious, magnificent English; 
 and if there be too stately a step for our ambling 
 times, and grander phrases than now we use, we should 
 remember that 
 
 " Words have their proper places, just like men. 
 We listen to, not venture to reprove. 
 Large language, sweUing under gilded domes 
 Byzantine, Syrian, Persepolitan."* 
 
 * Walter Savage Landor. 
 
CLARENDON, 
 
 Let me break the continuity of time, and turn 
 back to another century. Clarendon is not a prime 
 favourite with any one, and why, it is hard to say; but 
 he is Avearisome, and neither the " Rebellion" nor the 
 "Autobiography" interest actively. Yet there are on 
 his pages grand specimens of noble diction. " Noblesse 
 oblige" seems to guide his pen. My " Rebellion" is an 
 illustrated edition, and from its pages look those won- 
 derful faces which the greatest of portrait painters 
 has made immortal. Vandyke was needed to illumi- 
 nate this stately record. There is Lord Herbert, with 
 a charming, loveable face; and Denbigh, Rupert's 
 lieutenant, with the turbaned negro page at his side ; 
 and Falkland, looking exactly as Clarendon describes 
 him: "his natural cheerfulness and vivacity clouded, 
 and a kind of sadness and dejection of spirit stealing 
 over him;" and NeAvcastle, "a fine gentleman, active, 
 and full of courage, amorous in poetry and music," 
 with a face for a woman to fall in love with, and a 
 beautiful white hand with long tapering fingers — 
 badge of a cavalier; and Prince Rupert, and "the 
 Great Marquis ;" and a wonderful one of Laud. What 
 a great thing it was for the cavaliers that Vandyke 
 was at hand to paint them ! No one can open these 
 volumes without feeling that he is among noble men. 
 But to the book. 
 
28 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 What a wild dark picture is that of the unfurling 
 of the royal standard at Nottingham: "According to 
 the proclamation, upon the twenty-fifth day of August" 
 (Clarendon does not disfigure such a passage with 
 Arabic numerals), "the standard was erected about 
 six of the clock in the evening of a very stormy and 
 tempestuous day. The king himself, with a small 
 train, rode to the top of the Castle hill ; Varney, the 
 knight marshal, who was standard-bearer, carrying 
 the standard, which was then erected in that place, 
 with little other ceremony than the sound of drums 
 and trumpets. Melancholy men observed many ill 
 presages about that time. There was not one regi- 
 ment of foot yet levied and brought thither, so that 
 the trained bands which the sheriff" had drawn together 
 was all the strength the king had for his person and 
 the guard of the standard. There appeared no conflux 
 of men in obedience to the proclamation ; the arms 
 and ammunition were not yet come from York ; and 
 a general sadness covered the whole town, and the 
 king himself appeared more melancholic than he used 
 to be. The standard itself was blown down, the same 
 night it had been set up, by a very strong and unruly 
 wind, and could not be fixed again in a day or two till 
 the tempest was allayed. This was the melancholy 
 state of the king's affairs when the standard was set 
 up." 
 
 Why, in the dreary days of ours, now happily over, 
 one is struck with the following passage, the reader 
 may guess when he thinks what great lawyers and 
 judges in times of political excitement have held to be 
 " law." Speaking of ship money and the decision of 
 
CLARENDON. 29 
 
 the Court of Exchequer in its favour, the high pre- 
 rogative Clarendon says: 
 
 "When ship money was transacted at the council 
 board, they looked upon it as the work of the power 
 they were obliged to trust. Imminent necessity and 
 public safety were convincing persuasions; and it 
 might not seem of apparent ill consequence that, upon 
 an emergent occasion, the regal power should fill up 
 an hiatus or supply an impotency in the law. But 
 when they saw in a court of law (that law which gave 
 them title and possession of all they had) apothegms 
 of state urged as elements of law; judges as sharp- 
 sighted as secretaries of state and in the mysteries of 
 state; judgment of law grounded upon matter of fact, 
 of which there was neither inquiry nor proof, and no 
 reason given for the payment of the thirty shillings in 
 question, but what concluded the estates of all the 
 standers-by, they had no reason to hope that such 
 doctrine, or the preachers of it, would be contained 
 within any bounds; and it was no wonder that they 
 who had so little reason to be pleased with their own 
 condition were not less solicitous for or apprehensive 
 of the inconveniences that might attend any alter- 
 ation." 
 
 One thinks of warfare nearer home, and its victims 
 on all sides, in reading Clarendon's account of the 
 battle of Newbury, where Falkland fell — "a person of 
 that inimitable sweetness aiid delight in conversation, 
 of 60 flowing and obliging humanity and goodness to 
 mankind, and of that primitive simplicity and integ- 
 rity of life, that, if there were no other brand upon 
 this odious and accursed civil war than that single 
 
30 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 loss, it must be most infamous and execrable to all 
 posterity." When, too, Carnarvon died — accidentally 
 killed, like the brave Southern chieftain (we may so 
 speak of him now, methinks), who fell at Chancellors- 
 ville: "After the troubles began," says Clarendon — 
 and here the parallel we hint at runs closely — " hav- 
 ing command of the first and second regiments of 
 horse that were raised for the service, he wholly gave 
 himself up to the office and duty of a soldier — no man 
 more diligently obeying or more dexterously command- 
 ing — for he was not only of a very keen courage in 
 exposing his person, but an excellent discerner and 
 pursuer of advantage of his enemy, and he had a mind 
 and understanding very present in the article of danger, 
 which is a rare benefit in that profession. If he had lived 
 he would have proved a great ornament, and by his 
 death the king found a sensible weakness in his army." 
 It is of the slaughter at Newbury that Clarendon says, 
 with pardonable sympathy for his order, and sorrow, 
 somewhat harshly expressed, for the noble blood then 
 spilled : " On which side soever the marks and public 
 ensigns of victory appeared most conspicuous, certain 
 it is that, according to the unequal fate which attends 
 the conflicts of such adversaries, the loss on the king's 
 side was, in weight, much more considerable and pene- 
 trating; for, whilst some obscure, unheard of colonel 
 or officer was missing on one side, and some citizen's 
 wife bewailed the loss of her husband, there were, on 
 the other, above twenty officers of the field and per- 
 sons of honour and public name slain upon the place, 
 and many more of the same quality hurt." 
 
 These are sad notes, for Clarendon is in every sense a 
 
CLARENDON. 31 
 
 grave book. But once only do I recall any approach 
 even to involuntary levity or cheerfulness, and that is 
 in the solemn narrative of the mistake of Lord Port- 
 land, which is spread over several pages and is too long 
 to be copied, when the slip of paper was handed to him 
 on which was Avritten, "Kemember Csesar" — meaning 
 a promise to Sir Julius Caesar, a baronet of that odd 
 name, but was mistaken for a threat of assassination. 
 More than a hundred years afterward, Horace Walpole 
 referred to it in a letter to General Conway: "We 
 want the French," says he, "to put a little vivacity 
 into us. The Duke of Newcastle has expected them 
 every hour ; he was terribly alarmed t'other night ; on 
 his table he found a mysterious card with only these 
 words — ' Charles is very well and is expected in Eng- 
 land every day.' It was plainly some secret friend that 
 advertised him of the Pretender's approaching arrival. 
 He called up all his servants, ransacked the whole 
 house to know who had been in his dressing-room, and 
 at last it came out to be an answer from the Duchess 
 of Queensbury to the Duchess of Newcastle about 
 Lord Charles Douglas coming home. Don't this put 
 you in mind of my Lord Treasurer Portland in Claren- 
 don — ' Eemember Caesar ?' " 
 
JUNIUS. 
 
 Mt "Junius" is an edition in two octayo yolumes 
 (such a book is never printed now-a-days), by " Beasley, 
 for Vernon and Hood, 1799." It is on iine, satin 
 paper, illustrated by steel engravings of life-like por- 
 traits, such as Sir Joshua and Gainsborough, Eng- 
 land's only painters of the past, drew, and which, in 
 spite of wigs, then near their end (for the wig of Sir 
 Joshua is as naught to Kneller's), put the men of the 
 last century vividly before us. There is Charles Fox, 
 coarse and hirsute, exactly the animal man he was, 
 during his whole active life, and never tranquil till, 
 having married his mistress, and in spite of the king 
 become prime-minister, he went to St. Anne's Hill to 
 read Horace, to have Crabbe read to him, and to die. 
 There is another face, not in "Junius," for desultory 
 notes invite digression, which art has preserved, closely 
 associated with Fox. Get it, reader, if you can, and 
 worship at the feet of beauty. It is by Sir Joshua, 
 too, and will be found in one of the volumes of Selwyn 
 — Sarah Lennox, the loveliest woman, except the Gun- 
 nings, of a century ago ; in youth all that was gay and 
 frivolous, in age, the sainted, blind mother of the 
 Napiers. It was through her that the wonderful tri- 
 umvirate of heroes — England's true Paladins — in- 
 herited the blood of Charles the Second and Henry of 
 
JUNIUS. 33 
 
 Navarre. The hideous Fox and the lovely Lady 
 Sarah are associated in the stale chronicles of obsolete 
 English scandal, and hence, perhaps, I think of them 
 together. Besides Mr. Fox, there is, in my " Junius," 
 the portrait of that most genial of England's public 
 men, whom we Americans are taught to disparage, 
 Lord North, and Burke, with his essentially vulgar 
 Celtic physiognomy, and the Duke of Bedford, and Sir 
 William Draper (who once lived in Philadelphia), 
 and Lord Granby, fat and florid, in a cuirass, and Mans- 
 field and Blackstone, and George Grenville's stony face, 
 looking the man of mere routine he was, of whom 
 some one said that if he were to faint, the smell of an 
 act of parliament would revive him ; and then, on the 
 frontispiece, is a tall, graceful form, with the ribbon of 
 the Order of the Bath or Garter, and a cloud hiding 
 his face, and " Stat Nominis Umbra" written beneath. 
 In 1799 no one seriously suspected who "Junius" was. 
 In 1870 no one positively knows. 
 
 The student of English letters cannot shut his ears 
 to the question, " Who was 'Junius ?'" and many have 
 thought there never was a more profitless question 
 agitated. " There is better writing in the Times of 
 to-day, when in an angry mood," the late Sir Robert 
 Peel said, " than there is anywhere in Junius." This 
 is all very well ; but the letters we still read and 
 admire and wonder at ; and there is no demonstration 
 of the authorj although more than a century has rolled 
 by since "Junius" as such appeared. He was a short- 
 lived writer, beginning in 1769 and breathing his last 
 in 1772. They were busy years for him. 
 
 Young men are apt to read "Junius," for the worst 
 2* 
 
34 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 of reasons, and, nine times out of ten, with the worst of 
 fruits. His style is inimitable, and yet it is imitated. 
 His morals, as a dark, anonymous defamer, were atro- 
 cious, and yet the evil example has been largely and 
 mischievously influential. The only safe rule of con- 
 duct that any writer, old or young, can lay down, is, 
 never to write a word for which he is not willing to be 
 responsible, or a line, to which, if need be, he would 
 hesitate to sign his name ; yet this is the very rule 
 which "Junius" defied. He was proud of being a 
 stabber in the dark, and his was the penalty of carrying 
 a perilous secret through a long and troubled life, and 
 being unable to let it be known after his death for fear 
 of dishonour to his memory. Anonymous writing is 
 not what I condemn, for if cond'emned, it would be 
 the death of the true freedom of the press, and an 
 assimilation to what is seen in France, and recently, as 
 it seems to me most grotesquely, in some periodicals 
 nearer home. But one need not be irresponsible 
 because anonymous. It is Cobbett, who, somewhere, 
 strongly says, that " every man who writes a word oi 
 sentence on a sheet of paper ought to remember he ia 
 doing what may live forever;" and, in my poor judg- 
 ment, no honourable man should write a word for 
 which he is not willing to answer. 
 
 We live, in 1870, with a grand-daughter of George 
 III., still a titled sovereign on her secure throne, with 
 a ministry like his, and a peerage and a parliament 
 (albeit reformed), and a church, as Landor said of its 
 Liturgy, "The sanctuary of our faith and our lan- 
 guage ;" stronger, I, for one, earnestly trust, and purer, 
 I know, than when Lord Chancellor Thurlow, in his 
 
JUNIUS. 35 
 
 enthusiasm for Horsely, said: "I'll be d d if I 
 
 don't make this fellow a bishop ! " " Junius" wrote 
 his letter to the king, as near as may be, a century ago 
 — the date being 19th December, 1769 — and to measure 
 its merit, which is its boldness, one need hardly carry 
 himself back to those prerogative times when, by-the- 
 bye, no jury would convict of anything but "printing 
 and publishing only." Mr. Burke, at that day no great 
 lover of royalty, for it was before the sorrows of kings 
 and queens had affected him, said " it made his blood 
 run cold;" and reading it now, and looking to the 
 conventionalisms of English society, I am by no means 
 sure that such a letter written to Queen Victoria would 
 not make Mr. Gladstone's flesh creep (of course, Mr. 
 D'Israeli's would) and quicken the sluggish circula- 
 tion of John Bright. Strange, but true, is it, to my 
 personal knowledge, that Thackeray's social status in 
 England was injuriously affected by .his Lectures on 
 the dead Georges, although he said nothing but what 
 history recognizes. Divinity still hedges royalty. 
 *■ The letter to the King is a wonderful specimen of 
 the author's power. I read it years ago, with a boy's 
 admiration of its stilted and impressive rhetoric. I 
 read it now with positive Avonder at its impudence and 
 the venomous, deadly satire which bristles in every 
 line. It is not Pascal, who, though bitter in his irony 
 at the Jesuits, is often gentle. It is not Gibbon, with 
 his easy-going sneer at all that is modest, and good, 
 and devout. It is not Burke's sonorous denunciation 
 of "a noble lord." It is more acrid than them all. 
 The venom of his phrases is compacted with a sort of 
 doubting panegyric; and the barb goes home and 
 
36 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 rankles. There must have been a wretched night at 
 Kew when George read and explained to Charlotte, or 
 worse still (I really forget if he was married then), to 
 his mother, the Princess Dowager, the withering sneers 
 at the Scotch, Lord Bute, and himself, their victim. 
 " You have still an honourable part to act. Tlie aflFec- 
 tions of your subjects may still be recovered. Lay 
 aside the wretched formalities of a king, and speak 
 with the spirit of a man and in the language of a gentle- 
 man." There is something terrific in his threat to the 
 young king of the defection of his army. Eemember, 
 reader, the times when these words were written, and 
 cease to wonder that Woodfall was indicted for libel : 
 "Your distant troops and marching regiments feel 
 and resent, as they ought to do, the invariable, undis- 
 tinguishing favour with which your guards are treated, 
 while those gallant troops by whom every hazardous, 
 every labourious service is performed, are left to perish 
 in garrisons abroad, or pine in quarters at home, neg- 
 lected and forgotten. If they had no sense of the 
 great original duty they owe their country, their re- 
 sentment would operate like patriotism, and have good 
 cause to be defended by those to whom you have 
 lavished the rewards and honours of their profession. 
 The Praetorian guards, enervated and debauched as 
 they were, had still strength enough to awe the Eoman 
 populace, but when the distant legions took the alarm 
 they marched to Eome and gave away the empire." 
 If a libel be criminal because it tends to a breach of 
 the peace, surely this was libellous, and Lord Mans- 
 field Avas not far wrong in thinking so. 
 
 My notes do not lead me into the tangled field of 
 
JUNIUS. 37 
 
 inquiry, where all sorts of weeds and briers grow, as to 
 who "Junius" was. It may go into the category of 
 the Eikon Basilike and the Iron Mask ; for one had 
 better, as I do, accept the Franciscan theory on the 
 authority of those who have studied the question on 
 the spot, such as Lord Stanhope, and Sir James Mack- 
 intosh, and Macaulay, and concede Sir Philip to be 
 the man. But there is one belief, or conviction, or 
 suspicion, which tinges this and every theory, that 
 Lord Chatham, who retired to Hayes mysteriously, 
 and thence emerged coincidently with the beginning 
 and end of "Junius," had something to do with it. 
 One man can keep a dangerous secret. But if there 
 be in a secret common danger to two, two can keep it 
 quite as well. 
 
 If it were Francis, and I concede him to be the 
 active agent, what a moral does his career, as affected 
 by this secret, enforce ! What a warning is here given ! 
 He was but twenty-seven when, under other signa- 
 tures than "Junius," he began to write anonymously. 
 He was twenty-nine when "Junius" began, and but 
 thirty-three when it ceased, and a new career of suc- 
 cess opened to him. All was comprised within the 
 narrow limits of less than five years, and yet in a life 
 of nearly fourscore, for he lived till 1818, with varied 
 honours and successes, the secret doings of those five 
 years were the heavy weight which bent his fierce 
 spirit down. "The work of these years," says Mr. 
 Merivale, " was a burden on him for more than fifty." 
 It haunted him in public and private. It stood be- 
 hind his chair at the dinner-table, and the skeleton, 
 as it were, from the Speaker's chair, faced him in the 
 
38 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 House of Commons. " May I ask you one question, 
 Sir Philip ?" said a gentleman at a dinner-table. "At 
 your peril !" was the fierce reply. " There is a strik- 
 ing, almost terrible passage in Lady Francis's Eecollec- 
 tions" — here again I quote Mr. Merivale — " in which 
 she says that it was the opinion of some of his inti- 
 mate friends that his hesitation in parliamentary 
 speaking, which was a main cause of his comparative 
 failure, was partly owing to the consciousness of his 
 secret. He set so constant and habitual a guard on 
 his lips, lest some compromising expression should 
 find its way out of them, that the habit remained 
 when the secret was not at all in question." Contrast 
 this misery, for such it must have been, or else a cruel, 
 defiant imposture to be carried beyond the grave, with 
 Sir Walter Scott's good-humoured mystification about 
 his literary secret, and one can measure the distance 
 between innocent and lovely romance, which contrib- 
 utes to the pleasure of old and young, and dark polit- 
 ical vituperation ; between the genial enthusiast of 
 the border — one of those Scotchmen whom " Junius" 
 loved to denounce and vilify, — and the irritable, vin- 
 dictive politician who, under cover, was malignant 
 enough to triumph over a father's sorrow for his child 
 in the case of the Duke of Bedford, or a husband's 
 shame in the infidelity of a wife in the Duke of Graf- 
 ton's. Francis outlived every one of his victims ex- 
 cept the King, who was blind and idiotic, and yet he 
 dared not tell the secret. 
 
 If Sir Philip Francis be "Junius," then has "Junius" 
 a sort of American relation such as I like to evolve. 
 In the graveyard of a sister city is a stone bearing the 
 
JUNIUS. 39 
 
 name of Tench Francis, a first cousin of Sir Philip, 
 and for years Eecorder of Philadelphia. There, and 
 in Khode Island, where one was governor and senator, 
 are his honoured descendants. The distinguished name 
 of Tilghman, at the bar, on the bench, and in the 
 military service of our ancient and classic times, is 
 that of one branch of the Francis family. Tench 
 Tilghman was Washington's dear friend and confiden- 
 tial aid, and it may be that, from some hidden deposi- 
 tory on this side of the Atlantic — for Sir Philip cor- 
 responded freely with his American kinsfolk — may yet 
 come some new light on this ancient puzzle.* 
 
 * I note, because it is in an out-of-the-way place, that in one of the 
 numbers of the Cornhill Magazine, while edited by Mr. Thackeray, is 
 a curious contribution to the Junian controversy in connection with 
 the burning of the Jesuit books in Paris. 
 
QUOTATION BOOKS. 
 
 As in every house, we are told, there is a skeleton, 
 and in every doctor's shop a case of instruments for 
 emergencies, mysteriously veiled from vulgar gaze, so 
 in all libraries, and especially if it be one of a writer 
 or public speaker, are there corners where are put away 
 for convenient use, not only commonplace books, hap- 
 pily out of date, but Indexes Eerum, and Burton's 
 Anatomy, and Murray's Hand-books for Geographical 
 illustration, and Lexicons and Concordances (all 
 honour to those immortal C's, Cruden and Mrs. Cowden 
 Clark), a Thesaurus or two, and, finally, "dictionaries 
 of quotation," It depends very much upon their 
 nature whether such dictionaries are good or bad. 
 The young student uses them, and for this end they 
 were first devised, to furnish him with quotations with 
 which to garnish what he writes, and show his schol- 
 arship. This is spurious. It is, the poet tells us, the 
 page of knowledge which is 
 
 " Rich with the spoils of time." 
 
 It is out of the depths of a full mind that bright 
 literary illustrations bubble up to the surface, and any 
 critical eye can detect without fail a got-up quotation, 
 or one which a mere dictionary supplies. Not so the 
 " directory," as it were, which aids memory, and, given 
 
QUOTATION BOOKS. 41 
 
 a fragment or sometimes even a word, enables the 
 scholar to find the context. They are not merely val- 
 uable, but, as auxiliaries, they are essential to complete 
 literary work. Two of this kind I may venture to 
 speak of — one, Bartlett's, American, and not a new 
 book. The other English, Friswell's, and called prop- 
 erly " Familiar Words." They are both defective, and 
 mainly in this, that they attempt too much, and crowd 
 their pages with " elegant extracts," which are not " fa- 
 miliar quotations." None ought to be admitted except 
 very trite ones, which, by-the-by, need not be there at 
 all unless the writer or speaker who has used them can 
 be indicated. As an illustration of what ought and 
 ought not to be comprised in such a book, I take two 
 examples, haphazard, from each. Mr. Bartlett gives 
 " Fletcher of Saltoun's letter to Montrose" as authority 
 for, " If a man were permitted to make all the ballads, 
 he need not care who makes the laws, of a nation." 
 Strange to say, Friswell credits this to the Edinburgh 
 Review. He might as well give it to the Atlantic 
 Montlily or Lippincott. I cite this as a proper selec- 
 tion, though a defective reference. But when he gives 
 a stanza of an unquotable poet like Montgomery, 
 such as : 
 
 " If God hath made this world so fair, 
 Where sin and death abound, 
 How beautiful beyond compare 
 Will Paradise be found," 
 
 he errs grievously, for surely no one but the feeblest 
 clerical orator ever used such stuff. So Mr. Friswell. 
 
4:2 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 He gives from Wordsworth's "Personal Talk," of 
 which few have heard, 
 
 " Maidens withering on the stalk," 
 
 and omits the original from " Midsummer Night's 
 Dream," where Theseus tells Hermia that 
 
 " Earthly happier is the rose distilled 
 
 Than that, which, withering on the virgin thorn, 
 Grows, lives, and dies in single-blessedness." 
 
 Then, Mr. Friswell commits the enormity of italiciz- 
 mg what he considers the " quotative phrase," and, 
 nine times out of ten, misses it. This was once before 
 done by the late Bishop Doane in an edition of the 
 " Christian Year," in which he undertook to italicize 
 what, according to his notion, were the beauties, and a 
 wretched business he made of it — the episcopal and 
 the common judgment very widely differing. Two 
 quotations are omitted by both these compilers which, 
 if not familiar, ought to be so : from a neglected scene 
 in "Macbeth:" 
 
 "Angels are bright still, though the brightest fell ;" 
 
 and from " Agonistes :" 
 
 " The vulgar only 'scaped who stood without." 
 
 From these hand-books of the art the transition is 
 natural — writing as I try to do, under suggestive im- 
 pulse — to the art itself — what may be termed the phi- 
 losophy of quotation. It is worth a thought, for no 
 one claiming to be expert in original writing and crit- 
 icism can be insensible to its value and its varied uses. 
 
 There are some quotations, from good books too, that 
 are so stereotyped as to become nauseous. There are 
 
QUOTATION BOOKS. 43 
 
 some so interwoven in common talk that they have 
 ceased to be quotations. Of the former, Colley 
 Gibber's " aspiring youth tliat fired the Ephesian 
 dome" (though, by the change of a single letter, it 
 might have a clever application to a celebrated widow 
 of the same spot in Asia Minor, from whom descend 
 
 " Ceux de la Prudoterie 
 Antique et celebre maison,") 
 
 and " the bourn from which no traveller returns," 
 and "suspicion always haunts the guilty mind," and 
 "the winter of our discontent," and that one which 
 the newspapers have seized, " discoursing eloquent 
 music." These are as trumpery as the favourite line 
 from the " Star-Si^angled Banner," or Sir William 
 Jones's " What constitutes a State," or Mr. Longfellow's 
 "Silvery clarion," or those dreary "mills 'which grind 
 slowly." They come from very empty vessels. Of 
 the class of those which have interwoven themselves 
 in common speech are Paine's " Times which try men's 
 souls," or Dean Swift's " United as one man." It is 
 one of the great tributes to Shakespeare that, though 
 three hundred years old, he is fresh for use to-day, and 
 we often talk Shakespeare without being aware of it. 
 
 It by no means follows that a common, hackneyed 
 quotation may not be effectively used. A new applica- 
 tion of an old " saw" is often a success. One at this 
 moment occurs to me of the capital use of an exceed- 
 ingly common passage in Shakespeare, from a play 
 frequently performed, and with which every one is 
 familiar. In Mr. Webster's speech in reply to General 
 Hayne, in which, by the way, in view of the grave 
 
44 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 occasion, he seemed to scorn aught below Shakespeare 
 or Milton, "Sonorous metal breathing martial sounds," 
 in the passage in which (Mr. Calhoun in the chair) he 
 taunted — for it was a taunt — the South, and the vice- 
 president especially, with their disappointment on 
 General Jackson's promotion, as it were, of Mr. Van 
 Buren, he said, with grand emphasis, altering, which 
 is permissible, one pronoun : 
 
 " Upon thy head they placed a fruitless crown. 
 And put a barren sceptre in thy gripe — 
 Thence to be wrenched with an unlineal hand, 
 No son of thine succeeding." 
 
 So, Sheridan never did a cleverer thing than when 
 he misquoted " Macbeth" on the Scotch members 
 deserting Mr. Addington — 
 
 " Doctor, the Thanes fly from thee !" 
 
 While, let me say incidentally, Mr. Webster abound- 
 ed in quotation out of his rich stores, for the words of 
 the Bible and Milton and Shakespeare were literally 
 heaped up within him (as all know who have enjoyed 
 joyous social intercourse with him), his great rivals 
 had none of it. Mr. Calhoun thought illustration 
 from without unworthy of his severe logic, in this 
 resembling Mr. Fox, who, though full of classic 
 scholarship to overflowing, rarely used it exorbitantly 
 — using this word in a strict sense — and Mr. Clay, 
 who had no book learning, when he tried it made a 
 dismal failure, as where, in one of his reported speeches, 
 he gave the doggerel of 
 
 " How hard is the lot of the poor galley slave." 
 
QUOTATION BOOKS. 45 
 
 John Randolph was rich in brief fragmentary cita- 
 tions, and John Quincy Adams, with his Ormuzd and 
 Ahrimanes, his Ebony and Topaz, was pedantic and 
 formal, and never graceful. 
 
 But it is on the pages of the reported speeches of the 
 Bar and Parliament, still unparalleled, of our mother 
 land, that we find the best illustrations of this art of 
 quoting. There, speakers are able and not ashamed 
 to quote the classics, and woe to him who stumbles 
 into a false quantity. We read that, long ago, Pultney 
 and Walpole, after fierce battles on politics, were re- 
 conciled by a friendly discussion of a dactyl or a 
 spondee. If with us, in the Senate for example, — by 
 violent presumption our most scholastic body, — a 
 Latin phrase beyond "sine qua non," or the more 
 thrilling " E Pluribus Unum," were to be used, more 
 than one would scratch his head in perplexity, and 
 many an eye become more lustreless. It would be 
 literally the vain scattering of pearls. In England, 
 it is done without pedantry, and listened to without 
 scorn. Witness Mr. Pitt's speech on the slave trade, 
 in 1793, made, says tradition, after a long night 
 session; and, just as he reached his peroration, in 
 which he contrasted the bright day of Europe with the 
 struggling dawn in Africa, the morning sun broke 
 through the windows of St. Stephen's, and he said : 
 
 " Nos primus equis oriens afflavit anhelis, 
 lUic, sera rubens accendit lumine Vesper." 
 
 Now and then, a bit of Latinity, cleverly used, puz- 
 zles parliamentary scholars, as when, in his speech on 
 municipal reform in 1836, Lord Holland, a thorough 
 
46 AMONG M7 BOOKS. 
 
 scholar though poor speaker, said : " The works of 
 man, my lords — the noblest, the boldest, the most 
 sublime — crumble beneath the mouldering hands of 
 time ; the mountains and hills are washed away by 
 the slow workings of the stream or shivered by the 
 force of the elements ; but the calm river flows on per- 
 petually from year to year and from age to age. 
 
 " Quieque immota quies nimium premit ista peribunt, 
 Sed qua perpetuo sunt agitata, manent.' " 
 
 No one knew whence the apposite quotation came. 
 It continued to worry and perplex its listeners for a 
 year. Sir James Graham, in February, 1837, rather 
 sneered at it as " a monastic pentameter," and at last 
 Mr. Hobhouse discovered it. Lord Holland enjoying 
 the joke hugely ; he found it in a mediseval historian 
 — Janus Vitanus — of whom your annotator freely con- 
 fesses he never heard. 
 
 Lord (then Mr.) Brougham had a peculiar knack of 
 quotation — mingling admirably the classics of the liv- 
 ing and the dead. In his speech for Queen Caroline, 
 in his dissection of the Italian witnesses, one can im- 
 agine the thunder in which he fired upon them, first 
 a passage from Cicero and then one from Shakespeare. 
 " I trust," said he, " there are in Italy, as everywhere, 
 most respectable individuals. I have myself the hap- 
 piness of knowing many Italian gentlemen in whose 
 hands I should think my life or my honour as safe as 
 in the hands of your lordships. But while ' Sunt in 
 illo numero multi boni, docti, prudentes qui ad hoc 
 judicium deducti non sunt : multi impudentes, illite- 
 rati, leves, quos, variis de causis, video concitatos. 
 
QUOTATION BOOKS. 47 
 
 Veruni tamen hoc dico de genere Graecorum; quibus 
 jusjurandum jocus est ; testimonium ludus ; existi- 
 matio vestra tenebr^ ; laus, merces, gratia, gratulatio 
 proposita et omnis in impudenti mendacio.'" 
 
 And then putting into the mouth of his client's 
 Italian slanderers lachimo's dark words, he said: 
 
 " Away to Britain 
 Posted I in this design. 
 
 Mine Italian brain, 
 'Gan, in your duller Britain, operate 
 Most vilely ; for my vantage excellent ; 
 And to be brief, my practice so prevailed 
 That I returned, with simular proof enough 
 To make the noble Leonatus mad. 
 By wounding his belief in her renown 
 With tokens thus and thus ; averring notes 
 Of chamber hangings, pictures, this her bracelet 
 (0, cunning, how I got it !) nay, some marks 
 Of secret on her person, that he could not 
 But think her bond of chastity quite cracked." 
 
 Here he paused, for the divinity which hedges kings 
 and princes regent, stopped him on the edge of the 
 jealous husband's denunciation of himself: 
 
 "Ah! me, most credulous fool. 
 Egregious murderer, thief, anything 
 That's due to all the villains past, in being, 
 To come !" 
 
 Let me note one other quotation of Brougham's, 
 neither Latin nor poetry, but from the prose — always 
 more difficult to handle — of his mother tongue. In 
 defending Lord Durham's policy in the House of 
 Commons in 1840, he read a passage from Robertson, 
 where one of Columbus's officers is spoken of as ex- 
 
48 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 ceeding his instructions. It thus concludes : " Gasca 
 hastened" — (here loud cJieers interrwpted him) — " to 
 the scene of action, and, without either money or 
 troops, utterly quelled the rebellion." 
 
 Of classical quotations (of which I fear the reader 
 has had enough), one of the most graceful is that 
 related of Lord Carteret, on whom, when holding a 
 court as lord-lieutenant, Swift bustled in and rudely 
 asked him how he could do so and so. He good- 
 naturedly replied, and with it quenched the Dean : 
 
 • " Res dura, et regni novitas me talia cogunt moliri." 
 
 Sir James Mackintosh said the best Latin quotation 
 ever made was by Leibnitz, on hearing of Bayle's 
 death, and imagining one of the rewards of his candid 
 spirit in the other world. He quoted the words of 
 Moenalcas in Virgil's Eclogue : 
 
 " Candidus insuetum miratur limen Olympi, 
 Sub pedibusque nubes et sidera." 
 
 Mackintosh himself made a beautiful use of homely 
 poetry when, writing a letter of consolation on Robert 
 Hall's religious insanity, he quoted Burns : 
 
 " For yet the light that led astray, 
 Was light from Heaven." 
 
 To return for a moment to Parliament and the Bar, 
 for notes take me hither and yon. Fox rarely quoted ; 
 Burke, often but elaborately ; Canning, gaudily; but 
 no one in a more peculiar, homely, telling style than 
 he of whom a woman has written, " His charm was a 
 sort of gay, lovable, openness, which is the precise 
 reverse of what Frenchmen call morgu^^ — Mr. Wind- 
 
QUOTATION BOOKS. 49 
 
 ham.* In his celebrated speech in defence of bull- 
 baiting — the very memory of which is enough to send 
 Mr. Bergh to a premature grave — he said : " Of the 
 difference between the jolly bull-baiting peasant and 
 his demure censors, I can only say : 
 
 " Tom struts a soldier, open, bold, and brave, 
 Will sneaks a scrivener, an exceeding knave." 
 
 Or in his attack on the ministry for the Peace of 
 Amiens, he said: "I find but two faults with these 
 people, described in lines I once saw written on a win- 
 dow-pane in a country inn : 
 
 " Of faults poor women have but two : 
 There's nothing good they say. 
 There's nothing right they do." 
 
 Now and then, a quotation is ruined and made gro- 
 tesque by elaboration, as when Mr. Wirt, an orator of 
 very questionable taste, in arguing a quo warranto as 
 to the right of a clergyman, the Eev. Mr. Duncan, 
 in Baltimore, to a church from which he had been 
 ejected, said: 
 
 " This Duncan 
 Hath borne his faculties so meek, hath been 
 So clear in his great office, that his virtues 
 Will plead like angels, trumpet-ton gued, against 
 The deep damnation of his taking off." 
 
 Far better was Horace Walpole's or George Selwyn*s 
 rather equivocal one in a letter to Sir Horace Mann 
 
 * The late Miss Emily Eden, daughter of Lord Auckland. 
 3 
 
50 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 on the marriage of the young lady to the old physi- 
 cian, Doctor Duncan, in which he made her say : 
 
 " Wake Duncan with thy knocking. I would thou couldst." 
 
 It is in the same letter Walpole says (and to me 
 it seems the perfection of written wit), speaking of 
 the revolution in Denmark, when Matilda was im- 
 prisoned and Struensee murdered : " The queen has 
 gone to Castle Croneuberg, and Struensee to David 
 Rizzio." 
 
 The late Sir Kobert Peel, in one of his speeches on 
 the Reform Bill, though I am unable from memory to 
 say where, speaking of some real or imaginary disgrace 
 to England, quoted with great effect Cowley's vigorous 
 lines : 
 
 " Come Roman, Saxon, or come Dane ! 
 Come the eleventh plague, rather than this should be. 
 We've mourned, we've sighed, we've wept. 
 We never blushed before !" 
 
 Lord Chatham had a playfulness in his quotations 
 not congenial, one would think, with his stately gait 
 and solemn utterances, as in one of his American 
 speeches, when speaking of those troublesome colonies, 
 he said, from Prior: 
 
 " Be to their virtues very kind. 
 Be to their faults a little blind." 
 
 But then, in a letter to his wife, whom he usually 
 addresses as " My noble love," referring to the Tory 
 bishops, he fiercely writes : 
 
 " Yes, I am proud, I must be proud, to see 
 Men not afraid of God afraid of me !" 
 
QUOTATION BOOKS. 51 
 
 The old Divines of the Church of England had a 
 very reverential way of "quoting." In the body of 
 their sermons, they cited only the Holy Scriptures, 
 rarely resorting even to patristic literature, but filled 
 the margins "with abundant and most graceful classi- 
 cal citations, prose and poetry intermingled, though 
 apart. One occurs to me as an exception to this, for 
 it is in the text. Barrow, in his sermon on the king's 
 " happy return," in a graceful, courtly strain, says : " As 
 the good bishop, observing St. Austin's mother, with 
 what constancy and passionateness she did pray for 
 her son, being then engaged in ways of error and 
 vanity, did encourage him saying, ' Fieri non potest, ut 
 films istarum lacrymarum per eat,' so we may hope- 
 fully presume that a prince will not miscarry for whose 
 welfare many good people do earnestly solicit." It is 
 in this sermon we detect the source whence, uncon- 
 sciously, was drawn Cato's "flourish in immortal 
 youth," for the Divine of the Eestoration says : " The 
 Graces, those goodly daughters of Heaven, smiling 
 always with a never-fading serenity of countenance, 
 flourish in immortal youth." It was of Charles II.'s 
 ingratitude that the preacher wrote : 
 
 " Te majus optavit rediturum, Carole, nemo ; 
 Et nemo sensit te rediisse minus." 
 
 In our day Sydney Smith drew upon himself, with- 
 out, for a wonder, meaning to do so, an universal laugh, 
 when, in his sermon on the queen's accession, he at- 
 tributed the "^ Nunc dimittis" to the Psalmist, and it 
 wafe then that a Tory critic rebuked his unclerical 
 
52 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 levity by a quotation, which I cite, not for its justice, 
 but its aptitude : 
 
 " Old man ! fall to thy prayers ; 
 How ill white hairs become a fool and jester !" 
 
 It is the same periodical critic — the Quarterly Re- 
 vieio — (and where will better writing be found than 
 on its pages, from Scott and Gifford to Lockhart and 
 Elwyn, one of the latest numbers containing a criti- 
 cism on " Lothair" worthy of its best days ?) — which 
 furnishes me my penultimate quotation, — in its way a 
 gem; the italics are not mine. When, in 1839, the 
 Melbourne ministry forced the young queen to change 
 the ladies of the household and surround herself with 
 Whig petticoats, the Quarterly said : 
 
 " Time, we are told, teaches a shepherd to distin- 
 guish his sheep by their individual physiognomy ; but 
 her majesty has no such experience, and can know 
 her new flock only by the Melbourne mark : 
 
 " Omne cum Proteus pecus, egit altos 
 Visere montes." 
 
 I have spoken of the difficulty of successfully quot- 
 ing prose either by pen or tongue, — greater, of course, 
 with the latter, — yet once these ears heard it effectively 
 done, no matter when, no matter where, for it is of the 
 living I now write. On the trial of a woman, and a 
 mother, too, for the murder of her husband, in front 
 of the prisoner's desk were seated their little children 
 — pretty, attractive, innocent-looking girls. No refer- 
 ence was made to them, except by one of the counsel, 
 who, at the end of his summing up, read (and this was 
 a bold forensic experiment), and without a comment. 
 
QUOTATION BOOKS. 53 
 
 this passage — almost too long to be cited here — which 
 the scholar will recognize as from Mr. Hope's ghastly 
 "Anastasius:" 
 
 " I had left a storm gathering in Egypt, of which I 
 since have thanked God I witnessed not the bursting. 
 Already, previous to my departure, the consequences 
 of the scarcity had begun to appear in many places; 
 but it was only after I left the country that the famine 
 attained its full force ; and such was, in spite of every 
 expedient of human wisdom, or appeal to divine mercy, 
 the progressive fury of the scourge, that at last the 
 Schaicks, and other regular ministers of worship, sup- 
 posing the Deity to have become deaf to their en- 
 treaties, or incensed at their presumption, no longer, 
 themselves, ventured to implore offended Heaven, and 
 henceforth only addressed the Almighty through the 
 interceding voices of tender infants, in hopes that, 
 though callous to the suffering of corrupt man. Provi- 
 dence might still listen to the supplications of un- 
 tainted childhood, and grant to the innocent prayers 
 of babes what it denied to the agonizing cry of beings 
 hardened in sin. Led by the Imans to the top of the 
 highest minarets, little creatures from five to ten years 
 of age there raised to heaven their pure hands and 
 feeble voices, and, while all the countJess myriads of 
 Cairo collected round the foot of these lofty structures 
 observed a profound and mournful silence, they alone 
 were heard to lisp from their slender summits en- 
 treaties for divine mercy. They only begged that a 
 general pestilence might speedily deliver them from 
 their lingering and painful agony ; and when from 
 the gilded spires throughout every district of the im- 
 
54 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 mense mass, thousands of infantile voices went forth 
 the same instant to implore the same sad boon, the 
 whole vast population below with half-extinguished 
 voices jointly answered, 'So be it!' The humble re- 
 quest God in his mercy granted." 
 
 The speaker closed the book without a word of his 
 own, and the effect was produced. 
 
BOOKS OF TRAVEL. 
 
 The first books of travel I ever read were " Eobin- 
 8on Crusoe" (not the didactic " Swiss Family Robin- 
 son," but honest Daniel Defoe's) and " Lemuel Gul- 
 liver." And my " Gulliver" (it seems but yesterday, 
 though there have been many yester-years) had a map 
 of Liliput, and one of Brobdignag, too — a sort of 
 Australia of islands — with the degrees of latitude and 
 longitude " from Greenwich" duly marked ; and I 
 incline to think I believed it, and looked for them in 
 the atlas. I am sure I had some faith in Robinson's 
 island, for it was in the days when the " Arabian 
 Nights" (a beautiful little prayer-book edition) was 
 smuggled into church to be stealthily read, as it seemed 
 
 " A goodly place, a goodly time, 
 To read as of the golden prime 
 Of good Haroun Alraschid ;" 
 
 and if there be a man with soul so dead who can 
 read without emotion the discovery of Friday's foot- 
 prints on the moist sand, I pity and pass on. It, 
 and "George Osborne lying dead with a bulletin his 
 heart at Waterloo" are the two great startling points 
 of fiction, terribly like reality. 
 
 Then, came narratives of African adventures ; and 
 
56 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 here let me pause and note how thorough and complete 
 is the efficacy (we can hardly measure it), politically, 
 socially, or poetically, of the post-diluvian curse on 
 this great continent. Africa has two slight fringes 
 of civilization and interest, North and South, and this 
 is all : Egypt and what was once Carthage at the 
 North ; and Natal and a lovely paradise, the natural 
 garden of the ferns and the lilies, the jasmines and 
 the geraniums, the Cape Colony at the extreme South. 
 All else, for sixty degrees of latitude, one-sixth of the 
 old world's surface, from Mogador to Orange Eiver, is 
 desolation and degradation, and what is convertible 
 with degradation, the supremacy of the negro race. 
 
 And Africa, — if personal memories may mingle 
 with one's books, — I have seen. It was the giant gate- 
 way through which my Eastern travel passed. 
 
 On the morning of the 7th of September, 185-, after 
 seventy days of sea monotony, with no sight of mother 
 earth except the sand and pebbles picked up by the 
 sounding-lead off the coast of Brazil, my uneasy slum- 
 bers — for in approaching land neither passenger nor 
 navigator has quiet rest — were broken by a message to 
 come on deck, — for "there was something worth 
 seeing." And there was! There, in the dim, orange- 
 tinted dawn of a spring morning — for September is 
 spring in those latitudes — with the moon sinking in 
 the west, and the morning star over the mountains in 
 the east, Avas Africa, the '•' Cape of Storms," or, in that 
 gentler phrase — one of the most beautiful I know of 
 which has survived so long — the Cape of Good Hope. 
 There was Africa. And as I gazed on the scene of 
 beauty, and as the Table Mountain and ranges of 
 
BOOKS OF TRAVEL. 57 
 
 hills — for the dim ridges seemed to rise to vast dis- 
 tances to the north — swelled up before me, I could 
 not but think of the mysterious doom which haunts 
 this continent, and of the translated miseries it has 
 engendered, and of the freight of sorrow and suffering 
 which has been sent across the ocean. And then, in 
 the light of that poetic dawn, I thought of the heroic 
 adventurer, who, more than three hundred years ago, 
 came hither in a humble craft as the herald of occi- 
 dental conquest, and of the sublime imagining of the 
 poet of Portugal, of the Genius of Asia rising from the 
 ocean, and, as if prescient of the future, warning him 
 away. We drew near the land, and the anchor dropped 
 and the salute was fired, and there was mysterious 
 silence in return ; and the tragic message came to us 
 that a bloody mutiny of black men against white men, 
 of servants of an alien race against their masters, had 
 burst forth, and that the great fabric of British empire 
 in India was tumbling down in bloody ruin. There 
 were not left at the Cape artillerymen enough to fire a 
 salute. And we went ashore and rested in a wilder- 
 ness of flowers; for such is Southern Africa, the land 
 of the ferns, and the bulbs, and the geraniums, and the 
 roses, with the orange-trees in full blossom, and the 
 camellias just over. What idea had I, or have you, 
 gentle, well-educated reader, of Southern Africa and 
 this, its capital ? Hottentots and Caffres and Fingoes 
 and elephants and ourang-outangs were my ideals. I 
 certainly never dreamed of a picturesque town with 
 wide, well-shaded streets and public squares, and 
 libraries, and botanic gardens singularly beautiful, and 
 omnibuses and hansom-cabs, and brilliant equipages, 
 
 3* 
 
58 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 and pretty, bright-eyed, fair-cheeked women ; certainly 
 not of an easy journey into the interior over good roads 
 carried up steep mountain slopes by gentle gradients, 
 and lovely villages, such as Paarl and Wellington, and 
 vineyards like good Mr. Cloete's at Constantia, and 
 hearty welcomes in one's mother-tongue everywhere. 
 Not that the traces of the early colonists, the Dutch, 
 are wholly effaced. Far from it. The village names 
 attest their existence yet, and he who drives into 
 Stellenbosch — a perfect Paradise of white roses — at 
 two o'clock in the afternoon, and finds, as I did, all 
 the inhabitants asleep, will not doubt that Dutch 
 repose is still unbroken. There, too, one sees the little 
 jasmine-covered cottage, at Feldhuysen, whence for 
 four years, from this end of habitable creation. Sir 
 John Herschel " gauged the southern heavens." 
 
 And it was of Africa my boy-books of travel told me. 
 They were two ; one, the adventures of an American, 
 who, on an unlawful voyage, probably to pick up a 
 few involuntary emigrants, was, or said he was, wrecked 
 on the western coast of Africa. His name was Eiley. 
 He was captured and wrote a book about his adven- 
 tures — an octavo, illustrated, like some others in colder 
 regions, with pictures of places never seen and possibly 
 non-existent. It was bought greedily and read credu- 
 lously ; but alas ! the discovery was soon made, and 
 there was agony in the awakening, that not one word 
 of it was true. It has now very much passed out of 
 memory. 
 
 Next in order came James Bruce, who travelled just 
 a hundred years ago, and gave to the amazed world 
 the narrative of his exploration of the sources of the 
 
BOOKS OF TRAVEL. 59 
 
 Nile. The history of this book — it is in seven volumes, 
 and Mr. Astor has it — is curious. Its fate was, at first, 
 to be discredited, and then, after a long interval of 
 eclipse, to be vindicated. Bruce was a Scotchman 
 (Macpherson Fingal's contemporary), and there was a 
 time in England, and America too (and Mr. Buckle 
 seems disposed to revive it), when a Scotchman could 
 do nothing right and say nothing true. Hence, he was 
 denounced and discredited ; and it is only of late, since 
 Lord Napier of Magdala with his soldiers broke in 
 the side-door of Abyssinia, and Baker and Speke car- 
 ried their unblushing wives through all the naked 
 horrors of Nubia, and that mysterious itinerant entity, 
 Dr. Livingstone, made his pleasant trips up or down 
 (I really do not know which) the Zambesi, it has been 
 made manifest that, according to his lights, Bruce 
 told the truth. Commenting, as recently as 1840, on 
 the Indian story told by Dr. Morse (Jedediah, not he 
 of the telegraph) of the savage who, returning from 
 Washington to his tribe, told them of what he had 
 seen — " canoes holding seven hundred sailors," and 
 " wigwams where a thousand people met to worship 
 the Great Spirit ;" and was shot down as " too great a 
 liar to live," an English writer says truly and wisely : 
 "Before the civilised world passes its hasty sentence 
 on this wild tribe for their obdurate incredulity and 
 injustice and cruelty, we feel it but justice to the red 
 man merely to whisper the name of James Bruce, of 
 Kinnaird." Nor is his the only case of long deferred, ^^ 
 or, as it were, intercepted justice to the truth of a 
 traveller's story. Marco Polo, after eight or nine cen- 
 turies (remember, reader, I am away from books and 
 
60 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 may sometimes be wrong a century or two) of discredit, 
 is now recognized as authority, and Ferdinand Mendez 
 Pinto, who, in a phrase familiar to every student of dra- 
 matic literature, was denounced as "the type of liars," 
 is now admitted to have told the simple truth about 
 the East. So was it with Bruce. The pleasure-seeking 
 traveller, who sails over a calm and safe sea in four or 
 five days from Malta or Brindisi to Alexandria, and 
 up the Xile to the cataracts, in a covered boat with a 
 French cook, knows naught of Bruce's trials when 
 steam was not, and the Mediterranean had worse dan- 
 gers than Gregales ; and when African corsairs, by the 
 consent of Christendom, plundered from Jaffa to Gibral- 
 tar. There were no hospitable Khedives then. Yet he 
 travelled bravely on, this whole-hearted Caledonian ; 
 and when his work was ended, and his triumph won, he 
 tells simply the story of success. It was not the loud 
 cry of the Greeks when they saw the sea from the 
 mountains of Trebizond, or of the Germans in other 
 days than ours, when they caught a glimpse of the 
 Ehine; but it was the gentle meditation, the venial 
 exultation of a brave man, rejoicing at a great result: 
 
 " I saw immediately below me the Nile, strangely 
 diminished in size, and now only a brook, with scarcely 
 water to turn a mill. I could not satiate myself with 
 the sight, revolving in my mind all those classical 
 prophecies that had given the Nile up to perpetual 
 obscurity and concealment. 
 
 ' Arcanum natura caput non prodidit ulli, 
 Nee licuit populis, parvum te, Nile, videre.' 
 
 " I enjoyed the triumph which, by the protection of 
 providence, I had gained." 
 
BOOKS OF TRAVEL. 61 
 
 These honest words were written on the 24th Novem- 
 ber, 1770, just a century ago, and the great river flows 
 on, and truth is vindicated. 
 
 After Bruce and Africa, was a long void of this sort 
 of migratory reading, when, suddenly, there came a 
 new call for it. In 1825, only forty-six years ago, it 
 became necessary for him who writes these lines to 
 learn something about the Isthmus of Panama, a 
 transit as well understood now as the Fulton Ferry. 
 It was then as obscure a region as, before we bought it^ 
 was Alaska. No one had been there. No one evei 
 wished to go there. A voyage round the Horn or 
 through Magellan's Straits (all honour to his memory !) 
 was preferable to that dismal depth. Porto Bello, odd 
 misnomer, and Omoa, and Chagres, and Cruces, have 
 a miasmatic sound, and Admiral Hosier's ghost seems 
 to haunt the accursed region. Has the reader for- 
 gotten, and, if he has not, they are worth reproducing, 
 Glover's fine lines : 
 
 " All in dreary hammocks shrouded, 
 
 Which for winding-sheets they wore, 
 And with looks by sorrow clouded, 
 
 Fi'owning on that hostile shore : 
 On them gleamed the moon's wan lustre, 
 
 When the shade of Hosier brave 
 His pale bands was seen to muster 
 
 Rising from their watery grave ; 
 On the glimmering wave he hied him 
 
 Where the Burford reared her sail, 
 With his ghastly crew beside him, 
 
 And in groans did Vernon hail." 
 
 Literally the only guide-books which could be found 
 were old Ulloa's quartos, and we, who expected to 
 
62 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 make the transit, studied how the Spaniard, centuries 
 ago, paddled or poled up the little river among the 
 alligators, and scrambled on mule-back across the 
 Sierra to the peaceful sea. Now, Omoa and Chagres 
 are no more, AspinAvall, a name redolent of the Fifth 
 Avenue, is in their place, and a railway — soon, alas 
 for stockholders ! in its turn to be superseded — spans 
 the mountains. Nor was it much better with Mexico. 
 As late as the year I speak of, the best itinerary was 
 Humboldt, and yet his high science hardly made 
 books of ti'avel or of guidance; so that, down to 1824, 
 when Mr. Poinsett wrote a little tract about it, Mexico 
 was virtually unknown. One pauses in wonder at 
 Humboldt (oh, that his private letters had never been 
 printed!) in his American wanderings, nor is there 
 anything in technical poetry finer than his description 
 of the midnight cry of the Indian guides on the levels 
 of the Andes. " The cross bends!" And here let an 
 actual traveller note that the constellations of the 
 Southern hemisphere, including the boasted crucial 
 one, with the feeble star at the end of the cross- 
 piece, spoiling its symmetry, bear no comparison to 
 the bright variety of the North. I am fully of the 
 same mind with Miss Eden, who, in her pleasant 
 letters from India, recently published, says: "How- 
 ever, though we sail slowly, we are in our own Northern 
 hemisphere again, which I mention that I may twit one 
 of our friends who told me, when I was coming to 
 India, that I should never see the 'Great Bear' again. 
 Dear old beast, he came in sight again the night be- 
 fore last, looking handsome and friendly, worth all the 
 
BOOKS OF TRAVEL. 63 
 
 Southern crosses and scorpions. It is some thing to 
 know one's own stars again." * 
 
 Then, some thirty or forty years ago, beginning with 
 a feeble rill, came rushing upon us the great tide of 
 books of European travel by Americans, and Ameri- 
 can travel by English men and women. The last 
 angered us terribly for awhile, but latterly we have 
 come to think they did not judge us unfairly, and 
 that much they said was true ; nor does any rational 
 American feel a moment's irritation except when, in 
 cases like Mr. Dickens, now deified by booksellers' 
 frankincense, who, after being welcomed with an 
 enthusiasm which, however absurd, he could not com- 
 plain of, turned, and slandered and ridiculed us to the 
 full extent of the evil genius of caricature. 
 
 Professor Silliman's, and the book of an amiable 
 Quaker named Griscom, were the first and best of 
 American gossipping travels abroad, and, though obso- 
 lete and forgotten now, have a certain value as records 
 of what the transatlantic world was, or to our eyes 
 seemed, half a century ago. Then broke out the dis- 
 ease of travel-books. Not a clergyman, spending a 
 few months abroad at the expense of his flock, and 
 threatened with mild bronchitis or incipient tubercles, 
 but wrote his two duodecimos, and duly recorded 
 sea-sickness, with devotion interjected, the custom- 
 house vexations, as if there were none at home, the 
 cosy breakfast at Liverpool, and Chester Cathedral. 
 It is an actual branch of American literature, begin- 
 
 * Published in " Temple Bar." for 1870. 
 
64: AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 ning, as I have said, with Silliman, and ending, it 
 is to be hoped, with Bellows. In this chapter of dry 
 immortelles, Mrs. Stowe stuck her unlucky "Sunny 
 Memories." Among books of European travel by 
 Americans, I recall but two, perhaps three, which are 
 now readable, or have any value, and they are the 
 Avorks of accomplished and unspoiled men, not clerical, 
 —Mr. Hillard's "Italy," Mr. Wallis's charming little 
 book on Spain, and perhaps, though it is many days 
 since I have read it, Alexander McKenzie's " Year," in 
 which I recall his description of dancing with a blind 
 girl at Madrid — the best defense of waltzing ever made. 
 Travel-books of later years are of a different tone. 
 They are no longer personal gossip, but something 
 far higher. To see the improvement, look at those 
 which are mere personal narratives — Lord Dufferin's 
 "Yachting in the North ;" Lady Duff Gordon or Miss 
 Frere's journeyings ; Miss Martineau's Eastern Life — 
 admirable till she goes to Palestine and wraps herself 
 in the cold atmosphere of skepticism ; and Curzon's 
 Armenia, and Monasteries of the Levant. All these 
 are fascinating, and to read them makes one wiser and 
 better. Our own John L. Stephens, whose gentle, 
 bright face and winning manner come back like a 
 pleasant dream, wrote delightful books of intrepid 
 travel, but, somehow, they seem, even in the city of his 
 birth, where booksellers once petted him, to be forgot- 
 ten. His hand raised the curtain of the Yucatan 
 mysteries, and when death struck him down, no one has 
 seemed willing to look for them again. The world, as 
 known to the moderns, has few unexplored pathways, 
 but there are some ; and then, too, there are those of 
 
BOOKS OF TRAVEL. 65 
 
 which the interest seems inexhaustible, although the 
 track is beaten. Of such, to my mind at least, is the 
 cradle of the human race, mythically and historically, 
 the valley of the Euphrates, and that other mountain 
 region of the cis-Caspian where Ararat stands and 
 the ark rested. A great outcry was raised, years ago, 
 when Lord Elgin rescued the frieze of the Parthenon 
 from the robbers and runagates of modern Greece, but 
 no whisper was uttered when Mr. Layard brought the 
 Nineveh bulls from the swamps of Mosul. Interest 
 still clings t o old Mesopotomia. The best and most 
 complete book of travels in the language describes 
 that region, and is well worth study. It is Colonel 
 (now General) Chesney's voyage down the Euphrates, 
 published ten years or more after the journey was 
 made. Next to that — hardly a book of travels — Sir 
 Emerson Tennant's " Ceylon." 
 
 Here, on the threshold of the great insular East, — 
 the Straits of Malacca, and Sumatra and Java, the 
 Eden of the Indies and Borneo, over which the brave 
 spirit of the British Eajah floats in sorrow for inef- 
 fectual enterprise, — I stay my steps and spare the 
 reader. 
 
MEMORIES OP THE EAST. 
 
 Fkom books of travel, the transition is natural to 
 the memory of one's own distant pilgrimages, and if, 
 as has been often said, the man of action is socially 
 more attractive than the man of books, an episode of 
 travelling garrulity — a little bit of venial egotism — 
 may be pardoned to a student. The dismal narrative 
 accredited to Lord Macartney, though written by Sir 
 George Staunton, but recently dead, of the fruitless 
 embassy to Peking, more than seventy years ago, was a 
 study, as Lord Amherst's with his romantic shipwreck 
 is a memory, of boyhood. The latter has its mature 
 associations too. In the summer of 1852, under the 
 guidance of one of England's most scholarly men, it 
 was the writer's fortune to visit Knowle Park, the 
 antique seat, in Kent, of the Dukes of Dorset, and to 
 see Queen Elizabeth's bed, and what is much better, 
 among other treasures of art, Reynolds' great portrait 
 of Burke in the prime of his fame, and Mrs. Abingdon 
 in all her loveliness. The historical dukedom is now 
 extinct, and the ancient mansion vacant. Into this 
 family, the Lord Amherst of China, the son or grand- 
 son of oiir historical Sir Jeffrey, had married, and was 
 then (if I mistake not) living in a modest cottage near 
 by. In five years from that time, the writer was in 
 
MEMORIES OF THE EAST. 67 
 
 the East himself, and in China, too. May he venture 
 on some scattered memories and dim impressions ? 
 
 There is a strange feeling in being confronted for 
 the first time with that gigantic dreary entity, Pagan- 
 ism, not Mohammedanism, which is a religion, but 
 mere negative Paganism. For the Mussulman, or the 
 Parsee, one has a sort of respect. He is at least 
 sentimentally devout, which a Chinese, or Japanese, 
 or Malay, never is. The contrast is obvious every- 
 where. It shows itself in substance and in trifles. 
 Standing, one frightfully hot day, on the piazza of 
 the consular residence at Aden, that dreary spot at 
 the mouth of the Eed Sea, where it only rains once 
 in two years and on which a green leaf is never seen, 
 and gazing on the wilderness of rock and sand and 
 cinders, to find something pleasant to look upon, 
 my eye was attracted by a Mohammedan sentinel 
 pacing on a parapet. At a certain hour, probably 
 noon, he laid his musket on the ground and, kneeling, 
 prostrated himself, with his turban almost buried in 
 the sand, toward Mecca, the prophet's tomb, for, by a 
 sort of magnetism, they all know its direction, and 
 made his silent adoration. This was striking. It 
 was picturesque. It was, in a certain sense, devout, 
 and until then, in all my wanderings in Pagandom, it 
 had never been my lot to see anything like " devotion." 
 
 The Chinese certainly have none of it, and the 
 Japanese very little. There are in Japan some reli- 
 gious ceremonies in Buddhist temples which were im- 
 pressive — mainly so from their strange resemblance to 
 the ceremonial of the Church of Kome. At first sight, 
 it might be supposed to be the actual sacrifice of the 
 
68 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 mass. But the great intellectual community of Chma 
 — for such it is in all the elements of shrewdness and 
 cunning and industry and energy and education, its 
 common schools and competitive examinations very 
 much resembling some other intelligent and irreligious 
 communities we know of — rejects devotion absolutely 
 and entirely. The most degraded order of humanity 
 is the priesthood, the most disregarded objects are the 
 idols. This was one of the thousand puzzles of this 
 odd land. Everything is perplexity. Ask a China- 
 man who reverences his ancestors, if he believes they 
 exist in any state of being, that he will after death go 
 to them or they revisit him, and he will look with 
 blank amazement at you and utter some platitude 
 about "universal benevolence." There is sometimes 
 hinted at a sort of diffused immortality, by which the 
 soul of the departed " branches" in three directions, 
 one remaining with the body, one Avith the votive 
 tablet put up in its honour, and the third, the sub- 
 division least cared for, votatilizing itself into the 
 world of spirits. So with their care of the dead ; the 
 huge coffin is part of the furniture of every house. It 
 is so constructed that without inconvenience it can be 
 retained for years, or until the propitious moment and 
 the propitious spot for interment be found, and then 
 it is buried with honour, not in the ground, but on 
 its surface, over which an arch is thrown and soil 
 placed, and where the flowers and the weeds grow in 
 frightful luxuriance. It is one vast burying-ground, 
 and yet not sacred in any sense, and no idea of an 
 immortal spirit seems to enter into their cold rhetori- 
 cal sentimentalism about the dead. So again with 
 
MEMORIES OF TEE EAST. 69 
 
 their idols and their temples. They are elaborate and 
 grotesque, and, in a strange sense, ornamental ; but no 
 one venerates and no one cares for them. Thus it is 
 everywhere. On one island of the Chusan Archipel- 
 ago, five miles long by one broad, there are one hun- 
 dred temples all in decay and ruin, and that, too, from 
 no appreciable decline of the faith they represent, but 
 from the strange and inexplicable inconsistency I have 
 alluded to. The wayfarer is put to lodge and eat in 
 holy temples, and in the north of China I have one 
 day seen Englishmen playing skittles, and, on Sunday, 
 attended divine worship according to the forms of the 
 Church of England in the very shadow of hideous 
 Buddhist idols, the Chinamen around caring as little 
 for the desecration as the idols themselves. Every 
 Chinese idol, however, has a hole in the back of the 
 neck to permit the god to go in and out at his pleas- 
 ure, and it may be the idol was "in vacation" when 
 these improprieties were committed. While in Mo- 
 hammedan, or Persian, or Christian lands, the dese- 
 cration of a sacred building by infidel insult would 
 be resented as frightful sacrilege, one might, in a 
 Chinese joss-house, commit any irreverence or in- 
 decency, not only with impunity, but with absolute 
 and most contemptuous mdifference on the part of the 
 believer. And yet, around it, such as it is, hangs a 
 kind of venerable association, and through its dark, 
 stony surface, refracted and distorted threads of gentle 
 radiance — some good and humanizing influences — 
 may be detected. Five centuries and a half before the 
 Christian era, about the time when the handwriting 
 on the wall told Belshazzar his empire's fall, when 
 
YO AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 the Tarquins reigned iu Rome, and Solon gave laws 
 to Athens, a Chinese philosopher wrote words which 
 have survived to this day, and now give faith and 
 doctrine to four hundred millions of intelligent human 
 beings. "Four hundred millions," says a modern 
 writer, " think of it ! What does it mean ? Count it 
 night and day ; without rest or food or sleep, you con- 
 tinue the weary work; yet eleven days have passed 
 before the first million is completed, and more than 
 as many years before the end of the tedious task is 
 reached." For the mental and moral guidance of these 
 and the myriads who have lived and read in the last 
 twenty-four hundred years, Confucius wrote. I have 
 seen his birthplace and reputed tomb, — the legend- 
 ary spot of China, one of the few striking pro- 
 montories its flat coasts exhibit, — and it tasks one's 
 widest conception to measure such an influence as this 
 humble philosopher has exercised. His system is 
 less one of religion than of ethics and economy, 
 though it has taken the place of religion. His politi- 
 cal maxims commend themselves to common sense, 
 reason, and justice, and have exerted, as all testif}^, a 
 happy influence on the government and people of 
 China. The leading principle of government is that, 
 no doubt, which has so long maintained the integrity 
 of the empire, a central authority, exercising as little 
 local and individual influence as possible, and a stiict 
 respect for what, in our dialect, was once called " State 
 rights" — local municipal independence. I say some 
 gentle, humanizing rays enliven this twilight of moral- 
 ity. Confucius's system, for instance, taught obedience 
 to parents and love to brethren ; respect for the aged, 
 
MEMORIES OF THE EAST. 71 
 
 for magistrates, and for all superiors ; courtesy and 
 friendship among equals, and kindness toward in- 
 feriors. The virtue of filial reverence is predominant 
 in the East, and looking at it and the wonderful lon- 
 gevity of this empire, we may well believe that " honour- 
 ing father and mother" has made their days long in 
 the land which the Almighty has given them. No- 
 where will you see more tenderness to children than 
 in China, and yet — here is another puzzle — nowhere, 
 it is said, is infanticide more common. I have seen a 
 Chinese father nursing his sick or wounded child with 
 a tenderness that would put a heartless mother in 
 Christian lands to the blush. There are in all the 
 cities of China, foundling hospitals, like those of 
 Paris and London, with wickets where the babe is 
 deposited and the bamboo (for the bamboo does every- 
 thing in China), to give notice before the poor mother 
 flies into darkness, perhaps to return, as in Chris- 
 tian countries (for the great maternal heart beats 
 everywhere), to be hired as a nurse for her abandoned 
 child. The charity which this phase of Paganism 
 teaches, founds hospitals and dispensaries where, as 
 here, young physicians are emulous of place for the 
 sake of practice, though the mode of dispensing reme- 
 dies is rather different, for, in China, the patient has a 
 variety of prescriptions presented to him, and then 
 draws lots for the one he takes. 
 
 And when I speak of the distortion, the refraction 
 as it were, of pure religious truth by this oriental the- 
 ology or philosophy, there is one familiar to every stu- 
 dent and traveller which is curious : " Do nnto others 
 as you would have others do unto you," Christian 
 
72 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 inspiration taught eighteen hundred years ago, and 
 five hundred years before, Confucius had laid down his 
 rule of morals : " Do not to others wliat you would 7iot 
 have others do to you;" a let-alone principle eminently 
 Chinese. 
 
 In China — unlike India, where castes and classes 
 rule — the visible head of religion, as of secular author- 
 ity, is the Emperor, and around him, as chief-priest, 
 hangs much that is graceful as Avell as not a little 
 which is grotesque. What they call "deity" is ap- 
 proached by the chief magistrate, who soon, to their 
 vision, becomes clothed with the attributes of the 
 divinity with whom he communes. As high-priest he 
 performs, among many others, the beautiful ceremony 
 of welcoming the spring and ploughing the land in 
 the presence of his court and subjects. As intercessor, 
 he offers up prayers for the relief of the sorrows and 
 sins and sufferings of his people, one of which, as 
 recently as March, 1853, in time of bloody civil war, 
 has a ring of gentleness and pious sympathy which 
 sounds pleasantly in the ear. 
 
 " In the first decade of the present moon," says the 
 Pekin Gazette, — the government organ, as it were, — 
 " when the prayers for grain and the great sacrifices 
 are offered, we intend to proceed in person to the front 
 of the altar, and, after a night of watching and fast- 
 ing, reverently offer up our heartfelt supplications that 
 our people may once more enjoy repose and perpetu- 
 ally cease from civil war and strife. Eeflecting upon 
 the distresses of my people, some of whom have had 
 no means of obtaining a livelihood, we have again 
 and again blamed ourselves. I am filled with appro- 
 
MEMORIES OF THE EAST. 73 
 
 hension and humbly entreat august heaven to pardon 
 my offences and spare my poor people !" This, I 
 repeat, has a sweet and gentle sound, and who shall 
 say if, instead of the clamour of brutal and exultant 
 fanaticism, such a voice of humble contrition could 
 have been heard from Christian lips not very long ago 
 in this our land, it would not have been listened to ? 
 
 The Pekin Gazette is " the government organ." It 
 is so strictly. It has all the characteristics. It praises 
 all the government does. It publishes all the impe- 
 rial edicts and oflBcial bulletins. Any one who hap- 
 pened to be in Cliina in time of war had a chance of 
 knowing something of dispatches from its " War De- 
 partment," such as the Chinese had the privilege of 
 reading, as it were, through their "Associated Press." 
 I was the involuntary witness of a battle in the north 
 of China, when the English and French assaulted 
 and, with some slaughter on the part of the Chinese, 
 carried the Peiho forts. It was a bloody and disastrous 
 rout. The " War Department" at the capital rose to 
 the occasion and instantly issued a bulletin announc- 
 ing a great and " decided" victory, attributing the 
 surrender of the forts, not to the enemy's arms, but to 
 "an unusually high tide, which washed out the garri- 
 son." Not only have they a government newspaper, 
 but there is annually published what we call a blue- 
 booh, in which are printed the names of all the officials 
 with their salaries, and they have a mode of compensa- 
 tion which might possibly be introduced with advan- 
 tage in other lands. They give their office-holders 
 certain specified salaries, and then a further sura, 
 described in their blue-book as "a virtue-preserving 
 
 4 
 
74 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 addition," to secure them from temptations, which 
 (only in Eastern lands, of course) are supposed some- 
 times to influence public servants. 
 
 But to return to the imperial authority. As the 
 vicegerent of Divinity, even according to the Chinese 
 notion of it, the Emperor, except on rare occasions, 
 is a mysterious and secluded being. No profane eye 
 is allowed to see him. No outside barbarian has had 
 a glimpse of the imperial recluse for seventy years, 
 when Lord Macartney was taken to Pekin. Lord 
 Elgin and the allied forces, in 1861, got near enough 
 to plunder and burn his summer palace, but he was 
 far away on the confines of Tartary, and though the 
 strong hand of occidental power has solved the great 
 difficulty of the sanctity of the capital, the western 
 ambassadors are as far, practically, from seeing the 
 Emperor as if they were idling, as of yore, at Canton 
 or Macao. It is really divinity which hedges this 
 king. Mr. Burlingame, who is supposed to have seen 
 everything, saw not this. 
 
 One other word on the religious aspect of the ex- 
 treme East. 
 
 From the soil of mere intelligence, unchastened 
 and unsubdued, in China as elsewhere, have sprung 
 the inevitable fruits. We know it in our country, 
 that in those regions where the subordination of the 
 intellect to mere authority, and especially authority 
 in matters of religious faith or sentiment, is resisted, 
 there what may be described as whims or vagaries of 
 intellect, absurd credulities of all sorts, are sure to 
 grow in rank luxuriance. Everybody knows in what 
 part of our land, table-turning, and spirit-rapping, and 
 
MEMORIES OF THE EAST. 75 
 
 spiritual mediums, and all this brood of monstrosities 
 have their growth, and it is unquestioned truth that, 
 long ago — not centuries, for such absurdity has not the 
 sanctity of age, but years — the turning of tables by 
 the imposition of hands ; the creation, by contact, of 
 spiritual communication; talking to the absent, if not 
 the dead, and having correspondence with them, was 
 in fashion, and is yet, among the shrewd, long-headed, 
 money-making, infidel Pagans farther east. Anoma- 
 lous and ricketty as this great Celestial empire seems, 
 there it stands, and there it is likely to stand, while 
 the active powers of western civilization are powerless 
 to affect it or to sustain themselves. Look for a mo- 
 ment at the experiments of the past. In 1497 Vasco 
 de Gama landed in India and planted an empire there. 
 The poet of Portugal celebrated the deed in immortal 
 verse, and a great colonial power was founded in the 
 East ; and yet the whole of this enterprise is frustrated, 
 and all that Portugal now holds in Asia are the little 
 sorrow-stricken peninsula of Macao and that other 
 once gorgeous city on the coast of Malabar, Goa. Goa, 
 once called the golden, — where the aged De Gama 
 closed his glorious life, where Camoens sang and suf- 
 fered, — is now one vast and grassy tomb where a thin 
 and gloomy population seem spared only to chant re- 
 quiems for its departed souls. " But," says a modern 
 writer, " though Portuguese dominion may never re- 
 vive in the East, so well were its foundations laid that 
 its language has survived, and if, in the eventual tri- 
 umph of Christianity, a Catholic church should be 
 formed in India, Portuguese will be the language of 
 the church wherever it extends." And so should it 
 
76 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 be, when you remember that the great mission to the 
 Indies in the fifteenth century of Xavier and Loyola, 
 whose footsteps I seemed to tread everywhere, was 
 begun under the patronage of Portugal. But her 
 colonial empire is gone, and heathen China stands. 
 
 Spain and France fared little better. All that the 
 former has is her colony of the Philippines; while 
 France, which, little more than a century ago, threat- 
 ened to absorb all Hindostan, has now but two patches 
 of territory — Pondicherry in the Carnatic, one hun- 
 dred and six miles square, and the little island of 
 Bourbon in the Indian Ocean. 
 
 And yet heathen China stands, and stands to puz- 
 zle us. Thus is the puzzle fairly stated by an exceed- 
 ingly clever English writer of our own time : 
 
 " In a country where the roses have no fragrance, 
 and the women no petticoats ; where the laborer has 
 no sabbath, and the magistrate no sense of honour; 
 where the roads bear no vehicles, and the ships no 
 keels; where old men fly kites; where the needle 
 points to the south, and the sign of being puzzled is 
 to scratch the antipodes of the head ; where the place 
 of honour is on the left hand, and the seat of intellect 
 is in the stomach ; where to take off your hat is an 
 insolent gesture, and to wear white garments is to put 
 yourself in mourning; where there is a literature 
 without an alphabet, and a language without a gram- 
 mar, one need be surprised at nothing."* 
 
 Pardon this wandering, and let us go back to books. 
 
 * Wingrove Cook. 
 
THE PRAYER BOOK. 
 
 Start not, reader ! this is not theology or anything 
 kindred to it. It would be the height of folly to write 
 theology now-a-days, when the Modern Tliinher, dressed 
 in all the colours of the rainbow, is flourishing his 
 wooden sword about, and is sure to knock over any 
 credulous clown who believes, as I do, in what was 
 taught me at my mother's knee. There are, in this 
 autumn season, ugly nests filled with honeyless, sting- 
 ing insects, which it is dangerous to disturb. Indeed, 
 the mother's knee must soon be out of fashion, in an 
 age of enlightenment, when reputable men and women 
 tell us, in print, that prostitution is better than maiden- 
 hood, and "a woman may take as many husbands in 
 ^iccession as her fancy dictates." There were pure 
 mothers once ; and they taught their young children 
 sweet, homely lessons out of this little volume, called 
 *' The Common Prayer Book." It is, however, only 
 critically that a layman should write about it. Landor 
 said " it was the sanctuary of our faith and our lan- 
 guage," and it is to the latter and its story, these notes 
 relate. 
 
 Here, then, is a little volume of scarcely two hundred 
 pages, of perfect English, which, created as English in 
 sound, though black-letter in form, more than three 
 hundred years ago, before Shakespeare's first play was 
 
78 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 printed and performed, is as fresh as if written yester- 
 day. It is not even old-fashioned ; and when, as here 
 in America, an attempt was made to modernize it, it 
 has been damaged. Open it at random — take any 
 prayer or exhortation, the familiar " Dearly Beloved," 
 or the "Declaration of Absolution," feebly whittled 
 away in our American imprint, and read it aloud, and 
 observe how fresh it is. Change a word and it is hurt. 
 There are clergymen (I knew a bishop once) who im- 
 agine they know the service by rote, and try to recite 
 it memoriter, and a sorry time their hearers have of it. 
 The jar caused by the substitution of a new word for 
 any one that is familiar, is misery. One might as well 
 alter Shakespeare. 
 
 It is this very familiarity which is its charm. The 
 Eoman Catholic boasts, as well he may, that go where 
 he will, his mode of worship is uniform, and the im- 
 mortal language in which it is embalmed never varies. 
 The Anglo-Catholic cannot say as much ; but, as Mr. 
 Webster said grandiosely of the drum-beat, the Prayer 
 Book of England encircles the globe and binds its 
 Christian humanity together. There is no English or 
 American man-of-war or merchantman on whose deck, 
 if prayer there be, it is not used, and its simple, plain, 
 inoffensive words, breathing no intolerance, have con- 
 quered the scruples and prejudices of the most captious 
 dissent. 
 
 Looking at it aesthetically, the advantage, I will not 
 say of any form, but of this form of prayer, will hardly be 
 disputed. Those who are accustomed to what is called 
 extemporaneous prayer, which, nine times out of ten, is 
 committed to memory, and is always — with rare excep- 
 
THE PBAYER BOOK. 79 
 
 tions it has never been my good fortune to meet — more 
 or less rambling and incoherent, a sort of hortatory 
 address to the Almighty, will not question the artistic 
 superiority of such a liturgy. This is shown by its 
 universal adoption on emergencies. Take, for example, 
 two notable proofs of this — the Burial Service, the 
 grandest collocation of words in the language, actually 
 dramatic in its force and pathos, and the " Form for 
 Family Prayer." Dissenters almost uniformly use the 
 one, and had much better adopt the other. The awk- 
 ward oral panegyric on the dead — the story of ancestry, 
 parentage, birth, and education — which is properly 
 excluded from liturgies, and is always listened to with 
 impatience, I am aware, survives; but when the mourn- 
 ers come to the churchyard and reach the grave, the 
 familiar "I am the Kesurrection and the Life," or 
 those grander words, " Man that is born of woman 
 hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery," 
 rise up solemnly, as if the grave were speaking, or 
 come down gloriously, as uttered from on high. So 
 with family prayers. Weary is the suffering of him 
 who has to make or listen to a new extemporaneous 
 prayer for a family's welfare every morning and night. 
 What dismal iteration ! . What spasmodic efforts at 
 variety ! The English Prayer Book contains no form 
 of family prayer — the idea of daily public service being 
 there held — but who that has ever heard it, according 
 to the American form, among those he loved at home, 
 and then again, like home-bred melody, among strang- 
 ers at the very antipodes, will doubt that there is 
 magic in a familiar form of words ? 
 
 But, says the dissenter from liturgical service, there 
 
80 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 is no earnestness and feeling, no sympathy between 
 suppliant and listener, in this or any set form. The 
 truth is just the reverse, from the mere fact that all 
 know what is to be said, and are not waiting for some 
 tour de phrase from a clever " minister." Go into a 
 country or a village church, — for there is too much 
 diffusion in huge city edifices, suited only to catliedral 
 service, — where every one is known to every one, and 
 all are neighbours, and listen when the clergyman, 
 without previous notice, utters the solemn words : " 
 Father of mercies and God of all comfort, our only help 
 in time of need, look down, pity, and relieve thy sick 
 servant for whom our prayers are desired ;" and every 
 thought turns at once to the vacant seat, and the 
 individual sufferer is known, and the silence, as it 
 were, speaks in earnest hope that the priestly prayer 
 may be listened to ; and when, at last, the dread alter- 
 native is spoken, " or else give her" (I choose to fancy il 
 a dying wife and mother) " grace so to take thy visita- 
 tion that, after this painful life ended, she may dwell 
 with thee in life everlasting," and every heart throbs 
 in sympathy for a desolated home, and the work of 
 prayer is done. "Words, though formal, often unlock 
 the heart. It was once the writer's lot, at the end of 
 the cruel war which desolated so many homes and 
 frustrated so many hopes and crushed so many hearts 
 in this our land, to attend church, according to the 
 Episcopal form, in Eichmond, then in ruin. The 
 Federal authority was restored, the " rebellion" at an 
 end, the graves at Hollywood covered with fresh flow- 
 ers, the tears for Stuart and the gallant Pegrams 
 (Eichmond's children) not dry, the Confederate Presi- 
 
THE PRAYER BOOK. 81 
 
 dent a prisoner charged with vicarious crime. The 
 Chief Magistrate of the United States was prayed for, 
 decorously, according to the Eitual ; but when, in the 
 Litany, the supplication was uttered, "That it may 
 please thee to preserve all sick persons and youug 
 children, and to show thy mercy upon all prisoners 
 and cajitivesj" common as the Avords seem, there was 
 a thrill in every heart — a thought of the manacled 
 captive at Fortress Monroe, their old friend and neigh- 
 bour, whose courage in the darkest hour had never 
 failed — which showed how a familiar " form" of prayer 
 can stir the heart. 
 
 It is an old story, the sailor's burial at sea, but one 
 that never is Avithout its pathos; and as "Dust to dust, 
 ashes to ashes," has its echo, never heard without a 
 shudder, from the earth the sexton's spade scatters on 
 the coffin, so, from the solemn cry of the master-at- 
 arms, "All hands to bury the dead!" to the words, 
 " We commend his body to the deep," and the shotted 
 hammock slips with a dull splash into 
 
 "The vast and wandering grave," 
 
 no one hears it unmoved, or fails to think the elo- 
 quence of the liturgy unequalled. 
 
 We know of the Prayer Book and the Burial Service 
 in fiction and in history, and that history our own. 
 In fiction, the good old Baron of Bradwardine, after 
 humanly " sending out his patrols and pickets, reads 
 the Evening Prayer of the Established Church" on the 
 eve of Preston Pans; and Camilla, in Miss Burney's 
 pretty but obsolete novel, dying, as she thought, in a 
 
 strange inn, revives on hearing her lover's voice read- 
 4* 
 
82 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 ing the offices for the sick. Mr. Trollope, irreverent 
 limner of the clergy, has no jest for the Prayer Book, 
 though he speaks of Archdeacon Grantley's dressing- 
 closet, "where he keeps his boots and his sermons!" 
 In history : Washington read prayers night and morn- 
 ing at Fort Necessity ; as did Doctor Dnche before the 
 Continental Congress, though not, I trust, in the sprawl- 
 ing fashion in which American art has painted him. 
 The "Burial Service," for its prayers are "few and 
 short," Avas read over poor Moore's uncoffined remains 
 on that dark January night, sixty years ago, at Coruna. 
 It was uttered over the proto-martyr of the middle 
 colonies in the revolution — the Jacobite, Hugh Mercer 
 — in the classic ground of old Christ Church ; and on 
 the lawn at Mount Vernon, when, on the 16th of 
 December, 1799, a little schooner anchored in the 
 Potomac firing its simple salute the while, Washington 
 sank to rest. But never was it more picturesque than 
 at an enemy's grave during that same revolution. 
 
 When, in the autumn of 1777, Burgoyne's army 
 entangled itself in the fastnesses of the upper Hudson, 
 and disaster lowered heavily around him and his gal- 
 lant army, — for such, bating his Hessians and kindred 
 Indians, it was — General Fraser fell mortally Avounded 
 by an American rifle-shot. He lingered, as we all 
 know, in Madame de Eiedesel's hut, where she and her 
 children had taken refuge, and died, and was buried 
 on a hill near by. The collection of officers at the 
 funeral attracted the attention of the hostile artiller- 
 ists, and a sharp fire was concentrated on the spot. 
 Then was it that the exhortation of the Liturgy, " Be 
 ye steadfast, unmovable," had a new significance, and 
 
THE PRATER BOOK. 83 
 
 General Burgoyne (the name sounds sadly and pleas- 
 antly in our ears just now over the sea-grave of the 
 'Captain 'and the rescue of the Empress), a brilliant 
 and accomplished writer, thus describes the scene in 
 a "Narrative of the Northern Campaign" — which, 
 reader, if you have never read, get at once : 
 
 " The incessant cannonade during the solemnity ; 
 the steady attitude and unaltered voice with which 
 the chaplain officiated, though frequently covered with 
 dust which the shot threw on all sides of him ; the 
 mute but expressive mixture of sensibility and indigna- 
 tion on every countenance; these objects will remain 
 to the last of life on the mind of every one present. 
 The growing darkness added to the solemnity. To 
 the canvas and the pen of history, gallant friend, do I 
 consign thy memory ! It will live long after the frail 
 record of my pen shall be forgotten." 
 
 One other historical illustration of my text occurs 
 to me — the familiar anecdote of Lord, then Mr., Den- 
 man, when acting as counsel for Queen Caroline. Her 
 name being excluded from the Ritual in the regular 
 supplication for the royal family, as if she were past 
 praying for, Mr. Denman, with bitter pathos, said they 
 dared not suppress the Litany for "the desolate and 
 oppressed." 
 
 The critical and historical literature on the Prayer 
 Book — I say it with due reverence — is a scandal on the 
 Anglican Church. Nor has the deficiency been sup- 
 plied by the American branch. The dreary curse of 
 " preaching," and preaching platitudes, rests upon the 
 clergy. Spoiled by this very necessity, as well as by 
 effeminate association, and the grateful incense so pro- 
 
84 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 fusely burned, especially in this country, under the 
 clerical nose, they are not, as a general rule, accurate 
 students, thorough scholars, even in their own profes- 
 sional learning, and never critics. There is no Ameri- 
 can book of scholarship on the Liturgy, and until Mr. 
 Blunt's admirable annotated edition of 1866, too expen- 
 sive to be within perusal and easy reach, there was 
 none that I am aware of in England. Its rich and 
 luminous pages tell all one needs to know. 
 
 It is a curious record, this of the Prayer Book, and 
 though extending with precise knowledge over eight 
 hundred years, — for the " Salisbury Use" is dated a. d. 
 1085, twenty years after the conquest, — not at all an ob- 
 scure or intricate one. It illustrates, better than any- 
 thing, the struggle for independence which Christian 
 Britain always maintained. St. Augustin's great diffi- 
 culty was to bring the free church he found in England 
 under the absolute control of Eome, and, as to its forms, 
 he failed. The Angli were very militant and rebellious 
 Angeli. Latin, the language of the Continental church, 
 was not the vernacular of England. It was never, but 
 exceptionally, spoken there, as in ancient days it was' 
 in Portugal and Spain and Italy. The Saxon and 
 Norman element was in chronic revolt. Tyndale's 
 Bible was the first expression of this ; and then, in slow 
 time, woven out of the beautiful Latin and Greek 
 liturgies, came the Prayer Book. The traces of the 
 mixture of the ancient languages — those immortal 
 twins of Greece and Italy — are singularly graceful. 
 The two most beautiful prayers, the "Our Father" 
 and that of the golden-mouthed Saint of Antioch, are 
 Greek, while the Psalter and most of the prayers are 
 
THE PRAYER BOOK. 85 
 
 Galilean Latin, and the Collect for Grace is as old as 
 the sixth century. 
 
 And it was, as all know, a native-born Englishman, 
 and a thorough churchman, — not a semi-Puritan, like 
 Eidley or Latimer (for the hand of the Puritan never 
 beautified anything), — who, at the end, created the 
 Prayer Book. Of him, the not over-reverent his- 
 torian of our times says, and I cannot refrain from 
 quoting it: 
 
 " No plunder of church or crown had touched the 
 hands of Cranmer; no fibre of political intrigue, or 
 crime, or conspiracy could be traced to the Palace of 
 Lambeth. As the translation of the Bible bears upon 
 it the imprint of the mind of Tyndale, so, while the 
 Church of England stands, the image of Cranmer will 
 be seen reflected on the calm surface of the Liturgy. 
 The most beautiful portions of it are translations from 
 the Breviary ; yet the same prayers translated by 
 others would not be those which chime like church 
 bells in the ears of the English child. The addresses, 
 which are original, have the same silvery melody of 
 language and breathe the same simplicity of spirit. 
 Edward VL died before the Liturgy could be tampered 
 with ; and from amidst the foul weeds in which its 
 roots were buried, stands up beautiful the one admira- 
 ble thing which this unhappy reign produced." 
 
 This was in 1549. Then came 1552, with the influ- 
 ences of the ultra-Eeformers, shrinking from sacra- 
 ments and priestly offices ; and then Queen Elizabeth, 
 neither the one thing nor the other. But the Prayer 
 Book of Cranmer is the opus primeps. It is the " Mar- 
 tyr's Monument." 
 
86 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 Looking at it, let me repeat, not theologically, but 
 artistically, one caunot but regret a part of the Ke- 
 formers' purgation. It may be heresy — it may be super- 
 stition — but it is "poetry," to pray for the dead, for 
 the repose of the soul, for the tranquil passage over the 
 dark water. Bishop Hall deliberately recognized it as 
 sound practice, and the ancient office is preserved, 
 though not in use. It is very simple and very beauti- 
 ful. Of it all, but a small and doubtful fragment is 
 left to us. No one who has lost a friend, be it yester- 
 day or years ago, — a wife, or mother, or loving child, — ■ 
 can suppress utterly an emotion and a hope when in 
 the prayer for the church militant he hears : " We also 
 bless thy holy name for all thy servants departed this 
 life in thy faith and fear." This is all the rough, rude 
 thing called " Reformation" has permitted to survive. 
 Had the one green leaf or flower been seen, it would 
 have been rooted out. 
 
 In exactly a century, the Liturgy, which had with- 
 stood Puritanism, as it were, insinuated, encountered 
 it triumphant, and, as ever, intolerant, and by an 
 ordinance of Cromwell's Parliament, in 1644, the 
 Prayer Book was absolutely suppressed in public, and 
 it was made penal to use it in private. In 1645, Pres- 
 byterianism, in its most austere form, was established, 
 and " to preach, write, or print anything in derogation 
 or depraving of its directory," subjected the offender to 
 discretionary fine. Then came the Eestoration, and 
 the ineffectual Savoy Conference, and finally the re- 
 vision of 1661 ; and the story of the Anglican Liturgy 
 is told. The revisers spoke, gravely but not harshly, 
 of the recent past. " By what undue means," say they, 
 
THE PRAYER BOOK. 87 
 
 "and for what mischievous purposes, the use of the 
 Liturgy, though enjoined by the laws of the land, and 
 those never yet repealed, came, during the late un- 
 happy confusions, to be discontinued, is too well 
 known to the world, and we are not willing here to 
 remember." 
 
 Our American deflection from the standards, though 
 a necessary, was a clumsy one. The political crisis 
 required changes in those parts of the Liturgy which 
 were political, and here it should have ended; but 1785 
 was not a propitious moment, with the fires of civil war 
 hardly cooled, and there were then no very thorough 
 scholars in the church, or, unless imported, in the 
 land, or what may be termed refined critics in the 
 unepiscopal body which had to assume the function 
 of revision. There was the mild and tolerant wisdom 
 of White and Prevost, sure to avoid or round off, as it 
 were, any sharp points. Doctor William Smith, of 
 Maryland, formerly of Pennsylvania, a good scholar, but 
 a rugged, perverse, and disappointed man, seems to have 
 done most of the work. The convention made war 
 upon adverbs and pronouns and particles. As if for 
 the mere purpose of change, they suppressed through- 
 out, the good, substantive pronoun " them," even where 
 it occurs in the Lord's Prayer, a transcript of the text 
 of Scripture, and substituted the feeble adjective 
 " those." In the Litany and prayer for the President 
 (as if in anticipation of to-day, when no such special 
 supplication is needed) they struck out " wealth" and 
 put in "prosperity." They omitted the duty of the 
 bishops in consecration " to punish all unquiet and 
 criminous men;" and, as if they detected satire in the 
 
88 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 prayer for the clergy that he alone could help them 
 " who workest great marvels," altered it by a peri-- 
 phrasis. They spoiled it almost everywhere, and yet, 
 by an odd oversight, left untouched a single word in 
 the Litany which, but for success, would have had an 
 awkward sound for some of them. That word is 
 " rebellion." 
 
 It was originally an unnatural graft on the Anglican 
 liturgy. " Eebellion" is not now, and never was, a 
 moral wrong. It is the worst of Jesuitism to say that 
 criminality depends on events. "Sedition and privy 
 conspiracy" are sins from which all may pray to be 
 delivered. " Eebellion" was in no ancient liturgy. " It 
 was added," says Bishop Cosin, almost with a blush, 
 "for obvious reasons, in 1661" — that is, when Charles 
 II. was restored, and the regicides, living, were pun- 
 ished, and, dead, were disinterred ; and revolt against 
 " Sacred Majesty" was a crime indeed. It never ought 
 to have had a place in any form of prayer, and least of 
 all in ours. Good Mr. Seabury, who but nine years 
 before had piloted the King's troops, Hessians and all, 
 in pursuit of "Eebels" through Westchester County, 
 must have grimly smiled, and Odell, from his retreat 
 in Nova Scotia, chuckled, when the fathers of the 
 American Church at Philadelphia determined to retain 
 the Jacobite prayer against "rebellion." There it is; 
 and, no doubt, during our " late unhappy confusions" 
 both sides prayed lustily to be delivered from this 
 deadly sin. 
 
 The convention tried, in their own words, " to make 
 such alterations as to render it consistent with the 
 American Eevolution and the constitutions of the sev- 
 
THE PRAYER BOOK. 89 
 
 eral States" (there were no United States then) ; and 
 when they had done their work, they seemed to think 
 they had done too much, for, said they, in their depre- 
 catory address to the Anglican bishops, " We hope you 
 will not disclaim a branch of your church merely for 
 having been, in your lordships' opinion, if that should 
 be the case, rather more closely pruned than the sepa- 
 ration made absolutely necessary." There were Amer- 
 ican mitres in suspense then, and it was necessary to 
 be very deferential. Nor was it in vain ; for, thanks 
 to the good sense of Mr. Pitt and the Primate, the 
 well-deserved honour was bestowed ungrudgingly 
 upon the two who, though "rebels," were American 
 churchmen, and Doctor Seabury was compelled to go 
 northward and resort for liis promotion to all that 
 were left of the Scottish non-jurors. 
 
 Such is "The Prayer Book," critically and histor- 
 ically. Of it, hundreds of thousands are printed and 
 sold every year in our land. Its value cannot be over- 
 estimated. It is the safeguard of ecclesiastical disci- 
 pline. It is the " cheap defence" of the church. It is the 
 buoy for which the pilot steers, and it shows where the 
 anchor lies. There is scarcely a home among the 
 educated where it is not to be found. Its words are 
 familiar in every ear. Its forms hallow our daily life. 
 It tells, in its ceremonies, of birth, and baptism, and 
 marriage, and death. The blushing bride and the 
 happy lover hear it. The mother prays from it over 
 the cradle of her babe, and with it the child follows the 
 parent to the grave. 
 
AUTOGIRAPHS. 
 
 The lineal though degenerate descendant of an 
 autograph-hunter, pure and simple, I take to be a 
 collector of " postage stamps." Numismatics have 
 some real interest, but mere autograph hunting is the 
 lowest form of innocent intellectual pursuit. Nine 
 times out of ten, the collector is ignorant of the true 
 value of what he so eagerly pursues, knows little or 
 nothing of them whose scribbling he covets, and ac- 
 cepts on faith the signature of any one he is told is 
 famous. Then, too, according to my observation, a 
 professional autograph-hunter is of very easy morals. 
 An autograph is a sort of " umbrella" of literature 
 which any one has a right to appropriate, and, for 
 its sake, many a precious volume has been muti- 
 lated by the spoiler. Yet, within limits, autographs 
 have an interest and a charm. When Angelo Mai in 
 the Vatican, or the German archaeologist in the Illyrian 
 monastery, unrolled (if that be the process) the pal- 
 impsests, and, as it were, looked the buried Cicero and 
 Pliny in the face, one envies the emotion. The un- 
 ravelling of the charred papyri in the Neapolitan 
 museums, worthless as thus far the results have proved, 
 and the disclosure of Greek characters written eighteen 
 hundred years ago, and slowly rescued from the cinders 
 of Vesuvius, is noble autograph-hunting. Then, too, 
 
 . 
 
AUTOGRAPHS. 91 
 
 the other German scholar who found a laanuscript of 
 the gospels (autograph of somebody) on the summit or 
 the slopes of Mount Sinai, dating as far back as Con- 
 stantine, and unknown to general Christendom for 
 fifteen centuries, — from A. d. 331 to 1844, — surely he 
 had his reward. One must be a very clod who can 
 look without at least curiosity on the signatures of 
 Guy, or, as he wrote it, Guido Faux, before and after 
 the rack — every letter quivering with recent agony, 
 and the surname a desperate and illegible scrawl ; or 
 Milton's Lycidas at Trinity College ; or the letter, which 
 Mr. Hillard tells us of, from the Venetian ambassador to 
 Pope Sixtus, giving the news of Henry IV.'s assassina- 
 tion by Eavaillac. But for these, some knowledge and 
 not a little imagination are required, and to neither, 
 according to my experience, does the technical auto- 
 gramaniac pretend. 
 
 Faith in genuineness is needed. Like the fair one 
 of antiquity, an autograph must not even be suspected. 
 But here let me for a moment pause and ask, by what 
 line are the territories of what we do and do not believe 
 divided ? Where, in the domain of the past, are we to 
 cease to believe in the genuineness of a relic, or an 
 autograph as a kind of relic ? Nobody doubts the gen- 
 uineness of the huge integuments which encased the 
 hands of Mr. Lincoln on that Good Friday night when 
 Booth shot him in the theatre, and which are reli- 
 giously preserved at Washington. The bullet which, 
 in 1848, killed the poor Archbishop on the Paris bar- 
 ricades, is enshrined at Notre Dame, and no one ques- 
 tions it. The stump of a pen with which was signed 
 the treaty of Paris, a century ago, is preserved. The 
 
92 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 robes worn by Thomas a Becket, when he came to 
 grief at Canterbury, are to be seen at Sens; and at 
 Milan is a lock of Lncrezia Borgia's hair (" only a 
 woman's bair," as Swift said of poor Esther Johnson's) 
 — that wbich, Leigh Hunt somewbere tells us, " sur- 
 vives like love — so light, so soft, so escaping from the 
 idea of death, with which we may almost look up to 
 heaven, commune with the angelic nature, and say, 
 I have a piece of thee, not unworthy of thy being now." 
 As I have said, the tresses of the beautiful poisoner 
 of history and Donif^etti survive four hundred years. 
 Where, then, on the records or among the traditions 
 of the past, do we enter the region of doubt and de- 
 nial ? and is the Church of Kome absolutely irrational 
 in asking for faith in relics of more dim antiquity ? 
 
 It has never fallen in my way to see truly antique 
 autographs. The Solemn League and Covenant, I have 
 seen. There are few of any ^ alue here, except what 
 was once Mr. Teft's and is now Dr. Sprague's. A little 
 collection lies before me which, if the reader will par- 
 don such trifling, is, or may be made suggestive. They 
 cover more than a century of stirring times. But that 
 they are suggestive, they would be valueless, at least 
 to me. They are autographs and holographs. 
 
 Just a hundred and fifty years ago — for he died, 
 luckily for himself, in 1721 — lived a public man, with 
 an unmusical name; a minister of the crown, over 
 whom, when death came to the rescue, hung the 
 penalty of parliamentary impeachment. Such was 
 James Craggs, the friend of Stanhope and of Pope, and 
 Secretary of State to George the First. Around his 
 memory hang the dismal crimes and follies of the South 
 
 J 
 
AUTOGRAPHS, 93 
 
 Sea sclieme, but, as I look on a letter with the date and 
 post-mark of JSTovember 5, 1720, just before the ex- 
 plosion and the shipwreck, with the address to " John 
 Newsham, Esq., Member of Parliament, Warwickshire," 
 and '^ J. Craggs" in the corner, there comes from the 
 grave of the Past a strain of familiar melody, falling 
 gently on the heart, and making one willing to forget 
 the jari'ing agonies of his close of life : 
 
 " Statesman, yet friend to truth, of soul sincere ; 
 In action faithful, and in honour clear ; 
 Who broke no promise, served no private end ; 
 Who gain'd no title, and who lost no friend ; 
 Ennobled by himself, by all approved ; 
 Praised, wept, and honour'd by the Muse he loved." 
 
 Coincidently, or nearly so, with Craggs, comes a hol- 
 ograph of Lord Chesterfield — a letter to David Mallet, 
 dated at " Bath, March ye 9th, 1748." It is deliciously 
 characteristic, stately in its high-bred courtesy, and 
 yet graceful ; with none of the patronizing tone of the 
 peer to the relatively humble author and editor ; doing 
 or promising a kindness readily, and mingling with it 
 that sort of pleasant gossip which is so well adapted 
 to put parties on an equality. Then, too, familiar 
 names of literature and politics float pleasantly on its 
 surface, and bring back the old-fashioned associations 
 of that day — Pelham, then Prime Minister, and Lit- 
 tleton, and Gray's friend West, and Thomson of the 
 " Seasons." It begins with pleasantry and genial sym- 
 pathy. Mallet suflfering, it seems, from an opthalmic 
 ailment. " I can say to you now without a compli- 
 ment what I could not with truth have said to you 
 
94 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 some years ago — which is, that I do not know a pair 
 of eyes in which I interest myself so much as I do in 
 yours. I use the word ' interest' very properly, for it 
 is from the use of your eyes I expect the best employ- 
 ment of my own." Then follows, as if to take away 
 or defer anything like patronizing, gossip as to his own 
 political retirement, and the speculations of the " cof- 
 fee-house tables" (for clubs were not) on the subject. 
 One sentence I quote, not so much for its cleverness, 
 but for some peculiarities of expression which, we may 
 regret, have gone out of fashion. I preserve the spell- 
 ing and the capital letters. " Lord Chesterfield would 
 be Caesar or nothing, says a Spirited Politician ; There 
 is something more in this affair than we yet know, 
 says a deeper. He expects to be called again, says 
 a third. While the silent Pantomimical Politician 
 shrugs everything eventually, and is sure not to be 
 disproved at last. They are all wellcome, let them 
 account for my present situation how they please ; this 
 I know and they do not, that I feel and enjoy the com- 
 fort of it." He then tells Mallet what he had done for 
 him — how he had interceded with the cautious Prime 
 Minister. "Our conversation ended, as all those con- 
 versations do, with general assurances on his part that 
 he would do for you when he could. None but he who 
 gives these assurances can know the reall value of 
 them ; for he could not say more if he meant to realize 
 them, and he would not say less if he did not." This 
 letter is, I believe, in print ; but as it lies before me, 
 with its faded, gilt-edged paper, and its perfectly fresh 
 ink, shed a hundred and twelve years ago; its clear, 
 distinct handwriting (the importance of which he so 
 
AUTOGRAPHS. 95 
 
 urged upon his ungracious boy) ; its prodigal use of 
 consonants; for the wretched clipping system was 
 not then in vogue — his "affraid" and "transmitt" 
 and " Wellcome" and "reall" and "faithfull," it is no 
 great strain on fancy to go back to South Audley 
 Street, where Chesterfield House, as he planned it, still 
 stands intact, or to Bath and the Pump-room and Beau 
 Nash, and see again this kind-hearted, brilliant, high- 
 spirited gentleman, — for such he was, in spite of Mrs. 
 Oliphant, — and to breathe the radiant atmosphere 
 which habitual courtesy generated around him. Hon- 
 our, I say defiantly, to the memory of a patriot, when 
 patriotism was rare; a statesman, a scholar, a loving, 
 anxious parent, — for such he was, as if to repair an 
 aboriginal wrong to a most ungracious boy, — and the 
 writer, in my poor judgment, of the best English prose 
 of his times — better than Bolingbroke's and as good 
 as Swift's ! There have been many real or manufac- 
 tured death-bed sayings, but none more genuine and 
 characteristic than his. " I die content," said Wolfe 
 at Quebec. "Kiss me. Hardy!" whimpered Nelson 
 in the cockpit of the Victory. " I still live," said Mr, 
 Webster, " Is this death ?" were the words whispered 
 by poor angelic Margaret Davidson to her mother, 
 and ejaculated by George the Fourth to Sir William 
 Knighton, terrified at the coming reality. But " Take 
 a chair, Dayrolles," from Chesterfield's dying lips, 
 was the last and fitting expiration of a kind and 
 gentle spirit which had so long 
 
 " Shone in the small, sweet courtesies of life." 
 
 Passing down the stream of time, as thus illustra- 
 ted, — for their handwriting is before me as I write, — 
 
96 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 Lord Bute, and the Duke of Grafton, and "Jemmy 
 Twitcher," and Wilkes (beautiful penmanship), and 
 Lord Temple, and George Grenville, and the twin 
 suicides Charles Yorke and Lord Olive, my eye rests 
 on two, who, contemporaries and rivals, rise grandly 
 from the low level of their times, William Murray, 
 Pope's " Lost Ovid," and that " fierce cornet of 
 horse," or, as his master pleasantly called him, "trum- 
 pet of sedition," the elder Pitt — Mansfield and Chat- 
 ham . 
 
 Lord Mansfield's letter, written in February, 1767, 
 when he was nearly seventy years of age, is a specimen 
 of clumsy penmanship, but of graceful, gentlemanly 
 style. He had then been eleven years in the high judi- 
 cial function which made his fame, and which he was 
 destined to exercise for twenty more years — the longest 
 judicial tenure, if my memory serves me, ever known 
 — the light of serene intellect shining steadily to the 
 last. He lived till he was on the edge of his ninth 
 decade. Strangely, it occurs to me as I look on the 
 blurred, yellow paper before me, do the generations of 
 men bind themselves together. Lord Mansfield con- 
 versed with a man who had seen Charles I. beheaded, 
 and the writer of these notes has in turn talked with 
 those, or at least one, now an actual participant in 
 this day's doings, who has associated with contempo- 
 raries of Mansfield and Chatham, and described their 
 chronic bickerings. 
 
 On the 24th June, 1770, Lord Chatham, then at 
 Hayes, wrote the words in his bold, masculine hand- 
 writing on which my eye now rests. It is addressed 
 to Mr. Thomas Nuthall, the eminent solicitor, whose 
 
AUTOGRAPHS. 9Y 
 
 death, soon after a conflict with a highwayman on 
 Hounslow Heath, is recorded in the police story of 
 those days. He was Lord Chatham's " Dear Nuthall." 
 Beckford, ancestor of Fonthill and Vathek, who had 
 dared to speak brave words of truth to royalty, was 
 but three days dead. " I can say nothing," he writes, 
 " u23on the afflicting loss of Mr. Beckford — my heart is 
 too full of it." Beckford, bold and turbulent, was a 
 man after Chatham's own heart, and he mourned for 
 him sincerely. No public man on the record of Eng- 
 land's modern story has attracted more conflicting 
 judgments; but still the statue, view it as we may, is 
 very gigantic and imposing. The King hated him 
 with all the ferocity of a diseased intellect. The 
 gossips of politics, such as Horace Walpole, who have 
 done so much to make history, were awed by him, and 
 praised him involuntarily. Where, for instance, is there 
 a finer tribute than when he writes to Mason, more 
 than ten years after death had claimed Lord Chatham: 
 " Admiral Darby has relieved Gibraltar, and the Span- 
 iards ran into their burrows, as if Lord Chatham were 
 still alive." Yet Walpole was in the habit of calling 
 him " old Garrick." Continental writers have done 
 full justice. There is a letter somewhere from Turgot 
 to Hume, of curious interest, as illustrative of the 
 struggles of true political economy a century ago. It 
 reads like Cobden : " II serait, cependant, bien a desirer 
 que M. Pitt, et tons ceux qui conduisent les nations 
 pensasseut comme nous sur tous les pointes. J'ai bien 
 peur que votre faraeux demagogue ne suive des prin- 
 cipes tout diflferens, et ne se croie interesse a entreteuir 
 dans votre nation le prejuge que vous avez appele 
 
 5 
 
98 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 * jealousy of trade.' Ce serait grand malheur pour les 
 deux nations. Je crois cependant, I'epuisement assez 
 egal de part et d'autre pour que cette folie ne fut pas 
 longue!" It is a French writer of our day, as unlike 
 Chatham " as I to Hercules/ who does him most exact 
 justice. "He expanded," says Lamartine, "the space 
 of Parliament to the proportions of his own character 
 and his own language. He was a public man in all 
 the greatness of the phrase — the soul of a nation 
 personified in an individual — the inspiration of a 
 people in the heart of a patrician. His oratory had 
 something as grand as his action. It was the heroic 
 in language. The echoes of Lord Chatham's words 
 were heard, were felt, all over the continent." 
 
 But my autographs prompt other and gentler 
 thoughts than of Chatham as he fulmined over 
 Europe — of him as a father and husband and friend — 
 a friend, too, to us, for he refused to let his son draAV a 
 sword against American "rebels." In 1769, as letters 
 not yet published show, Lord Chatham retired with 
 his family to Chevening, the seat of his son-in-law, in 
 Kent, the owner being absent in Italy. There we read, 
 in the letters of a domestic, very homely details. "The 
 young gentlemen and ladies have had a dancing-mas- 
 ter from town twice a week ever since they have been 
 here. Lady Chatham has been so kind as to send for 
 my wife and me to see their performance, which was 
 exceedingly clever, and which we took as a great favour 
 from her ladyship. Lord Pitt's birthday was last Mon- 
 day sennight, which was kept here, and a ball at 
 night given to the servants. Lady Hester's ('after- 
 ward the weird hermit of Damascus') is to-day, which 
 
AUTOGRAPHS. 99 
 
 will be kept in the same manner, with a ball at night, 
 so that we have of late lived wonderful merry, and 
 everything has been quite agreeable. It was doubted 
 some few days ago that Lord Chatham was going to 
 have a fit of the gout, but it proved to be nothing but 
 his overtiring himself with playing at billiards with 
 the young gentlemen and ladies, which occasioned a 
 little pain in his ankle." Nor does the Earl write less 
 familiarly, though always with a Chathamic twang. 
 He plans a new walk in the park, — to this day shown 
 as " Lord Chatham's Drive," — and thus refers to it : 
 " I recommend the immediate execution of this essen- 
 tial work. If I can be of any use in conjunction with 
 Mr. Brampton, I shall think myself honoured if you 
 will appoint me joint overseer of the way, almost the 
 only oflBce an old cripple is fit for. I carry my ambi- 
 tion to be remembered at Chevening so far that I wish 
 it may be said hereafter, if ever this plan for the road 
 should go into execution. He, the overseer, who made 
 this way, did not make the Peace of Paris." And then 
 he adds, referring to his son, "My poor "William is still 
 ailing, but, thank God, is much better, so that we can 
 leave him without anxiety next week." 
 
 There is in England a form of memorial which has 
 never been to any extent introduced into this country 
 — plaster casts of the countenances of the dead. They 
 are very ghastly, but strangely impressive, and not 
 life but death-like. Two are preserved at Chevening 
 of this great father and great son. Lord Chatham's 
 face is twisted by paralysis, showing unmistakeably the 
 character of the blow which smote him on the field of 
 his fame, on that April day ninety-three years ago ; 
 
 LOFC. 
 
100 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 while Mr. Pitt's fearful attenuation and expresston 
 of misery is as sad a sight as these eyes ever looked 
 upon. 
 
 My autograph of tlie younger Pitt, illustrative of his 
 happy and convivial tendencies, is brief enough to be 
 quoted. The penmanship is very neat. The letter is 
 addressed to the first Lord Carrington, then rejoicing 
 in the simple patronymic of " Mr. Robert Smith :" 
 
 "Dear Smith: Not having made the party I in- 
 tended for to-day, I shall be glad if you will give me 
 leave to recall my excuse, and to dine with you unless 
 your table is full. Ever yours, W. Pitt. 
 
 "Saturday morning," 
 
 The autographic roll I mi^ht call must not be too 
 much prolonged ; nor have I ventured on American 
 subjects — Franklin's really beautiful penmanship, and 
 "Washington's fine, manly, surveyor's round-hand, with 
 his profuse capitals and his obsolete but not incorrect 
 spelling ; and " Old Put's" autographical monstrosities. 
 There is room for but one or two more illustrations from 
 abroad. These lie before me — Cobbett's bold, clear, 
 distinct writing, not a word too many, not a phrase 
 uncertain, in the blackest of ink, and on the toughest 
 of paper ; and, by way of contrast, the daintiest little 
 note of Samuel Rogers, as late as 1846, when he was 
 among the " eighties," and yet as neatly written and 
 expressed as if it were a young man's love-letter : 
 
 " I wish I could tell you what I felt when I read 
 your very, very kind letter. Happy indeed should I 
 be, if I could pass a day or two under your roof But 
 I dare not say yes — and yet you must not start if you 
 
AUTOGRAPHS. 101 
 
 receive another saying that small and terrific mono- 
 syllable. Pray, pray forgive me, and remember me to 
 one who requires no reminding — who, like yourself, 
 never forgets a friend. Sincerely yours, 
 
 " October 14, 1846. Samuel Kogers." 
 
 One other, and my illustrative gossip is done. In 
 the following, the name of the bearer is alone sup- 
 pressed, and the reader is begged to note the charac- 
 teristic precaution of the Great Captain against mid- 
 night intrusion : 
 
 "London-, June ^0, 1842. 
 
 " Mks. Cross : I beg you to shew my house to 
 
 and his friends on Wednesday, the 33d June, at twelve 
 o'clock at noon. Yours, etc., Wellington." 
 
 Resolute to abstain in these illustrations from any 
 reference to the living, some that are very precious 
 have been laid aside, with the chance that he who pens 
 these notes may be among the departed before the 
 writers, whose Avords he cherishes, are called away. But 
 as this little essay has been in progress, a knell from a 
 distance tells me that, in one case, the reason for reserve 
 has ceased. The great soldier of America, — for such 
 history, Avhen our miserable bickerings are forgotten, 
 will pronounce him ; the Christian gentleman ; the 
 knightly leader of chivalry, not less glorious because 
 unfortunate ; the man whom in his grave all, truly 
 brave and good, mourn and honour, — Eobert E. Lee, of 
 Virginia, is dead ; and, as these lines are written, is 
 going to his grave, by the side of Jackson, at Lexing- 
 ton. His autographs lie before me ; the penmanship 
 
102 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 graceful and delicate, like a woman's, and his words 
 those of modesty and simple truth. 
 
 As early as the 10th of Noyember, 1865, he writes 
 to a friend : 
 
 " I concur with you entirely as to the importance 
 of a true history of the war ; and it is my purpose, 
 unless prevented, to write that of the campaigns in 
 Virginia. With this view I have been engaged since 
 the cessation of hostilities in endeavouring to procure 
 the necessary official information. All my records, 
 reports, returns, etc., with the headquarters of the 
 army, were needlessly destroyed by the clerks having 
 them in charge on the retreat from Petersburg, and 
 such as had been forwarded to the War Department in 
 Richmond were either destroyed in its conflagration or 
 captured at the South in the attempt to save them. I 
 desire to obtain some vouchers in support of my recol- 
 lection, or I should have made some progress in the 
 narrative. I have not even my letter or order books 
 to which to refer. I have thought it possible that 
 some of my official correspondence, which would be of 
 value to me, might be found among the captured 
 records in Washington, and that General Grant, who 
 possesses magnanimity as well as ability, might cause 
 me to be furnished with copies. I have, however, 
 hesitated to approach him on the subject, as it is one 
 in which he would naturally feel no interest." 
 
 On the 28th December, 1866, he writes : 
 
 "If you see Mr. Davis, I beg that you will present 
 to him my warmest regards ; and, if you can find fit 
 
AUTOGRAPHS. 103 
 
 words to express it, my deep interest in his welfare. 
 You say rightly, that nothing can be done by his 
 friends for his relief, and that adds to the bitterness 
 of my distress ; for I feel that any attempt only serves 
 to arouse afresh the slumbering ire of his opponents. 
 We must, therefore, be hopeful, but patient." 
 
 As late as the 11th of June, 1869, he says : 
 
 " I feel more strongly than I can describe the impor- 
 tance of a true history of the events of the war between 
 the Northern and the Southern States, and had re- 
 solved to prepare a narrative of the military occur- 
 rences in Virginia. I have not changed my purpose, 
 but at first thought the time was unpropitious. The 
 passions of neither section had sufficiently cooled to 
 hear the truth, the only thing I cared to relate. I do 
 not think that time has arrived yet, but it is approach- 
 ing. I have been collecting facts, but am at a loss in 
 consequence of my records, papers, etc., having been 
 destroyed, and have been so situated as to be incapable 
 of supplying them. Still I am doing something and 
 hope to succeed." 
 
 These were almost his last words ; and they speak 
 as a legacy to the South to do an unfulfilled duty, 
 which a reconciled people will have a right to demand. 
 As for him, though it may be that 
 
 " his triumphs will be sung 
 
 By some unmoulded tongue, 
 
 Far on in summers that we shall not see," 
 
 the duty of surviving contemporaries is to prepare the 
 record for the future. And who can better do this 
 
104 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 work, illuminate this holy scroll, than the accomplished 
 scholar and brave soldier who, I see, helped to bear the 
 pall of Lee, and in whose veins flows the blood of the 
 great general who fell at Shiloh ?* 
 
 With these saddened words I end my gossip about 
 *' Autographs." 
 
 * " During his last illness it was sometimes my sad duty to minis- 
 ter to his needs. I feel that in an assembly where every heart throbs 
 with sorrow for our departed chieftain, I violate no confidence by 
 adverting to a death-bed every way worthy of the life it ended. Once 
 in the solemn watches of the night, when I handed him the prescribed 
 nourishment, he turned upon me a look of friendly recognition, and 
 then cast down his eyes with such a sadness in them that I can never 
 forget it. But he spoke not a word ; and this not because he was 
 unable, for when he chose he did speak brief sentences with distinct 
 enunciation, but because, before friends or family physicians feared 
 the impending stroke, he saw the open portals of death, and chose to 
 wrap himself in an unbroken silence as he went down to enter them. 
 He, against whom no man could charge, in a long life, a word that 
 should not have been spoken, chose to leave the deeds of that life to 
 speak for him. To me, this woeful silence, this voiceless majesty, was 
 the grandest feature of that grand death." — William Preston Johnson's 
 speech at Richmond, November 4, 1870. 
 
WILLIAM COBBETT. 
 
 The transition from Chesterfield to Cobbett is a 
 sharp one. It is going from the gilded drawing-room 
 and the daintiest boudoir, where courtiers and fair 
 women move gracefully, and are bewigged and bepow- 
 dered in all the cosmetic horrors of a century ago, to 
 the humblest yeoman's cottage in the land, or eating 
 bread and cheese under a hedge in the companion- 
 ship of plain men and plainer women. To be honest 
 — so artificial has this world of ours become— we rather 
 like the drawing-room best; and, without disparage- 
 ment of open air and fresh breezes and simple cottage 
 or wayside food, prefer a dinner at Delmonico's. Drop- 
 ping, however, these esculent illustrations, and not 
 meaning to forswear literary allegiance to the distant 
 past, let me annotate a strange book of practical and 
 impracticable wisdom, — the only one of the author's I 
 am familiar with, though old enough to remember 
 Cobbett and with a dim memory of having seen him 
 in the flesh, — his "Instructions" to "Young Men." 
 
 It is full — say the critics — of sound advice and 
 "charming" personal and autobiographical recollec- 
 tions. Let us look at. the last first. If to be truthful 
 be charming, then are they so ; but there is a rude 
 homeliness in these revelations, an unconventionality 
 5* 
 
106 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 which scarcely reaches the level of fascination. I do 
 not read the book with pleasure, though I do with 
 interest. I do not love the man " Cobbett" any more 
 than I do the man, of the earth, earthy, — Benjamin 
 Franklin. Neither Peter Porcupine nor Poor Eichard 
 win me. One goes back to graceful, truly fascinat- 
 ing Philip Stanhope, pretty much as, after looking at 
 the Cardiff giant, had it been real, or Mr. Lincoln in 
 Union Square (who, in ugliness, is all reality), we 
 crave a glimpse of the Tribune in Florence, or the 
 Venus of the Louvre. Yet Cobbett proves himself 
 always a robust and often a gentle man ; and, amid his 
 ostentatious coarseness, writes sweetly. Contrast, for 
 example, his wretched, or, to use his own favourite 
 adjective, "beastly" denunciation of vaccination — 
 "cow-pox," as he calls it — with the perfectly lovely 
 passage as to the love of children : 
 
 " Having," says he, " gotten over those thorny places 
 as quickly as possible, I gladly come back to the babies, 
 with regard to whom I shall have no prejudices, no 
 affectation, no false pride, no sham fears to encounter; 
 every heart (except there be one made of flint) being 
 with me here. ' There were then brought to him little 
 children that he should put his hands on them and 
 pray; and the disciples rebuked them.' But Jesus 
 said, ' Suffer little children and forbid them not, for of 
 such is the kingdom of heaven.' And where is the 
 man, — the woman who is not fond of babies is not 
 worthy the name, — but where is the man who does not 
 feel his heart softened, who does not feel himself be- 
 come gentler, who does not lose all the hardness of his 
 temper, when, in any way, for any purpose, or by any- 
 
WILLIAM COBBETT. 107 
 
 body, an appeal is made to him in behalf of these so 
 helpless and so perfectly innocent little creatures ?" 
 
 He hates music (no wonder he did not like Shakes- 
 peare) — a love of which he speaks of "as a mark of 
 great weakness, great vacuity of mind ;" but then, he 
 says — for if the ear was dull, the eye was yery bright 
 and the fancy active : — " No man shall ever make me 
 believe that those who reared the Cathedral of Ely 
 (which I saw the other day) were rude either in their 
 manners, or in their minds or words." He writes 
 almost filthily about female ailments and necessities, 
 but then he says— and what gallant courtier could do 
 it more gracefully ? — " With a young and inexperi- 
 enced wife, you should bear in mind that the first 
 frown she receives from you is a dagger in her heart." 
 
 But in vindicating the opinion that any one, ordi- 
 narily and humanly constituted, is not "charmed" by 
 Cobbett, I am wandering from the glimpses of auto- 
 biography. His was a strange, and unless, as is quite 
 possible, its fruits ripen by-and-by, an unprofitable life, 
 and in nothing more strange than in his fragmentary 
 connection, as it were, with this country. He was 
 just old enough — born in 1762 — to remember, as a 
 lad, the American " Rebellion." I find no trace of his 
 being impressed, as poor Haydon was, by the bitterness 
 of animosity which inflamed even the popular English 
 heart against the revolting colonies. It was terribly 
 fierce ; infected " loyal" women ; and was, though in 
 degree milder, not unlike the peculiar sentiment which 
 took possession of female minds during our recent 
 "troublous times," and which still burns sullenly in 
 certain regions. Haydon, in his diary — saddest of all 
 
108 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 printed books— has this entry: " My grandfather (who 
 was very fond of painting) married Mary Baskerville, 
 a descendant of the printer. She was a woman of 
 great energy and violent prejudices. She hated the 
 French, and she hated the Americans; and once, when 
 an American prisoner, who had escaped, crept into her 
 house and appealed to her for protection until pursuit 
 was over, though alone in the house, she told him she 
 hated all Americans and rebels, and turned the poor 
 fellow into the street." This, I repeat, sounds like 
 feminine ''loyalty" nearer home, and of recent date. 
 If Cobbett, as a young man, had not blood like thts in 
 his veins, and such bitterness in his heart, there is no 
 sign of sympathy with those who struggled for freedom 
 here. He came to America as a private soldier in 
 1786, and the soil on which he put his foot was the 
 province of New Brunswick, most loyal of all depend- 
 encies originally, and made more so by the emigration 
 of the refugees from the revolted colonies. Thither 
 fled the Sewalls and others of New England, and Odell 
 and the ribald Tories of the middle States, and thence, 
 before they became slowly reconciled to the inevitable 
 and irreversible, did they shoot sharp and poisoned 
 arrows at their victorious brethren. With men of 
 their position in society, the private soldier did not 
 presume to associate, but, as he tells us, among plainer 
 folks of the same political sect, he found a welcome. 
 "I had got into the house of one of those Yankee 
 loyalists who, at the close of the Kevolutionary War 
 (called a Rebellion till it succeeded) had accepted of 
 grants of land in the King's Province of New Bruns- 
 wick ; and who, to the great honour of England, had 
 
WILLIAM COBBETT. 109 
 
 been furnished with all the means of making new jind 
 comfortable homes." When, later in life, he came to 
 Philadelphia, it is not difficult to measure his sympathy. 
 The very first words of his "Porcupine," dated in 1794, 
 are enough to start the buried Fathers of tiie Eepublic 
 from their forgotten graves — to make Mr. Lossing and 
 our historical societies gnash their teeth and tear their 
 sparse hair, and delight to their inmost souls the tribe 
 of to-day's slander-mongers. " The Congress," says he, 
 " which began and conducted to its close that rebellion 
 which severed thirteen flourishing and favoured colonies 
 of America from the Kingdom of Great Britain, was a 
 compound of men who, in point of craftiness, surpassed 
 the Koundheads of England, and in point of enter- 
 prise and perseverance far outstripped the Jacobins of 
 France. If ever history, freed from the shackles which 
 they and their English abettors have imposed on her, 
 should record their conduct in the language of truth, 
 she will tell the selfish motives by which they were 
 stimulated to seduce a loyal people from their allegiance 
 to the most just and most merciful of kings ; she will 
 detect the fallacy of their pretensions; she will expose 
 their close-veiled hypocrisy and ambition ; and their 
 measures of hostility and persecution she will write in 
 letters of blood." This is pretty strong language ; and 
 dismal volumes are these " Porcupines." It was only 
 in an abnormal state of society, such as existed in 
 Philadelphia, and perhaps everywhere in the shadow 
 of the new-born institutions from 1793 to 1800 — the 
 limit of Cobbett's residence — that such things would 
 be tolerated and encouraged. "When, a few years later, 
 they came to be collected and republished by subscrip- 
 
110 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 tion, any one familiar with the social condition here 
 will see how completely respectable people of all sides 
 shrank from the contact. They are vigorous, for he 
 could not write feebly ; they were occasionally eloquent, 
 but they were ferocious. He seizes a political adver- 
 sary, and, after he has stabbed him and felled him, he 
 dances, in his savage way, around him, and hacks and 
 hews him with a demoniac exultation to which there 
 is no parallel, unless it be a China brave disembowel- 
 ling and cutting off the breasts of a Sister of Charity 
 at Tien-tsin. There is no exaggeration in this picture 
 of his truculent rhetoric. 
 
 My eye lights, as I write, on a favourable specimen 
 of his fierce eloquence on an impersonal theme, which, 
 for reasons I need not give, has its interest now : 
 
 " A tender law is the devil When I trust a man a 
 sum of money, I expect he will return the value. 
 That legislature which says my debtor may pay me 
 with one-third of the value he received, commits a 
 deliberate act of villainy — an act for which an indi- 
 vidual in any government would be honoured with a 
 whipping-post, and in some governments with a gal- 
 lows. When a man makes dollars of which one- third 
 part only is silver, he must lose his ears. But legisla- 
 tures can, with the solemn faces of rulers and guardians 
 of justice, boldly give currency to an adulterated coin, 
 enjoin it upon debtors to cheat their creditors, and 
 enforce their systematic knavery. My countrymen, 
 the devil is among you. Make paper as much as you 
 please. Make it a tender in all future contracts, or let 
 it rest on its own credit — but remember that past 
 contracts are sacred things." 
 
WILLIAM COBBETT. HI 
 
 There was fierce honesty in what he did — as, for 
 example, when a young Philadelphia doctor, who had 
 received kindness at the hands of the Governor of 
 Pennsylvania, sent Oobbett an anonymous letter, bit- 
 terly attacking his patron, and begging that it might 
 be printed editorially, the indignant journalist printed 
 the correspondence as it came to him, name and all ; 
 and the libeller never to the day of his death, long 
 after, recovered from it. The venom which he poured 
 upon Doctor Rush, to whom he dedicated a special 
 journal, the " Eush Light," was terribly acrid. One 
 — albeit used to the charming amenities, just now, 
 of the New York press — reads it with amazement. 
 His error was in assailing professional rather than 
 political character. He knew nothing of the anony- 
 mous letter to Patrick Henry, and "Washington's com- 
 ment on it, or he would have used it with terrible 
 effect, little as he loved either Henry or Washington. 
 But Doctor Kush, mistaken as science has since shown 
 his purgative-mercury and wholesale venesection to 
 have been, was a great pliysician and an eloquent 
 teacher. In the agonies of 1793 and 1798, when the 
 immortal pestilence, for such it seems to be, for it 
 has lately hovered near us, desolated Philadelphia, 
 and was so frightful in its ravages that, like De Foe's 
 plague, it has been made the subject of romance. 
 Doctor Rush remained at his post, and no soldier on 
 the battle-field ever showed greater courage and stead- 
 iness than did he in his daily and nightly pilgrimages 
 through the then unpaved streets and alleys of his 
 native city. His patients, one and all, worshipped 
 him, and the tradition of his genial manners in the 
 
112 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 Bick-room still makes people blind to the grievous and 
 palpable defects of his moral nature. Hence was it 
 that Cobbett's attack, directed at his enemy's strong 
 point, failed and recoiled. It brought him, too, in 
 conflict with the processes of the law, just then wielded 
 by one whom Cobbett had vilified, and who was of 
 that rugged nature which, having a substantial griev- 
 ance, never forgets or forgives — not the Pharisaic 
 unforgiveness of such men or women, as never do 
 wrong and never forgive those who do, and who are 
 so nice as to be nasty, but a robust vindictiveness 
 which (not unlike Cobbett's, by the way) persecutes 
 to the end. Such was the Chief-Justice of Pennsyl- 
 vania — Thomas McKean — an honest, brave, violent, 
 revengeful man. Him, as I have said, Cobbett had 
 attacked with the full force of his coarse eloquence. 
 He had upbraided him with judicial murder in the 
 treason trials of 1 778. He had twitted him with his 
 notorious domestic infelicities, classic from the days 
 of Socrates to Lord Cowper's; he had, in short, ex- 
 asperated an inflammable nature to the explosive 
 point, when he became a defendant-litigant before 
 him, being indicted for libel, and, if ever there was 
 such a thing as a libel, being singularly guilty. 
 The story of that litigation is inappropriate here, the 
 end being that Cobbett became outlaw and exile from 
 his adopted home. He never forgave Philadelphia, 
 and even in the little book which was meant to be the 
 text of these notes, printed in 1830, I detect a fling at 
 Philadelphia society at which one cannot refrain from 
 smiling. '' It used to be remarked," says he, " in 
 Philadelphia when I lived there, that there was not a 
 
WILLIAM COBBETT. 113 
 
 single man of any eminence, whether doctor, lawyer, 
 merchant, trader, or anything else, that had not been 
 born and bred in the country and of parents in a low 
 state of life," 
 
 The prejudice against an English radical never has 
 quite died out in this country of ours, and for it, Cob- 
 bett is largely responsible ; and when, in our day, on 
 foreign radicalism was engrafted the poisonous shoot 
 of abolitionism, the growth, in the eye of good taste at 
 least, is strangely unpleasant. Very different has been, 
 as we all know, the fate of our Celtic radicals, and no- 
 where, in one instance, more so than in the city which 
 Cobbett afflicted. An Irish exile came to Philadelphia, 
 with a temper as impetuous and a pen as active, who 
 hated the English government quite as cordially ; and 
 wrote books and pamphlets without number to express 
 that hatred — a " Papist" too. He came about the time 
 Cobbett did, but, unlike Cobbett, assimilated at once 
 with those around him, was an active and useful 
 citizen, made no lasting enemies by his controversies 
 and many friends by his kindnesses (among whom the 
 writer, then a boy, gratefully records himself), and left 
 behind a name that is honoured, and descendants 
 who, in spite of economical hobbies and heresies, are 
 esteemed and beloved for their personal virtues. I 
 speak of Matthew Carey. In his day an Irishman was 
 not the Pariah which Eadical and Protestant fanati- 
 cism is now seeking to make him. 
 
 Cobbett returned once more to this country, — an 
 old man, and, according to his own showing, on a 
 wretched errand, — to dig up Tom Paine's bones at New 
 Rochelle and carry them as sacred relics to England. 
 
114 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 It was indecent, ineffectual mockery. As was said 
 long ago, "the bones of the scoffer were looked on by 
 such of the British people as knew anything about 
 them, with no more regard or sentiment than the 
 anatomical student bestows on the unknown subject 
 before him." The pageant was ungraceful, and taking 
 into view the living as well as the dead, it was ludicrous. 
 
 Such were Cobbett's odd relations to this country, 
 and such the life which, to a certain though limited 
 extent, this little book illustrates. It was, I fear, in 
 the general result unprofitable. 
 
 Let me open the book again, now that we know the 
 author. While Cobbett, as we have shown (though 
 instances might be largely multiplied), was a gentle, 
 loving man, he was a model hater. To an individual 
 and private man who had wronged him, he could, no 
 doubt, be tolerant, but to such public men as had used 
 political power to oppress and ruin him, he cherished 
 a resentment which, such is the infirmity of our nature, 
 and such the clear distinction between public and 
 private wrongs, cannot be entirely condemned. Does 
 any one imagine or pretend, that the refined and hon- 
 ourable gentlemen who, on the night of the 13th of 
 of September, 1861, were dragged from their beds in Bal- 
 timore, and immured without an accuser for fourteen 
 months in Fort Warren, will or ought to forgive the 
 men who did it or who connived at it ? It would be a 
 condonation worse than that of adultery. And wlio is 
 there to blame Cobbett, who, when immured for a polit- 
 ical offense in prison, where for two years he lingered, 
 says, in speaking of the danger to his wife's life from 
 their separation : " If such was not the effect of this 
 
 ( 
 
WILLIAM COBBETT. 115 
 
 merciless act of the government toward me, that 
 amiable body may be well assured that / have taken 
 and recorded the will for the deed, and that as such it 
 will live in my memory as long as that memory shall 
 last." The italics are Cobbett's, and it recalls a just 
 and genial criticism on this " addiction," as it were, of 
 his. Usually those who know how to use the English 
 language eschew this mode of emphasis. Cobbett, as 
 any one will see who opens this one volume, revels in 
 it. Archdeacon Hare, somewhere in his " Guesses of 
 Truth," says : " Cobbett is profuse of italics. This 
 instance may be supposed to refute the assertion that 
 the writers who use them are not versed in the art of 
 composition. But though Cobbett was a wonderful 
 master of plain speech, all his writings betray his want 
 of logical and literary culture. He had never sacrificed 
 to the Graces, who cannot be won Avithout many sacri- 
 fices. He cared only for strength ; and, as his own 
 bodily frame was of the Herculean rather than the 
 Apollinian cast, he thought that a man could not be 
 very strong unless he displayed his thews. Besides, a 
 Damascus blade would not have gashed his enemies 
 enough for his taste ; he liked to have a few notches 
 on his sword." From a man who says that he does 
 not like (and he italicizes it) " a slow, soft utterance in 
 woman," may be expected the coarse shriek of exulta- 
 tion over a fallen victim. The " notched sword" makes 
 fearful gashes, as Avhen, speaking of Napoleon, whom 
 he detested, he says : '" Had he not divorced Josephine, 
 or, having done so, married the prettiest and poorest 
 girl in France, he would, in all probability, have now 
 been on an imperial throne, instead of being eaten by 
 
116 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 worms at the bottom of a very deep hole in Saint 
 Helena." The reference to Sir Samuel Eomilly's 
 broken-hearted suicide is awful, but very impressive. 
 
 " He never sacrificed to the Graces." Nay, not only 
 so, but he showed a strong disposition to butcher all 
 who did. His literature, from certain indications — 
 unconscious croppings out — was greater than he claims 
 credit for. He had the affectation of seeking to con- 
 ceal, not that he had read much, but his specific 
 obligations to books, and above all to deny that he 
 ever had " models," or that he was influenced by the 
 common judgment about books. Hence, he sneered 
 at Shakespeare, and, most illogically, narrates at length 
 Ireland's experiment of forgery as evidence of Shakes- 
 peare's evil influence. Addison he treats as beneath 
 contempt, "feeble and ungrammatical ;" and gives a 
 grotesque account of being awakened from a dream of 
 enthusiasm by reading Dennis's " Criticism on Cato" 
 in a tavern in the backwoods of America, and " burst- 
 ing out laughing at the result." Not having read 
 "Dennis," which is inaccessible here, I cannot measure 
 the force of the criticism, but a hundred and sixty 
 years have passed since Dennis lived and wrote, and 
 the last Spectator appeared, and Cato was played ; and, 
 as I say, I cannot find " Dennis" — and Sir Eoger de 
 Coverley and Will Honeycomb, and the criticisms on 
 Milton live, and I like (perhaps because it is shorter) 
 the " Vision of Mirza" infinitely better than the " Pil- 
 grim's Progress." As to "Cato," I concede its dullness, 
 but as a Whig play it was a success, and, at intervals, 
 it holds its place on the stage down to our times. 
 There is dramatic effect in the scene where Cato meets 
 
WILLIAM COBBETT. 117 
 
 the dead body of his son, and something very like 
 poetry in Syphax's description of the Zamian beauties : 
 
 " The sun which rolls his chariot o'er their heads, 
 Has flushed their cheeks with more exalted charms. 
 When once with these, my prince, you'll soon forget 
 The pale, unripened beauties of the north !" 
 
 It always has seemed to me that "the sullen shot" 
 of the distant French in Wolfe's elegy, and Addison's 
 (or Andrew Marvel's) "nightly to the listening earth," 
 were bright gems of poesy. Those — and there are 
 some, doubtless — who prefer gazing on the citadel of 
 Gibraltar, with its huge masonry, or the Pyramids, to 
 the Taj at Agra, cold, white, useless perhaps, but 
 beautiful, rising from the hovels around — may prefer 
 Cobbett to Addison, but I have yet a weakness for the 
 prim, scholarly, vinous Christian gentleman, who knew 
 how to die, leaving behind him rich legacies, Cobbett 
 and Dennis to the contrary notwithstanding. "It is 
 not," says Landor, "so much his style as the sweet 
 temperature of thought in which we always find him, 
 and the attractive countenance, if you will allow me 
 the expression, with which he meets one on every 
 occasion." 
 
 But will a boy of to-day, with its refinements and 
 conventionalities, be the better for reading a book like 
 this ? One thing he certainly will not learn from 
 it — diffidence of himself — the modesty wliich wins in 
 youth, and, once part of our being, wears so well in 
 age. Cobbett has as little sense of it as he has of music. 
 He speaks of his own "History of the Eeformation" as, 
 " unquestionably, the book of the greatest circulation in 
 
118 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 the whole world, the Bible only excepted," and of his 
 " famous French grammar, which has been for thirty 
 years, and still is, the great work of the kind through- 
 out all America, and in every nation in Europe." 
 Then, too, the ingenuous youth of to-day will find 
 himself confronted with a set of infirmities, or even 
 virtues turned into vices and crimes, enough to make 
 him despair. Cobbett was in one respect of a Puritan 
 nature, but, like Puritan men and women now-a-days, 
 had a set of pet crimes. Torture in a Connecticut 
 prison, or stoning a school teacher to death in Massa- 
 chusetts, is no worse than — nay, not so bad as — in- 
 heriting or owning a slave, or drinking a glass of 
 wine. So with Cobbett. The fiercest passages of 
 this little book are directed not only at the theatre, 
 as to which there may be an intelligible difference of 
 opinion, but at music, (not for a wonder, dancing) ; 
 "chess," which he classes with gambling; "a looking- 
 glass" to shave or dress by; and tea and coffee, which 
 he considers quite as bad as " grog." All is proscribed, 
 and with equal vehemence. As his friend Paine 
 irreverently said of the creation, " If the Almighty 
 had been a Quaker, this would have been a drab- 
 colored world without a green leaf or a glimpse of 
 blue sky," so, if Cobbett had the absolute mastery of 
 social and domestic economy, this would be a hard 
 world to live in. Hence, in my poor judgment, this 
 is an unprofitable book for the youth of to-day. 
 
 The strange, hardy, perverse man wrote conscien- 
 tiously, and under a high sense of responsibility. If 
 there be no line which, dying, he would wish to blot, 
 he thought soberly and seriously before he wrote. 
 
BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES. 
 
 As of theology and the Prayer Book, so of Black- 
 stone and the law, I exorcise law, and think and write 
 of the " Commentaries" only as literature ; and exceed- 
 ingly pleasant literature they are. The poet Gray, 
 in one of his letters, if my memory serves me, to 
 Mason, says if " Coke-Littleton" could be printed by 
 Elzevir or Aldi, on nice satin paper with gilt edges, 
 and bound by the Thouvinet of his day, many a one 
 would read it who now shrinks from folios and heavy 
 columns. This is rather an extreme statement of the 
 case, for they who have been made to pore over the 
 awful "Institutes" with a suspicion, which has never 
 faded away, that it was labour lost, cannot imagine it 
 was, or by any conceivable masquerade could be made, 
 attractive. Not so Blackstone. A dress-coat and a 
 white cravat become him; he is gentlemanly and 
 agreeable all over; and my copy is, or was, bound to 
 look as little like a law-book as possible, and had its 
 place among the British classics; and untechnical 
 students, and even women, not "strong-minded," but 
 highly cultivated, intelligent, knowledge-seeking, grace- 
 ful women, have read it and enjoyed it, which they 
 certainly would not, had it been in " under-done, pie- 
 crust binding," with a red label and star paging. 
 Hence, too, is it, that in this respect one craves an 
 
120 AMONG My BOOKS. 
 
 edition without notes, or with none but such as the 
 author made. All others — and the more profuse the 
 annotation the worse the edition — are, as a matter of 
 artj only better than the grotesque experiment made 
 years ago by an American judge, of writing what he 
 called a " Pennsylvania Blackstone," modifying and 
 curtailing the sacred text to that end, and producing 
 a book from which good taste shrinks in horror. The 
 annotated editions, beginning with Christian's (I be- 
 lieve the first) and ending with our American Shars- 
 wood's, which by common consent is the best, are 
 doubtless very good as tools of trade — the cobbler's 
 awl and last, and the blacksmith's anvil — but they 
 are too cumbrous and technical for the idle use of 
 the gentlemanly scholar. The best edition for ama- 
 teur uses is Sir John Coleridge's, published in 1835, 
 and described as the sixteenth.* The notes are those 
 of a refined, scholarly man, rather than a technical 
 lawyer, and are characteristic of the highly-bred and 
 educated Christian gentleman, whose serene old age 
 now shines gently, like a setting luminary, from his 
 Devonshire seclusion, and, whether editing a law-book, 
 or illustrating a lovely life like Keble's, irradiates 
 pleasantly. I have a memory, in student days, of 
 another and American edition of the Commentaries, 
 which has become obsolete, which came near my ideal, 
 by Henry St. George Tucker, of Virginia, with full 
 expositions of the Constitution (when we had one), 
 and a discussion (how my young brain worried over 
 
 * There is in the N. Y. Hist. Library the imperfect copy of an 
 tdition of Blackstone printed in America as early as 1771. 
 
BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES. 121 
 
 it) of the rule as to " mala proMbita and mala in se." 
 And certainly Sir William's heresy on this head needs 
 annotation. It, of course, has an earnest protest from 
 an editor so pure, so direct, so conservative as Cole- 
 ridge. The Blackstone theory, plainly stated, is neither 
 more nor less than this, that in the matter of obedience 
 or disobedience to laws creating what may be termed 
 artificial offenses, such as smuggling or poaching, or, 
 as with us in olden times, harbouring " a fugitive from 
 labour," conscience is no further concerned than in 
 submission to the penalty, whatever it may be. Surely, 
 neither Paley nor his disciples, nor Dr. Wayland, 
 nor any utilitarian, ever went so far. It is a solemn 
 paraphrase of Fag's dictum, " I don't mind lying, sir, 
 but it hurts my conscience to be found out." 'Vio- 
 late the law,' says Blackstone, ' and the pang of con- 
 science on detection will be assuaged by paying the 
 penalty.' There can be no such rule in pure or exalted 
 ethics. We have in our day known, — thanks to those 
 prolific parents of all manner of lies, " tariffs," — more 
 or less mild smuggling successfully accomplished, — 
 silk dresses, and laces, and cigars, — but would not a 
 parent have at least a latent blush to see a daughter 
 dressed in smuggled raiment, and does any sensitive 
 man care to think of his own success in violating a 
 law the principle of which he disapproves ? There 
 can be but one safe rule: that conscience binds to 
 obedience to all law because it is law. This rigid 
 assertion of what some may think impracticable moral- 
 ity and its unworthy antagonism have had, in our 
 times and at our homes, strange illustrations. With- 
 out going back to the fugitive slave legislation, con- 
 
 6 
 
122 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 stitiitional or statutory, when a deeper question of 
 conscientiousness was supposed to be involved, and 
 the " irrepressible conflict" doctrine was enunciated by 
 those who had very little conscience as to anything 
 else, one is confronted with a curious historical illustra- 
 tion of the Blackstonian dogma thoroughly carried out. 
 When the Peace Congress (that body which but for 
 prevalent madness might have saved the ineradicable 
 blood-stains of four years of civil war) met at Washing- 
 ton, in February, 1861, a formal proposition was made 
 — by no less a person than the present Chief- Justice, 
 whose good nature, when the crisis came which he 
 and his followers had provoked, shrank from blood- 
 shedding — that the North should continue to harbour 
 fugitive slaves and pay the value of them as a penalty: 
 * We cannot, in conscience, obey the law, but will pay 
 cheerfully the penalty of violating it.' And this 
 'compounding' of crime was to be made part of the 
 Constitution which honest and religious people were 
 to swear to support! It failed at once, for the honour 
 of the South rejected it. One other case, by way of 
 contrast, occurs to my mind, bent, perhaps morbidly, 
 on these memories, illustrative of the true and the high 
 rule. How many Northern men and women were 
 there, during our "troublous times," who honestly, per- 
 haps mistakenly, but still most conscientiously, thought 
 the war on the South was wicked and wrong in its 
 inception and in its conduct? Still, for the North 
 'war' was the law, and, so far as my observation went, 
 no one of reputable position, however pronounced his 
 opinions, ever violated or thought of violating the law, 
 or doing anything in derogation of it. They felt the 
 
BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES. 123 
 
 ethical rule to be, — not Blackstone's, — that conscience 
 bound them to obey the law as such. 
 
 But I am wandering from my theme, though the 
 theme suggests all I have written. The question is 
 often asked, almost sneeringly, by carping critics like 
 Priestley and Jeremy Bentham, — reverentially by the 
 thousands of grateful men who owe to Blackstone their 
 easy and pleasant initiation to the study of the science 
 by which they earn their daily bread — the question is 
 asked, why is it that so old-fashioned a book as " The 
 Commentaries" should last so long, and be, for the 
 uses of to-day, so beautifully fresh ? There is no diffi- 
 culty in answering it, after a thought or two on this 
 wonderful vitality. It is exactly a hundred and twelve 
 years ago, 25th October, 1758, since Blackstone, a 
 young man of thirty-five, uttered the words : " Mr. 
 Vice-Chancellor and Gentlemen of the University," 
 with which is heralded the beautiful essay-oration on 
 the " Study of the Law ;" and now, in 1870, these 
 words speak sweetly and encouragingly — in spite of 
 revolt and revolution, of Parliamentary reform (a ter- 
 rible bugbear) and Catholic emancipation and Irish 
 disestablishment (to say naught of minor social and 
 political disturbances here and everywhere) — to every 
 youth who, as a student, crosses the threshold of a 
 lawyer's office in England, or America, or Australia, 
 or wherever English law is taught. It has conquered 
 prejudice, political and sectarian. Nothing has super- 
 seded it. Nothing, we have a right to assume, ever 
 will. Harsh critics and adversaries — and they have 
 been legion — have faded out of memory. Junius 
 hurled some of his most mischievous missiles, rather, 
 
124 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 however, at the judge than the commentator, and we 
 regard them with the same sort of interest as one 
 would look at an exploded shell at the foot of the 
 Strasbourg minster. Of the thousands who read 
 Blackstone Avith delight and trust, how small a frac- 
 tion care a straw for Jeremy Bentham — that transitory 
 idol of poor philosophy ! * Doctor Priestley wrote 
 essays which, for a time and within certain circles, 
 were popular, and he is as much forgotten and neg- 
 lected as is the decaying Pennsylvania village where 
 the exile found a home and a grave. Yet Blackstone 
 lives and will live ; and that, we doubt not, which has 
 embalmed him — not as were the mummies of Egypt 
 or the hideous martyrs of our late war when, as with 
 everything, the antiseptic process was made matter of 
 jobbing, but as perfectly life-like and natural, around 
 whom there is transparent crystal — is his matchless 
 style, his inimitably graceful English (albeit, strange- 
 ly parenthetical), his " enchanting harmony," which 
 Bentham grudgingly admits and deplores. Open the 
 book anyAvhere and you see the beauty of the style 
 and hear the music of the periods ! How sweetly sound 
 the closing words of his introductory essay : 
 
 " To the few, therefore (the very few I am per- 
 suaded), that entertain such unworthy notions of an 
 university as to suppose it intended for mere dissipa- 
 tion of thought ; to such as mean only to while away 
 the awkward interval from childhood to twenty-one, 
 between the restraints of the school and the licentious- 
 
 * A valued, scholarly friend here makes protest, hut Blackstone is 
 read and Jeremy is not ! 
 
BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES. 125 
 
 ness of politer life, in a calm m'ddle state of mental 
 and of moral inactivity ; to these, Mr. Viner gives no 
 invitation to an entertainment which they never can 
 relish ; but to the long and illustrious train of noble 
 and ingenuous youth, who are not more distinguished 
 among us by their birth and possessions than by the 
 regularity of their conduct and their thirst after useful 
 knowledge ; to these our benefactor has consecrated 
 the fruits of a long and laborious life, worn out in the 
 duties of his calling, and will joyfully reflect (if such 
 reflections can be now the employment of his thoughts) 
 that he could not more effectually have benefitted pos- 
 terity, or contributed to the service of the public, than 
 by founding an institution which may instruct the 
 rising generation in the wisdom of our civil polity, and 
 inform them with a desire to be still better acquainted 
 with the laws and constitution of their country." 
 
 The critical reader of to-day may pause on the use 
 here of the word "inform," but it is Miltonic. All 
 else is graceful and modern, as if written yesterday. 
 
 Nor can any one measure the charm of the mode 
 of instruction, originating with Viner and consum- 
 mated by Blackstone, so accurately as the historical 
 student who knows what were the actual processes of 
 professional education before, when the student was 
 " expected to seclude himself from the world, and, by 
 a tedious, lonely process, to extract the theory of law 
 from a mass of undigested learning." There lie before 
 me, as I write, the manuscript note and commonplace 
 books of one of these unfortunates — an American 
 Templar of the ante-Blackstone period — one of the 
 scholar lawyers who, from the middle and southern 
 
126 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 colonies, went abroad to be accomplished for the great 
 struggle of " law" which soon was to occur at home. 
 It must have been weary work. Woodeson had, I 
 believe, been published, but it is a dismal book. Gil- 
 bert was the main reliance ; and BuUer's Nisi Prius, 
 and Coke, and Croke, and the Year Books; and 
 though, I doubt not, the "illiterate" lawyer will say 
 it was this very hard work, this digging painfully 
 round the foundations of the law, which made them 
 what they were, yet, for all that, the Vinerian com- 
 mentaries must have been very welcome. They took 
 their appropriate place and they reign forever. 
 
 Blackstone, we learn, was something of a poet ; but 
 I confess, if the " Farewell to the Muse" be the type of 
 what we might have had, I incline to the faith that 
 
 " nothing in his life 
 
 Became him like the leaving her." 
 
 But still it may be that the subtle, fanciful element 
 which we call " poetic," mingling with other faculties 
 of art-nature which he is known to have possessed, 
 influenced his oral and his written style, and gave it 
 its grace and melody. His predominant taste when a 
 young man, we are told, was for architecture, in which, 
 practically, he was no mean adept; and when one 
 contemplates this intellectual structure of his — these 
 " Commentaries" — complete as a scientific and beauti- 
 ful system, from the frieze to the foundation, there is 
 more than a sentimental impression that his love for 
 the master-art shone through his work. To his great 
 book are strictly applicable the very words which, at 
 its close, he applies to the British constitution. It 
 
BLACKSTONE'S COMMENTARIES. 127 
 
 sounds like Giotto at the foot of the Campanile, or 
 Michael Angelo, if it had been vouchsafed to him, 
 before perfected St. Peter's: 
 
 " Of what has been so wisely contrived, so strongly 
 raised, and so highly finished, it is hard to speak with 
 that praise which is justly and severely its due — the 
 thorough and attentive contemplation of it will furnish 
 its best panegyric. It hath been my endeavour to 
 examine its solid foundations, to mark out the exten- 
 sive plan, to explain the nse and distribution of its 
 parts, and from their harmonious concurrence to 
 demonstrate the elegant proportions of the whole. We 
 have taken occasion to admire at every turn the noble 
 monuments of ancient simplicity and the more curious 
 refinements of modern art. Nor have its faults been 
 concealed from view, for faults it has, lest we should 
 be tempted to think it more than human structure, 
 defects chiefly arising from the decays of time or 
 the rage of unskillful improvements in later ages. To 
 sustain, to repair this noble pile, is a charge intrusted 
 chiefly to the nobility and such of the gentlemen of 
 the kingdom as are delegated by their country to 
 Parliament. The protection of the liberty of Britain 
 is a duty which they owe to themselves who enjoy it; 
 to their ancestors, who transmitted it down; and to 
 their posterity, who will claim at their hands this, the 
 best birthright and noblest inheritance of mankind." 
 
 And is it not — for in the region of letters in which 
 I am trying to move I am out of reach of the slang of 
 politic: and dare ask the question — is it not a great 
 social inheritance, this mythical or actual thing called 
 the British constitution, and do we not know that the 
 
128 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 great buttress which maintains it, is what writers such 
 as Blackstone helped to build, — an unspotted, unsus- 
 pected, dispassionate judiciary, — thoroughbred, ripened 
 lawyers ? 
 
 One other word, and I have done. It is perfectly 
 marvellous how, in these four volumes of elementary 
 law, comprising at most some 1800 pages, less than 
 the product of one session of a State Legislature, so 
 much variety of practical learning has been compressed. 
 There is hardly a judicial question of contemporary 
 occurrence on which some light is not thrown, or some 
 reference given to a source from which knowledge 
 may be gained. Hence is it, for this universal appli- 
 cability, that these Commentaries, even for practical 
 purposes, are always useful. It has been his lot who 
 writes these rambling notes, in which some venial 
 egotism may be tolerated, to read with pleasure and 
 gratitude, Blackstone at distant periods of life, and 
 with widely different associations. As a lad fresh 
 from college, feeling with distrust the weight of the 
 armour he was doomed to wear for the struggle of life ; 
 as a young man in a distant land, under the guidance 
 of an eminent lawyer, who solaced a sort of diplomatic 
 exile by revising the studies of his youth, and loved 
 'Blackstone' dearly (I recollect reading the 'canons 
 of descent' in sight of the snowy peaks of Mexico, 
 wrapped in my great coat and warming my feet in the 
 vertical sun) ; again, when myself in turn an old man, 
 in regions more remote, guiding the studies of those 
 who were dear to me ; and now, within the last few 
 months or weeks, when the race of life is run and lost, 
 and the work done. Always with pleasure, always 
 ■^ith Tsrofit, always with gratitude ! 
 
SERMONS— BARROW TO MANNING. 
 
 Theke is a great deal of rubbish in what are called 
 * statistics.' They are often deceptive when profitably 
 applied, and are, nine times in ten, useless aggregations 
 of detail ; some, of course, more than others. The 
 French diplomat and savant (for he was both) wlio, 
 on a voyage from Brest to China iu a screw frigate, 
 counted the revolutions of the propeller and reported 
 them to his government, typified one class. Dean 
 Kanisay, author of a pleasant little book called " Pulpit 
 Table-talk," is the representative of another. He has an 
 elaborate computation, from which he evolves the im- 
 portant and frightful result, that on a single Sunday, 
 in the United Kingdom, there are seventy-five thousand 
 sermons preached. Add to this an equal number for the 
 United States and the colonies (and this is far below the 
 mark), and we reach the astounding sum, in round 
 numbers, of nine millions of sermons (in avoirdupois 
 some tons), written and preached in the English lan- 
 guage in one year. We will not venture on any 
 averages of pulpit vitality, or deductions for repetitions, 
 but pause in awe of this marvellous result for one short 
 span of time. If there be anything in Sir Charles 
 Babbage's theory, which old Dan Chaucer prefigured, 
 of tlie air undulations which make the utterances of 
 
 6* 
 
130 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 the human voice immortal, these computations become 
 overwhelming. If the clangour of the strife at Mara- 
 thon, or the words of Demosthenes and ^schines, be 
 yet sounding somewhere in illimitable space, enormous 
 surges of clerical twaddle, masses of pulpit platitude, 
 are rolling onward too. Lahitur et labetur, etc. One 
 is hardly able to measure the value or the worthless- 
 ness of it all. In the restlessness or the somnolence 
 with which a dull discourse is listened to, we are apt 
 unduly to disparage the vast influence which this 
 mode of intellectual action exercis'^s. Watch the 
 crowds which fill the streets of a great city at Sunday 
 noon, a.nd remember that, to each individual man and 
 woman of that concourse (and women listen more 
 deferentially than men) solemn words, or words in 
 solemn guise, have just been spoken, with more or less 
 impressiveness, and that some at least have made their 
 mark. In this view, we can afford to excuse a great 
 deal of nonsense and stupidity. In dissenting denomi- 
 nations, the sermon is the great feature of devotion. 
 In fact, their prayers have a hortatory, exegeticdl 
 character, which makes worship one long sermon 
 with (not to speak it profanely) music between the 
 acts. In the Anglican and Eoman Catholic commu- 
 nions, not only is there a limit of time, rendered 
 necessary by the length of the supplicatory services, 
 but liturgical discipline pares preaching closely, 
 and puts sermonizing, where it ought to be, in the 
 background. Now and then, some ambitious youth 
 of oratorical pretensions and large feminine popularity 
 is restive under this restraint, and hurries or curtails 
 the service in order to have more room for display; 
 
SERMONS— BAEROW TO MANNING. 131 
 
 but, as a general thing, the clergy acquiesce. Is it on 
 this account, or are there deeper reasons, that the pulpit 
 eloquence of these churches, with signal exceptions 
 among dissenters, both here and abroad, is most dis- 
 tinguished ? Chalmers and Eobert Hall, and, in their 
 way, Irving and Whitfield and Melville, are all excep- 
 tions to any general ttieorizing. The eloquence of the 
 Anglican church, at the moment these words are writ- 
 ten, never was more distinguished, at least for genial 
 and gentlemanly scholarship. 
 
 Sermons and sermon-writing open a wide field for 
 criticism. Nothing is contemplated here but to trace 
 through personal experience the line of thought, which, 
 having its source in indiscriminate admiration of the 
 pulpit, has narrowed down to very fastidious criticism. 
 Kemember, reader, he is a layman, and, as to individ- 
 uals, a rather irreverent layman, whose notes these are. 
 
 Happy is his youth who, decorously compelled to go 
 to church, — for the tendency of the normal boy is not 
 in that direction, — has the good luck to go but to one. 
 Mine was a different fate, and early digestion was 
 spoiled, perhaps permanently ruined, by a variety of 
 clerical viands. There was no tabernacle of wood, or 
 brick, or stone, that was not visited ; no hebdomadal 
 epouter, from the priest and bishop of high ecclesiasti- 
 cism down to the Universalist, who sold bobbins all 
 the week and preached latitudinarianism on Sunday, 
 whom I did not hear ; and now that memory travels 
 back over a vast distance to the tangled, weedy field, 
 how few things worth remembering survive! Here, 
 too, my boyish memory fastens on eminent men chiefly 
 in the two denominations for which, in no offence, pre- 
 
132 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 eminence is claimed. I recall, as of yesterday, the 
 manly, vigorous utterances of Bishop Hobart, the 
 gentle eloquence of Dehon, and the wonderful music 
 of Bishop Meade's voice — the last utterances of which 
 were in prayer for invaded, desecrated Virginia, — and 
 in the Church of Kome, Bishop England, and, in his 
 prime, John Hughes ; never more eloquent, and, one 
 may affirm, never so happy or so useful as when a par- 
 ish priest in Pennsylvania, and before, either of his own 
 motion or at Mr. Seward's bidding, he played the poli- 
 tician in New York. There was a captivating orator 
 of those days, in the Celtic element at least, William 
 Vincent Harrold. All dead, all gone, but none for- 
 gotten ! But that it is violating a rule which, in these 
 notes, I have tried to observe, one might note here — 
 not as of boyisli but fresh manly memory — a living 
 pulpit orator, yet spared to us, John P. Durbin, then, 
 if I mistake not, of Kentucky. All these are vague, 
 traditional thoughts, hardly worth giving form to. 
 
 Not so the study of written sermons. They have 
 been a substantial branch of study and exercised a 
 large influence on taste ; for, according to my best 
 judgment, some of the sources of purest and most 
 vigorous English style are very near the pulpit. It is 
 the memory of a great many years back, in a busy 
 lawyer's office, that side by side with Plowden and 
 Coke, were two other folios with the thick paper, red 
 edge, black type, and heavy binding, of more than 
 a century ago. These were Barrow's sermons, which 
 Lord Chatham advised his son William to read as 
 models of sonorous eloquence, and which Byron tells 
 us he devoured weekly. 
 
SERMONS— BABBOW TO MANNING. 133 
 
 "Much English I cannot pretend to speak, 
 
 Learning that language chiefly from the preachers, 
 
 Barrow, South, Tillotson, whom every week 
 I study, also Blair, the highest reachers 
 
 Of eloquence in piety and prose." 
 
 Of Blair, I doubt, and Tillotson I never read, but to 
 the others I bow down reverentially as my masters. 
 They are far away from me, those dear old folios ; they 
 have passed out of sight, just as their owner and nearly 
 all the joyous young men whose careers were then be- 
 ginning, have passed out of life. 
 
 It is a strange coincidence, such 'eloquence of 
 piety' as Barrow's — for * South' is in another cate- 
 gory — with the dissolute irreligion of the Restoration ; 
 Barrow preaching, with earnestness and emphasis, 
 morality of the sternest school, with the orgies of 
 Whitehall within ear-shot.* Yet so it was, and he 
 practiced what he taught. His was a brief but che- 
 quered career, over all the variations and chances of 
 which, his steady temper and sure intellectual training 
 seemed to throw a graceful garment of consistency. 
 He was a Charter-House boy and a Trinity College 
 man, and hence his mathematical proficiency ; for, 
 says his biographer, in simple, homely phrase, " dis- 
 satisfied with the shallow and superficial philosophy 
 which was taught, he applied himself to the study of 
 the Lord Verulam, Monsieur Descartes, Galileo, and 
 other great wits of the last age, who seemed to ofier 
 something more solid and substantial." Why he should 
 speak of them as of "the past," is not clear, since 
 
 * " The impudent stare of a Castlemaine confronts a Barrow."— 
 WiUmott's Pleasures of Literature, p. 123. 
 
134 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 Galileo was, in old age, Barrow's contemporary, dying 
 in 1642, and Descartes in 1650, and the most remote, 
 Bacon, in 1626. He weathered the fiercest blasts of 
 triumphant Puritanism, and in 1654, the year after 
 Cromwell dispersed his second Parliament, and the 
 new crisis was at hand the issue of which no one could 
 foretell, Barrow, then twenty-four years of age, went 
 abroad, selling his library to pay expenses, and rambled 
 over the continent, going as far south as Siena and 
 Florence, and east as Smyrna and Constantinople, and 
 here, we are told, he studied anew, on the very spot 
 where the golden-mouth Saint had boldly preached 
 "judgment to come" in the presence of Eudoxia, 
 the voluminous works of Chrysostom. It is not my 
 design to write biography, yet I have drifted into it 
 unconsciously, from the interest I feel in the theme, 
 and close it by the recollection that the great preacher 
 was also a great mathematician, and the immediate 
 predecessor of ' Mr. Isaac Newton' in the chair of 
 Geometry at Cambridge. He died in 1675. He scarcely 
 preached at all till he resigned his professorship, and 
 in his compacted and exhaustive logic it is not difficult 
 to trace his early and his adult training. His discourses 
 must have been formidable in length at the end of the 
 usual morning service of the Church of England, 
 measuring, so far as I can approximate it, one hour to 
 an hour and a half in length. 
 
 South was nearly contemporary with Barrow, the 
 latter dying in 1675, when forty-seven years of age, 
 while the former lived beyond eighty, and died in 
 1716. They were widely different. A great wrong 
 was done to Kobert South in calling him * the witty 
 
SERMONS— BARBOW TO MANNING. 135 
 
 Dr. South,' for it conveys the mistaken idea that wit 
 was his most marked characteristic. Witty he cer- 
 tainly was, exuberantly so. It was rough, ribald wit, 
 too. He seizes hold of a Puritan pretender and liter- 
 ally tears him to pieces. He sometimes dispatches 
 him with a single phrase or sentence, as ' those 
 seraphic pretenders,' this * apocalyptic ignoramus ;' 
 "for," says he in his sermon at Whitehall — and one 
 may fancy how Charles II. enjoyed it — '•' the proceed- 
 ings of '41 and some of the following years may well 
 pass for the Devil's works in a second edition, or a foul 
 and odious copy much exceeding the original. I pro- 
 fess not myself skilled or delighted in mystical inter- 
 pretations of Scripture ; nor am I for forcing or even 
 drawing the sense of the text so as to make it design- 
 edly foretell the King's death and murder; nor to 
 make England, Scotland, and Ireland (as some enthu- 
 siasts have done) the adequate scene for the prophetic 
 spirit to declare future events upon; as if, forsooth, 
 there could not be so much as a few houses fired, a few 
 ships taken, or any other calamitous accident befall 
 this little corner of the world, but that some apocalyptic 
 ignoramus must presently find and pick it out of some 
 abused or martyred prophecy of Ezekiel or the Eeve- 
 lations ;" or, as in another instance, too long to be 
 quoted here, his marvellous description of a Puritan 
 sermon, where he fairly revels in a full flood of bright 
 sarcasm. But withal there is on every page something 
 higher and better than wit or satire — noble, dignified 
 eloquence, — and this in strange collocation with illus- 
 trations almost grotesque, as where in one sentence, 
 or rather on one page, he says: "As snakes breed 
 
136 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 in dunghills, not singly but in knots, so in sucli base, 
 noisome hearts you shall ever see pride and ingrati- 
 tude indivisibly wreathed and twisted together." 
 On the next we have : " Ingratitude is too base to 
 return a kindness and too proud to regard it, much 
 like the tops of mountains, barren indeed, but yet 
 lofty ; they produce nothing, they feed nobody, they 
 clothe nobody, yet are high and stately, and look down 
 upon all the world about them." So again, " There is 
 a time to pardon and a time to punish, and the time 
 of one is not the time of the other. When corn has 
 once felt the sickle it has no more benefit from the 
 sunshine ;" or when he speaks of the politician '•' as 
 treating gratitude as a worse kind of witchcraft, which 
 only serves to conjure up the pale, meagre ghosts of 
 dead, forgotten kindnesses to haunt and trouble him ;" 
 or, in a nobler passage, full of high poetry, descriptive 
 of our Saviour being seized by the Jews : " They sent 
 out an inconsiderable company with swords and staves 
 to apprehend Him ; but what could this pitiful body 
 of men have done to prejudice His life, who, with 
 much more ease than Peter drew his sword, could 
 have summoned more angels to His assistance than 
 there were legions of men marching under the Eoman 
 banners.*' 
 
 Quotations may be multiplied to any extent, but my 
 limits warn me to forbear. There are some odd things 
 to be noted on these pulpit pages, as for example : 
 
 Every student of our early history is familiar with 
 the constant use made, at the beginning of the Ameri- 
 can Eevolution, of the precedents of the commonwealth 
 of 1641. Washington, who was a decorous churchman 
 
SERMONS— BARROW TO MANNING. 137 
 
 and a cavalier, did not relish them ; but Mr. Jefferson, 
 whose religion went not much beyond convenient 
 rhetoric, had no such scruples, and records with great 
 glee what, on the enactment of the Boston Port Bill, 
 the Virginia ' rebels' did in this respect. " With the 
 help of Kushworth," says he, "whom we rummaged 
 out for the revolutionary precedents and forms of the 
 Puritans of those days, we cooked up a resolution, 
 somewhat modernizing the phrases, for appointing the 
 1st of June, on which the port bill was to commence, 
 for a day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer, to implore 
 Heaven to avert from us the evils of civil war, and to 
 inspire us with firmness in support of our rights, and 
 to turn the hearts of the king and Parliament to 
 moderation and justice." South seems to have fore- 
 seen the use to be made of these pious precedents, for 
 says he, in his * Discourse on Extemporary Praying,' 
 of which he has a liturgical horror : " Such sort of 
 prayer has always been found an excellent way of gird- 
 ing at the government in Scripture phrase. And we 
 all know the common dialect in which the great mas- 
 ters of this art used to pray for the king, and which 
 may justly pass for only a daintier and more refined 
 mode of libelling him in the Lord. As, 'that God 
 would turn his heart to justice and moderation and 
 open his eyes ;' as if he were a pagan yet to be converted 
 to Christianity; with many other sly, virulent, and 
 malicious insinuations which we may every day hear 
 of from those mints of treason and rebellion, the 
 conventicles." 
 
 With one other citation, I close this desultory 
 criticism on the ancient pulpit. That strong, robust 
 
X3S AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 man, William Cobbett, who, as we have seen, had a 
 gentle spirit, somewhere says: "A man, as he writes 
 on a sheet of paper a word or sentence, cught to bear 
 in mind that he is writing something which may, for 
 good or evil, live forever." This is a momentous 
 thought, and South says : " He who has published an 
 ill book must know that his guilt and his life deter- 
 mine not together; no, such an one, as the Apostle 
 says, ' Being dead, yet speaketh ;' he sins in his very 
 grave, corrupts others while he is rotting himself, 
 and has a growing account in the other world after 
 he has paid nature's last debt in this ; and, in a 
 word, quits this life like a man carried off by the 
 plague, who, though he dies himself, does execution 
 upon others by a surviving infliction." There is a 
 terrible truth in this. Who that has ever used an 
 unlucky though clever phrase — who that has con- 
 sciously or unconsciously given pain or excited resent- 
 ment by a sharp sarcasm — and who of us has not — 
 will fail to estimate one other quotation ? It is from 
 the sermon on " The Fatal Imposture and Force of 
 Words :" " There is a certain bewitchery or fascination 
 in words which makes them operate with a force 
 beyond which we can naturally give an account of. 
 For would not a man think ill deeds and shrewd 
 truths should reach further and stick deeper than ill 
 words? And yet, not so. Men much more easily 
 pardon ill things done than ill things said against 
 them, such a peculiar rancour and venom do words 
 leave behind them in men's minds, and so much more 
 poisonously and venomously does the serpent bite with 
 his tongue than with his teeth." 
 
SERMONS— BARROW TO MANNING. 139 
 
 Travelling down the course of time, one pauses 
 before two clerics, separated by three-quarters of a 
 century, and still more divided as it were by fate ; one, 
 restless, intriguing, and unfortunate, Atterbury; the 
 other, arrogant and successful, Horsely; and both 
 devout Christian men. Their style is as different 
 as were the men, but the difference hardly admits of 
 definition. It has always seemed to me that Atterbury, 
 acute, gentlemanly, worldly, but at heart good, Avas a 
 sort of Archdeacon Grantley of the times of the Stuarts. 
 There is something more than poetical in his wander- 
 ings as an exile for political offence over Europe, and 
 the dying daughter at Toulouse, and the bringing back 
 the dead man to England, and his interment (what a 
 lesson to political intolerance now-a-days) in the abbey 
 where George the First, against whom he plotted, had 
 been crowned. Of Horsely — wonderful sermon-writer 
 of a century later, also a geometrician like Barrow — 
 one only thinks as the fierce adversary of our Priestley ; 
 and, perhaps irreverently, in connection with old 
 Thurlow's imprecatory vow on hearing him, then a 
 curate, preach a good Tory sermon, that he would 
 " make that fellow a bishop." And he did ! 
 
 Of kindred nature to this didactic theology is a 
 book, huge and appalling in form and perverse in 
 doctrine, for it is one vast paradox from beginning to 
 end, on which, in early manhood, I spent, not wasted, 
 many a studious hour — 'The Divine Legation of 
 Moses' — very unsound theology, I believe, but full of 
 good, rugged eloquence, quite characteristic of the 
 writer, and of wondrous, variegated scholarship. It 
 was a perfect illustration, in theological literature, of 
 
140 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 'taking the bull by the horns,' an experiment for 
 which a polemic like Warburton was well suited. 
 When the infidel of the day asserted, and proved the 
 premise of fact, that, inasmuch as the Mosaic dispensa- 
 tion did not teach accountability in another world, it 
 could not be of God, timid controversialists went to 
 work to try and deny the fact and twist the revelation 
 of an hereafter out of all sorts of Pentateuchal texts. 
 Not so bold Warburton. In legal phrase he not only 
 * confessed and avoided,' but he made the concession 
 of the fact the basis of his argument against the con- 
 clusion. " Because," said he, " Moses does not refer to 
 a future state of accountability, as all worldly sovereigns 
 and statesmen did and do of necessity, it is, that Divine 
 interposition in his behalf, direct theocracy, is de- 
 monstrated." Whatever may be the force or the weak- 
 ness of the logic, no one can fail to be amazed and 
 fascinated by the illustrative argument. The chapters 
 on the analogy of the Eleusinian mysteries to the 
 ^neid descent to the Hades, dwells in my memory 
 yet, though it is many, many years since these eyes 
 rested on it.* 
 
 * " Little as the Divine Legation of Moses is now read, few works 
 have ever produced a greater sensation on first coming out than this 
 did. It smote Trojan and Tyrian. It was a ' two-handed engine/ 
 ready to batter down infidel and orthodox alike, if they ventured to 
 oppose an obstacle to its autocratic progress. It lies neglected un- 
 worthily on the upper shelves of our libraries, condemned in the lump 
 as a splendid paradox by those who little know the happy illustra- 
 tions it contains, gathered from every region under heaven — the pro- 
 digious magazine of learning it unfolds — the infinite ingenuity it 
 displays in assimilating more or less the most unpromising substances 
 to the matter on hand — the sarcasm, the invective, the jokes, sacred 
 
SERMONS-BARROW TO MANNING. 141 
 
 It would be dull work for the readers of to-day 
 to pursue this train of studious recollection further, 
 or continuously. Nor was it continuous, for, sus- 
 pending it for years, neglect created a great gap, on 
 this side of which my companionship is with men 
 of to-day — a strange grotesque fraternity of the pul- 
 pit, Robert Hall, and Dr. Arnold, and Eobertson (just 
 dead), and last, not least. Manning. I have room 
 but for notes on two, simply pausing to say it must 
 have been high intellectual pleasure for manly boys to 
 listen to Arnold, with his vigorous thought and prac- 
 tical illustration, rejecting, as he did, the narrow theory 
 that the pulpit should derive no help from without, 
 and culling his illustrations from any field of study or 
 active life which furnished them. It was the historian 
 of Rome teaching Christian truth. It was my fortune 
 to read Dean Stanley's biography, then a new book, dur- 
 ing a long sailing voyage across the Atlantic, and study 
 the record of his ineffectual life, through all its varying 
 phases of peculiar opinion, down to the final agony 
 {angina pectoris) which fatally crushed his noble heart ; 
 and my fortune later, almost by accident, to stand 
 before his grand life-like portrait in the hall at Fox- 
 how. Those great eyes look upon me yet. His seems 
 to have been a long struggle for nothing. His was 
 a rebellious, yet, in essentials, submissive heart, and 
 his life, as I have said, was inefiectual.* 
 
 and profane, which are there found — ' mingle, mingle, mingle,' as 
 they were poured forth from the cauldron of that most capacious and 
 most turbulent mind." — Qnarterly Review, Vol. 38, p. 309. 
 
 * My companion in the visit to Foxhow was one whose pen has 
 too long been mute — the author of Philip Van Artevelde. 
 
142 AMONO MT BOOKS. 
 
 But not so much so, for he taught successfully, as 
 that other bright man of to-day, Robertson. He was 
 pure and noble, but distressingly crotchety. The 
 hundreds and thousands who, in this country, have 
 read his life and sermons, hardly know what to make 
 of them or him. Churchman he was in no essential 
 sense, and 'Surely not a technical dissenter, not Tract- 
 arian, not Ritualist, not (here too, I speak technically) 
 Evangelical, but a strange combination of all. He 
 never was meant for a clergyman, but a soldier — a robust 
 Captain Vickers — and he chafed fearfully in the clerical 
 harness. There is, if memory serves me, in one of 
 Miss Edgeworth's novels, a character which, though 
 not altogether admirable, somehow typifies Robertson 
 — a young man who, from sordid motives, becomes a 
 clergyman, and writhes with agony in his chains. 
 There was nothing sordid about Robertson, but there 
 was almost as much misery in his false position as if 
 there had been. There was a robust honesty in all he 
 said — a candid and fearless expression of sympathy 
 which is very winning. Hence his thorough fellow- 
 feeling with the working-men around him — not ' rest- 
 less politician sympathy,' but complete accord of heart. 
 It crops out everywhere. He delivers a course of ser- 
 mons on St. Paul's Corinth Epistles, which, one would 
 think, could have little relation to commerce and com- 
 mercial habits. But the Corinthians were inveterate 
 traders, and thus the preacher characterizes in words, 
 every one of which is truth, the spirit of trade. It is 
 all I have room or inclination to quote. " Trade," 
 says he, " only requires a clear head, a knowledge of 
 accounts, and a certain clever capacity. It becomes a 
 
SERMONS— BARROW TO MANNING. 143 
 
 life of routine at last, which does not teach one moral 
 truth, or, to any extent, enlarge the mind of man. 
 The danger of a mere trading existence is that it leaves 
 the soul engaged, not in producing, but in removing 
 productions from one place to another; it buries the 
 heart in the task of money-getting ; and, measuring 
 the worthiness of manhood and of all things by what 
 they severally are worth, worships mammon instead of 
 God. Such were the rich merchants of Corinth!" 
 Some Brighton parishioners, whose week-days were 
 passed in the cold shadow of Gresham's statue, must 
 have started as they heard these words. If Eobcrtson 
 was eccentric in his failures, there is a living man who 
 has been so in success, for it is success, be the career 
 what it may, to win one's way to its honours. Such is 
 Henry Edward Manning, not yet sixty years of age; 
 a poor vicar once in Sussex, then an archdeacon, a 
 'pervert,' a secular priest doing humble missionary 
 work in the purlieus of London, a preacher (for such 
 he was in 1859) in the streets of Eome, and now a 
 titular archbishop, with a cardinal's hat in prospect. 
 ScoflF not, Protestant reader, at these honours. Do 
 not fancy, because the Holy Father has for a time 
 fallen or is a prisoner, that the dignities he bestows 
 are worthless. They are at least picturesque, though it 
 is not of them I meant to write, but of less perilous 
 and disputable things. The ' perverts' of the Anglican 
 Church are dangerous adversaries in this, that their 
 leaders — at least two of them — are masters of English 
 style, not lumbering bullies of controversy like Hale 
 and Cullen, or half-English, half-Latin composite 
 writers such as Cardinal Wiseman eminently was, but 
 
144 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 men whose motlier tongue was English and whose pens 
 were trained in what I have sought to show is the great 
 and sound school of Anglican theological composition. 
 No one can read a page of that wonderful volume of 
 venial egotism, the Apologia pro Vitd Sud, without 
 being struck with this. Equally is it manifest in 
 Manning's sermons, those, I mean, preached before his 
 secession. Those since, I have not seen ; nor did I 
 care, though the chance was within my reach, to listen 
 to his spoken words, doubtless of eloquence, in the 
 Roman piazzas, eleven years ago. There are certain 
 crucial topics which test especially a preachers powers, 
 and discretion too, and in which the dexterous han- 
 dling of words is needed. Any one may preach on 
 'Charity' and the simple elemental virtues, or their 
 correlative crimes. Nay, the common dogmas of 
 theology are within easy reach. Of not such, is that 
 greatest of mysteries — as mysterious in the buried 
 and the budding grain as in the human grave — the 
 ' Resurrection of the Body.' But let the curious reader 
 get Archdeacon Manning's sermon on this theme, and 
 unless his heart be callous, his brain sluggish and slow 
 to move upon its hinges, and his sense of the beautiful 
 in rhetorical art as inert as his or hers who prefers a 
 frame meeting-house to a Cathedral, he will be stirred 
 to admiration, and come closer to conviction than he 
 ever dreamed it to be possible. 
 
 It lies before me as I write, and, critically and aesthe- 
 tically, it is worth study. It is relatively very brief — 
 measured by the voice and ear, not more than half an 
 hour. It is argumentative, and it is poetical. It 
 teaches, and it convinces. But it is its marvellous 
 
SERMONS— BARROW TO MANNING. 145 
 
 English that the scholar wonders at. It is English 
 'pure and simple.' There is no more Latinizing 
 than in Cobbett or Swift, and yet there is a rhe- 
 torical and rhythmical polish and grace which neither 
 has. In one long sentence, or congeries of sentences, 
 of one hundred and eighty-two words, there are but 
 seventeen of Latin root, and but ten longer than dis- 
 syllables. Take one, and but one, beautiful passage, 
 and my idle rambling among sermons is ended : 
 
 "After all our toiling and self-chastisement, there 
 still remains with us a mysterious evil; and a deep 
 consciousness is ever telling us that, do what we may, 
 we must bear the grave-clothes of the fall till the 
 morning of the resurrection ; that we must suffer 
 under the load of an imperfect nature, until God shall 
 resolve our sullied manhood into its original dust, and 
 gather it up once more in a restored purity. The hope 
 of the resurrection is the stay of our souls when they 
 are wearied and baffled in striving against the disobe- 
 dience of our passive nature. At that day we shall be 
 delivered from the self which we abhor, and be all pure 
 as the angels of God. healing and kindly death, 
 which shall refine our mortal flesh to a spiritual body, 
 and make our lower nature chime with the eternal will 
 in faultless harmony !" 
 
 This, in to-day's judgment, may be poor philosophy, 
 or rank superstition j but it is charming English. 
 
 7 
 
THE NAPIERS. 
 
 Not the Lords or the Logarithms, but the scholar- 
 soldiers of England, the wonderful brotherhood who 
 fought so well, and wrote as well as they fouglit ; not 
 silent, placid soldiers, observant of decorum and 
 reserve, like Wellington and Clyde (the latter of 
 whom always seemed, next to one nearer home, the 
 heau ideal of a gentle hero), but good sound lovers 
 and haters, always with a stock on hand of saints or 
 demons ; fierce, ready controversialists, and yet withal 
 so grandly martial that one cannot, in reading history, 
 refrain from pausing to wonder at them ; — such were 
 Charles and William Napier, the conqueror of Scinde, 
 and the historian of the Peninsula. Theirs was strange, 
 historic blood, at least on one side. 
 
 If any curious student, with an eye to the beautiful, 
 will visit the Art Department in the Astor Library, 
 and open the third volume of the collected works of 
 Sir Joshua Eeynolds — him who, of England's limners, 
 is alone thought worthy of Florentine association — he 
 will find the engraving of a lovely woman, in classic 
 garb, sacrificing to the Graces. In ' George Selwyn's 
 correspondence,' on the same shelves — a frivolous book 
 of pleasant gossip — will be found the same ' thitg of 
 beauty' on a reduced scale, a half-length, which seems 
 to me the idealization of loveliness. There is some- 
 where a head of Lady Hamilton, by Eomney, which 
 
TEE NAPIER8. 147 
 
 perhaps equals it; but all else, Gunnings and Town- 
 sends and Lepels, are feeble in comparison — dowdies of 
 the past. This was Sarah Lennox, the peerless beauty 
 of the Third Georgian era, at whose feet a monarch 
 languished with as much ardour as his nature admitted 
 — the sainted blind mother of the Napiers of our day 
 and generation. She was in the rich glow of youthful 
 beauty, making hay in front of Holland House, of 
 which her elder sister was mistress, when George the 
 Third was a susceptible young man of twenty-two; 
 and she died, as recently as 1826, as I have said, the 
 mother of heroes. She, this fascinating, erring, and 
 venerated woman, had a picturesque pedigree and a 
 strange career. There was flowing in her veins heroic 
 and erotic blood, in nearly equal parts the sangre azul 
 (if blue it be) of Charles the Second and Henry of 
 Navarre. Her great-grandmother was one of Charles's 
 peculiar peeresses, Louisa de Querouaille, Duchess of 
 Portsmouth ; her nephew, he who rode carelessly and 
 jauntily, en amateur, by the side of Wellington in the 
 fiercest fire of Waterloo ; and her oldest son, the muti- 
 lated soldier of Coruiia — for he was shot almost to 
 death — the victor of Meanee and Hyderabad, and con- 
 queror of Scinde. 
 
 It was an age of questionable innocence, that of the 
 early part of ' good' King George's reign ; for though 
 his ugly German Queen, with all the virtue-pride of 
 grim purity, tried her best to assert strict discipline 
 at court, there were frail Duchesses of Graftons and 
 Ladies Di Beauclercs and Sarah Bunburys not far off. 
 * Our beauty,' the Sarah Lennox of story, married a 
 jolly, heartless, fox-hunting baronet — a sort, as I im- 
 
148 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 agine, of equestrian GeoflFrey Delmaine — a friend of 
 Lord Carlisle and Doctor Warner and " Old Q.," and 
 they went on an hymeneal frolic to Paris during the 
 brief period of peace, and chronic intensity of depravity, 
 between 1763 and the accession of Louis XVI. " There 
 lived," says Thackeray, in the Virginians, "during 
 the last century, a certain Frencli duke and marquis 
 who distinguished himself in Europe, and America 
 likewise, and has obliged posterity by leaving behind 
 him a choice volume of memoirs, which the gentle 
 reader is especially warned not to consult. Having 
 performed the part of Don Juan in his own country, 
 in ours, and in other parts of Europe, he has kindly 
 noted down the names of many court beauties who fell 
 victims to his fascinations; and very pleasing, no 
 doubt, it must be for the grandsons and descendants 
 of the fashionable persons among whom our brilliant 
 nobleman moved, to find the names of their ancestresses 
 adorning M. le Due's sprightly pages, and their frail- 
 ties recorded by the candid writer who caused them." 
 The wretched story of that Frenchman's life, to its 
 ending under the guillotine, mainly told by himself, 
 now lies before me. Writing in desultory form about 
 books, let me say, that the genuineness of the 'Me- 
 moires de Lauzun' i§ an unsolved problem of literature, 
 a vexed question of criticism. It is so scandalous and 
 defamatory that De Quincey says of 1% '* on the hypoth- 
 esis most favourable to the writer, the basest of men, 
 he is self-denounced as vile enough to have forged the 
 stories he tells, and cannot complain if he should be 
 roundly accused of doing that which he has taken 
 pains to prove himself capable of doing." Harshly 
 
THE NAPIER8. 149 
 
 skeptical as is this judgment, it is not a whit too harsh ; 
 but I dissent, as a close student of the matter, from 
 the skepticism. The yile book can be demonstrated 
 to be genuine. High historical authority, such as 
 Sir Augustus Foster, so pronounces it, and Moore's 
 gossip confirms it. In his diary, that dreary record of 
 tuft-hunting dinners, he says : " Sate next to Lady E. 
 Stuart ; she told me that the Memoirs of the Due de 
 Lauzun (which, of course, she did not own to have 
 read) were supposed to be genuine, but not true. Lord 
 Thanet saw nothing improbable in them, but found 
 them dull from their probability." 
 
 If genuine and authentic, no one need look farther 
 than this record of brazen iniquity to know how the 
 beautiful Sarah Lennox fell, or wonder at the next 
 phase in her life — a Parliamentary dissolution of her 
 marriage with Sir Charles Bunbury in 1776. Divorces 
 then, as we all know, were granted for but one cause, 
 and the purity of descent of the peerage and gentry 
 was guarded by the strange ethical but sound political 
 rule, that only one sex could sin with impunity. Such 
 was the fall, — now for the resurrection. 
 
 Not long after the divorce (and it had been a child- 
 less connection), Sarah Lennox married the Hon. 
 George Napier, and from that hour to the day of her 
 death, a period of half a century, her life was of inno- 
 cence, and gentleness, and peace ; and there is some- 
 thing touching in the affectionate pathos witli which, 
 amid all the dangers on the battle-field, and in the 
 agony of wounds believed to be mortal, these rugged 
 soldiers thought and spoke of the sainted blind 
 mother at home. Virtue-proud women, wheresoe'er 
 
150 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 you be (and nowhere are there more than among those 
 who speak our mother-language), pause on such a tale 
 as this, in no sense exaggerated or misstated, and judge 
 gently of your erring sisters ! The long, tranquil even- 
 ing of this beautiful woman's day has something in it 
 strangely picturesque. 
 
 But of the sons, a triumvirate of heroes — for one, 
 George, I have omitted to mention — Charles, the elder, 
 died in 1853, and William, the historian, wrote his 
 biography. The younger brother's career has also Ix'imi 
 told, for they are all dead now. 
 
 The life and diaries of Charles James Napier form, 
 to my unmilitary mind, one of the most charming 
 volume, or volumes, in the English language. If 
 Southey's ' Nelson' be, as it should, the text-book of 
 the British Navy, then ought this Napier story to be 
 in every soldier's hand. It is neither a rare nor an 
 expensive book, and not a very new one, and yet I 
 regret to record, except in private libraries, it is not 
 easily accessible. It is not in Mr. Astor's collection, 
 and I am compelled to refer to it, guided only by the 
 uncertain, fragmentary light which fading memory 
 gives. It shines chiefly on Coruiia, Virginia, and 
 India — a strange collocation, but a strictly accurate 
 one, — and my hope in pointing to them (for I can do 
 no more), is to win some intelligent reader to the 
 pleasure I have had. Remember, I write in no sense 
 technically, for the jargon of war is hateful ; still less 
 presuming to form judgment of the multitudinous 
 controversies, military and political, in which the un- 
 easy spirit of Napierism was chronically involved. 
 
 There are scenes of history on which one loves to 
 
THE NAPIERS. 151 
 
 dwell. Is not the great retreat from Cuuaxa one, with 
 its glimpses of the distant sea and the Greek ' Tha- 
 latta ?' And is there not another, the dark retreat in 
 Spain of a small British army before the French host, 
 in this very month of November, with shortening days 
 and gloomy nights, sixty-two years ago, from Astorga, 
 to Coruna, and their sight of the sea, tenantless in that 
 winter evening, and no rescuing relief or squadron at 
 hand to save them ? In every step of that retreat these 
 brothers were hand in hand. They were together 
 when the terrihlo explosion took place, the sequel of 
 which, history (William's) describes in one grand sen- 
 tence : " Stillness, slightly interrupted by the waves of 
 the shore, succeeded, and the business of war went on." 
 As Charles Napier was going into battle, a wounded 
 otficer on a stretcher was brought out, and as they 
 passed, it was said, in answer to a casual inquiry, ' It 
 is Captain George Napier, mortally wounded !' There, 
 Sir John Moore fell, with the ghastly wound of a can- 
 non-ball grazing his breast, "breaking the ribs over 
 his heart, and tearing the muscles of the breast into 
 long stripes, interlaced by the recoil from the dragging 
 of the shot;" and no sigh or groan from the dying 
 man's* lips, but only the "I would rather my sword 
 should go out of the field with me," and the last words 
 — worth thousands of 'I die content,' and 'Kiss me. 
 Hardy' — in which there was a gentle expression of 
 hope, almost amounting to a prayer: 'I trust the 
 people of England will be satisfied; I hope my country 
 will do me justice.' George Napier recovered from 
 his wounds, and Charles, shockingly mutilated, and 
 his life saved by the intercession of a little drummer- 
 
152 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 boy, fell a prisoner in the hands of the triumphant 
 French. It was the day of harsh warfare, of the re- 
 fusal of cartels, and of Verdun, and it is part of the 
 romance of this strange story, minutely told in the 
 diaries, — the chivalric kindness of the French to their 
 prisoner, his reputed death at home, and the sorrows of 
 the blind mother to whose darkened orbs the privilege 
 of tears was left. To those curious in such matters — 
 the literature of war — I may be allowed to refer to the 
 model dispatch of General Hope, who on the death of 
 Sir John Moore, was left in command, descriptive of 
 what had occurred. It will be found in the Annual 
 Kegister of 1809. 
 
 The wounded soldier of Coruna saw no service until 
 he was sent Avith the expeditionary force which landed 
 at the Capes of Virginia in 1814. It was a very 
 small affair, our war of 1812 — an unnatural sort of 
 procedure from first to last, and with no other fruit 
 than the assertion of an existence on the ocean, — for 
 we secured no one of the objects for which we went 
 to war. Our military operations, when we tried to 
 be aggressive, as in Canada, were impotent; and so 
 were those of Great Britain against us in the Chesa- 
 peake and at New Orleans. Napier landed with 
 Admiral Cochrane's forces, first in North Carolina 
 and then on the Yorktown peninsula, and 'assisted,' 
 as the phrase is, in the burning of Hampton — that 
 unlucky village, which seems destined to invaders' 
 flames. Here is it that a high-spirited soldier like 
 Charles Napier, in his diary records that, while he 
 did not at all mind killing a Frenchman, he could not 
 conquer his repugnance to do the same thing to one 
 
THE NAPIERS. 153 
 
 who asked for quarter in the mother tongue. " It 
 seemed," says he, " like killing one of my own country- 
 men." Virginia and this peninsula have seen the same 
 bloody doings in our own days — Americans butchered 
 by Americans. ' Big Bethel' is not far from the spot 
 where Napier felt a Scruple. 
 
 From Virginia in 1813, to India in 1843, is a wide 
 interval of time and space. The young captain of the 
 beginning of the century had hecome an old man and 
 a general, and in an emergency was 'sent for to take 
 command in Western India. He hesitated ; he was 
 old and infirm, and India was a field to which he was 
 not used. He consulted the Duke of Wellington, and 
 gossip says the Duke settled it by saying: "Charles, 
 if you don't go, I shall." He went, and in the winter 
 of 1842-3 was at his post. It was at a crisis of Eng- 
 land's colonial empire. Lord Ellenborough, the Gov- 
 ernor-General, had just ordered a medal to be struck 
 at the Calcutta mint commemorative of perfect re- 
 conciliation, with the motto, "Pax Asm Restituta," 
 when war broke out all around him. Napier came to the 
 rescue, and at the head of a small band of English and 
 native troops, then faithful, took the field. Far away 
 in the sterile spot the Indus skirts, is a fortress called 
 Enmangur — a Gibraltar of the East. Napier advanced 
 on it, telling those who came to threaten or propitiate, 
 " Neither your Deserts nor your negotiations shall stop 
 the British army;" and they advanced, and on the 17th 
 of February, 1843, was fought the bloody battle of 
 Meanee, two thousand seven hundred, English and 
 native troops against twenty thousand intrenched 
 Belooches and Sikhs. Scinde was subdued and sub- 
 
 7* 
 
154 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 jected to British rule, and the cleyer four de mot was 
 invented — for Napier never said it — "Peccavi," " I have 
 Scinde." Equally apocryphal is Lord Dalhousie's 
 "Vovi," "I have Oude." 
 
 Meanee was fought, as I have said, on the 17th of 
 February, 1843, and one of the heroes of that day was 
 Sir John Pennefather, ten years later a hero of Inker- 
 man. What is it that makes these old English sol- 
 diers — Wellington at eighty. Sir De Lacy Evans at 
 eighty-five. Lord Gough at ninety — so interesting ? Our 
 American veterans run to seed or to senile efflorescence, 
 as did General Scott. On the 17th of February, 1859, 
 it was the lot of him who writes these lines to meet, 
 while wandering among the fortifications and narrow 
 streets of Valetta, this hero of Meanee and Inkerman, 
 as fresh as a young man, and with my hand on his 
 saddle-bow to talk as if he were an old friend with the 
 great lieutenant of Napier- 
 Sir Charles Napier's career in the East ended by his 
 own act, in fierce controversy, and he never took ser- 
 vice again. He was a pall-bearer for his great com- 
 mander, and soon after sank to rest.* 
 
 * This little essay, on its first appearance, brought to me a letter 
 which gratified me not a little from a lady whose name I have never 
 ascertained, and from which I venture to extract these few words. 
 "I have always been enthusiastic about that remarkable triad of 
 brothers, and I thank you for your sympathetic appreciation of their 
 greatness, of rather a different stamp from the Bnimmagem metal now 
 passing current with us. I pray your pardon for this seeming intru- r 
 sion, — it was irresistible to say to you that to a distant and always- 
 to-be-unknown reader you hare given hours of exceeding pleasure, — 
 that one who also loves good old books welcomes eagerlj your loving 
 touch of these dear friends." 
 
THE STUART BOOKS. 
 
 These notes, thus far, have been confined strictly, 
 not only to English literature, but to it in its most 
 familiar form — beaten tracks where every one has 
 walked, common books which every one has read. 
 There has been no attempt at novelty, and probably 
 not a thought that has not occurred to every mind 
 directed in the same course and having the same aims. 
 Now that they are drawing to an end, I venture — 
 adhering, however, to a theme not un-English — to 
 annotate one, if not two, foreign books. They both, in 
 different forms and languages, relate to the same sad 
 story — the inglorious ending of the wayward, unhappy 
 race which, for centuries, reigned in Scotland, and, for 
 a hundred and eleven years, governed or misgoverned 
 England. 
 
 If poor Mary Stuart, whether of Scott or Froude or 
 Schiller, of romance or history, could, in her gayest or 
 her saddest hour, have looked beyond the grave, and 
 seen the destiny of her child's child and his chil- 
 dren's children, she might well have envied the lot of 
 her rival, who died childless. A grandson murdered 
 before a hard-hearted populace — for Charles I.'s death, 
 admitting all his faults, was a murder. A great-grand- 
 son an exile and a pensioned wanderer, with two 
 daughters — each a queen, and each childless. And 
 
156 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 then two generations more — one of restless and impo- 
 tent intrigue, and another, and the last, of heroic ad- 
 venture and chivalry in youth, and, in age, of wretched, 
 sensual animal decay. A titular king married in old 
 age to a beautiful and intellectual woman, and ending 
 his career a bigot and a drunkard, and his brother a 
 priest. And this was the bitter end. 
 
 It is to this beautiful woman's strange career that 
 these two books relate. They are biographical ' studies' 
 of Louisa, Princess of Stolberg and Countess of Albany, 
 wife and widow of Charles Edward, the last Stuart, 
 and mistress of Alfieri, dying — almost in our day — in 
 1824. One, and the most elaborate and with the widest 
 continental reputation, is that of Alfred de Eeumont, 
 for many years Prussian Minister at the court of the 
 last Grand Duke of Tuscany, and of course resident 
 of Florence, filled with Alfieri memories and Stuart 
 traditions. The other is a sketch, in French, by Sainte- 
 Eene Taillandier, originally, I believe, contributed to 
 the Revue de Deux Mondes. Never were two works — 
 if works they may be called — less alike. The French- 
 man writes dogmatically and positively, with a certain 
 pretentious air, but in a beautifully lucid style which 
 is charming. The German, cautiously and critically, 
 eollating authorities when authority is hardly needed, 
 and crowding, 7nore Teutoiiico, into parentheses, huge 
 masses of facts and dates and doctrines. He begins 
 with a description of his heroine's tomb in Santa 
 Croce, wanders ojff into picturesque illustrations of 
 Italian life and Scottish and English traditions, and 
 does not reach the birth till page 133 of tlie first vol- 
 ume. His French competitor thus rather illnaturedly 
 
TEE STUABT BOOKS. 15Y 
 
 describes him : " In many parts of his book the dip- 
 lomat interferes with the historian. M. de Eeumont 
 understands the laws of etiquette so thoroughly, he 
 has so profound a respect for Continental aristocracy, 
 that be cannot pass any historical character of eminence 
 by without making all sorts of reverence. He salutes 
 him, he enumerates his titles, and sets forth his full 
 genealogy. One of his chapters actually resembles an 
 article of the Almanach de Gotha." This is all gro- 
 tesquely true, and yet, De Reumont's book, now in the 
 hands, for translation, of one of our fair countrywomen, 
 is the standard work on a subject which is always in- 
 teresting. And why interesting ? Why is it that we 
 read of and care about these wretched kings and 
 princesses — real or pretended — of the past ? If the 
 skeptic wants an answer to this, let him remember that 
 tragedy, the mistress of the willing soul, never stoops 
 below the grade of princes and lovers, and be content 
 with the fact. Adam Smith considered this question 
 long ago in that most captivating of neglected books, 
 ' The Theory of Moral Sentiments,' and I assume the 
 fact without discussing it. 
 
 But is there not another reason why, around this 
 king of shreds and tatters — I mean the Countess of 
 Albany's first husband — literary interest should crys- 
 tallize ? Has it not been touched by the hand of the 
 necromancer ? Was it not his first theme ? Is not 
 Waverley a classic ? Old enough to remember when 
 the great unknown was really unknown, I look back to 
 the reading of what was then 'sixty,' and is now a 
 hundred and twenty-five years ' since,' as if it were a 
 thing of yesterday. The gathering of the clans in the 
 
158 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 fastnesses of Glennaquoich ; the capture and rescue of 
 the Southern Jacobite, and Rose Bradwardine's flitting 
 plaid in the brigand's hut ; the Chevalier's court at 
 Edinburgh, and the stray shot from the castle rolling 
 down the street ; the Baron at prayers; Preston Pans 
 and dying Gardiner and Colonel Talbot ; and the 
 advance to Derby and the retreat, and Callum Beg's 
 split skull on the field of Falkirk, and the end ; and 
 Flora's winding-sheet, and Fergus's dead march, and 
 the bloody heads over the gates of Carlisle. Years ago 
 I passed that odd, dismal old town, and my only asso- 
 ciation with it, or thought about it, was of Fergus 
 Maclvor and poor Evan Dhu, with their blanched faces 
 turned toward Scotland. How thoroughly has this 
 wonderful romance impregnated the popular mind ! 
 I knew one of its illustrations once cleverly used in 
 political discussion, at least so a sympathizing audience 
 seemed to think. " Had the government," said a pub- 
 lic speaker in the early heat of our civil war, " never 
 gone beyond the limits of consent ; had it rejected, as 
 did its founders, the heresy of force and the idea of a 
 strong government, it would have been stronger in the 
 true elements of republican power than it is in all the 
 parade and panoply of successful war, I never hear of 
 this notion of * power' and ' strength' without recall- 
 ing an illustration which fiction and romance afford. 
 You have all read Scott's great epic of 'Waverley,' 
 and remember its catastrophe, where the heroine is 
 found working her brother's shroud ; and when she is 
 told, by way of support and consolation, that she must 
 rely upon her ' strength of mind' to bear up against 
 her misery, the convulsive, agonized reply is : ' Ay ! 
 
THE STUART BOOKS. 159 
 
 there it is — there is a busy devil at my heart that 
 "whispers, though it is madness to listen to it, that it is 
 this very strength on which I prided myself that has 
 murdered my brother.' Take care the strength of the 
 government don't murder our liberties." This may be 
 pestilent heresy, but it was not bad rhetoric. 
 
 The traditions of this last of the Stuarts made them- 
 selves part of Scott's sentimentally Jacobite nature, 
 and years after his painting of the gay revels and 
 bright adventures of the '4?, he went back to its hero 
 and gave us the sombre picture of " Eedgauntlet," the 
 best of his later novels. The mythical or actual visit 
 of the Pretender to England was in 1750, and the 
 scene London, too soon for the contrast the novelist 
 wished to present between the young man and the old 
 one, and he pushed it forward ten years, when his 
 prince was much more in decay and decadence than 
 he has portrayed him. It is of "Eedgauntlet" that 
 Lockhart says : " The reintroduction of the adventu- 
 rous hero of 1745, in the dulness and dimness of ad- 
 vancing age and fortunes hopelessly blighted, and the 
 presenting him with whose romantic portraiture at an 
 earlier period historical truth had been so admirably 
 blended, as the moving principle of events not only 
 entirely but notoriously imaginary" (Lockhart possibly 
 did not believe the Doctor King legend), " this was a 
 rash experiment ; yet had there been no ' Waverley,' I 
 am persuaded the fallen and faded Ascanius of ' Eed- 
 gauntlet' would have been pronounced a masterpiece." 
 Thackeray tried his master hand on this Stuart theme, 
 but it was of the Pretender plre he wrote, and whom 
 he so grandly painted in "Esmond." 
 
160 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 But let my notes go back to the actual romance of 
 history, ' pure and simple' — the last years of Charles 
 Edward, — the whole life of Louisa of Albany. The 
 melodrama opens with a catastrophe. Old Louis XIV, 
 was, in vulgar phrase, a trump of a king. He had an 
 eye for the picturesque of action, and never showed it 
 more than when, as Mme. de Sevigne records and Miss 
 Agnes Strickland and M. De Eeumont repeat, he es- 
 corted the first exiled Stuarts (taking the little ques- 
 tionable Prince of Wales in his lap), and welcomed 
 them to St. Germains, where he protected them so 
 long. Sixty years after, in 1748, the grandson of these 
 exiles, fresh from his Scottish heroism, was alone in 
 Paris, the old French King dead, and his grandson, 
 with Madame de Pompadour, reigning in his place. It 
 was then, that, on one Tuesday night in December, 
 twenty-five men of the Eoyal Guard, 'avec poudre et 
 plomb, mats sans tmnbour,' were detailed for special 
 duty. They watched the Opera-house, and when the 
 poor Prince came out he was seized and gagged and 
 bound, says the courtly annalist, Barbier, 'avec un 
 cordon de soie,' and carried in a postchaise to Vin- 
 cennes, and his attendants sent to the Bastille. In 
 five days more he was hurried by force to the Swiss 
 frontier and literally sent adrift. Thus, at the bidding 
 of Sir Eobert Walpole and the little soldier of Dettin- 
 gen, did the grandson of Louis XIV. treat the grand- 
 son of James II. For twenty-two weary years he 
 drifted about. Avignon — part of Pontifical dominion 
 then — Spain, Germany, Poland, England, for a moment 
 saw but did not welcome the wanderer, not always, 
 though at last, a lonely one. For twelve years, he had 
 
THE STUART BOOKS. 161 
 
 near him a true friend, and for seven, a little fair- 
 haired daughter. At last they were taken from him, 
 and he was thoroughly a lonely, listless man. If ever 
 royal exile, with the Stuart weaknesses in his bones 
 and blood, had an excuse for seeking forgetfulness by 
 any means, Charles Edward had; and 1770, when the 
 wanderings seemed to come to an end, found him fifty 
 years of age and a drunkard ; when, so says the French 
 biographer, with odd anti-climax, "he was in the habit 
 of beating his servants, his friends, the lords and nobles 
 of his court, just as he beat the soldiers of General 
 Cope at Preston Pans." 
 
 Degraded indeed must have been the politics of 
 Europe when such a man could be thought of as an 
 agent of revolution; yet so it was, and twice within 
 one year. In 1770, the Due de Choiseul, then on the 
 edge of his fall, sent for him, at midnight, to come to 
 Paris, and on his arrival found him so drunk he could 
 make no use of him ; and, in 1771, what may be termed 
 the Dubarri Ministry brought him thither again, gave 
 him a pension of two hundred and forty thousand 
 livres on one condition : " Soyez epoux et pere,^' and, in 
 order to raise up a race of disquieting pretenders, so as 
 to counterbalance the rapid progeny of young King 
 George and faithful and prolific Queen Charlotte, the 
 battered inebriate of fifty-one agreed to marry the 
 young and pretty Princess of Stolberg, just nineteen 
 years of age. "Bgoisfcs calculs de la p)olitique," solemnly 
 says M. de Taillandier. At Macerata, not far from 
 Ancona, the wedding took place, ' the blue-eyed blonde, 
 blazing with grace and beauty,' and the prematurely 
 old man, ' who knelt painfully on the velvet cushion ;' 
 
162 AMONG M7 BOOKS. 
 
 and Monsignore Peruzzini blessed them, and a medal 
 was struck, 0! vanitas vamtatwn, in honour — so reads 
 the inscription — of 'Charles III., King of England, 
 France, and Ireland, and Louisa his Queen.' To Eome 
 sped 'the happy pair;' but Eome was not what it once 
 was to the Stuarts. A very liberal pontiff was in the 
 Vatican, fonder of the fine arts than of dogmatic or 
 any other kind of theology, and the Jesuits were on 
 the unwilling wing. In 1739, a royal guard had been 
 mounted on Monte Cavallo, and James III, was King, 
 in form at least. In 1772, all was lost, even honour, 
 and " Charles III." was simply Charles Stuart. It was 
 dreary work for the bride. These biographers give 
 minute details of that sad existence. There is some- 
 thing painfully ludicrous in the picture, especially 
 when the story-telling torture was added to all others. 
 A witness of it writes from Eome : " One sees in the 
 Palazzo Muti, where they live, four or five gentlemen 
 with their wives, old and faithful friends, to whom the 
 Pretender for the thousandth time tells the story of 
 his Scotch adventures. The Queen is of middle 
 height, blonde, with deep blue eyes; she has a nose 
 slightly retrousse, and a complexion of dazzling white 
 and red, like an Englishwoman. Her expression is 
 bright and captivating.- Fancy such a woman, so cheer- 
 ing and intelligent, shut up in the musty court of old 
 Jacobites ! She laughs heartily, as if she had heard it 
 for the first time, when her husband tells of his dis- 
 guising himself as a woman in order to escape the 
 Duke of Cumberland's soldiers. I found," the narrator 
 adds, "the story pleasant enough at first, but it rather 
 flagged after hearing it once or twice." The coming 
 
THE STUART BOOKS. 1Q3 
 
 jubilee of 1774 drove them away from the Eternal City, 
 which, together, they never again saw, the poor old 
 man returning there, fourteen years later, to die. 
 
 Then follows, as a pendant to the Florentine sojourn, 
 the story of Alfieri's love, which, in their odd way, one 
 French and the other German, these rival writers tell, 
 and to which no note would do justice. The Prince 
 continued to get drunker and drunker, and maltreat 
 his young wife, and that primmest and dullest of all 
 diplomats. Sir Horace Mann (why is it that Walpole's 
 pet correspondents were all so dull ?) duly reported to 
 his court the progress of degradation and debauch. 
 While at Florence, Charles Edward wrote one letter, 
 reproduced by M. de Eeumont, which has a critical 
 and an American interest. The critical value of it is 
 that it illustrates the importance of printing documents 
 with literal accuracy when errors and blemishes of 
 spelling or grammar tell anything. Here they show, 
 valeat quantum, that the Pretender really understood 
 the English language, for though he misspells and uses 
 awkward and obsolete phrases, he writes idiomatically. 
 The paper is historically curious, as revealing a flash 
 of hope and interest in the affairs of the ' old country' 
 and of ours. On the 5th January, 1778 — for news 
 travelled slowly then — he writes to a friend in Eome 
 of what had happened six months before : " I suppose 
 you will have already heard of Ge Burgoyne's entier 
 defete ; him and his hole army taken prisoners. I have 
 just new got accounts from Paris by a veridick person 
 that Dr. Franklin had received a courrier from La 
 Eochelle with certain accounts that General Waginston 
 had attacked Gal. Hove, that was already blocked up at 
 
164 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 Philadelpliia ; and that, after a most bluddy battle, 
 Howe and all his army remaining living were made 
 prisoners to ye number of 17,000 and effective men. It 
 is said the Elector of Hanover has broke ye parlement ; 
 if all this bee confirmed, you may judge what a confu- 
 sion it must make at London. Woud wish you gave 
 me your opinion what you think ye consequences of 
 all these events may produse." 
 
 The beating and the drunkenness continued, all 
 duly reported to the Elector of Hanover's Foreign 
 Secretary, till at last the woman fled, and, after a brief 
 effort at seclusion and decorum, and some ineffectual 
 remonstrances from her respectable but very dull 
 brother-in-law, the Cardinal Duke of York, joined her 
 dramatic lover, though she didn't live with him till 
 nearly four years afterward, when the public associa- 
 tion began, whatever it was, which ended only with 
 the lover's death. In April, 1784, ' the legitimate 
 King of Great Britain,' as, in the paper, he styled him- 
 self, gave a sort of sovereign consent to her living 
 where she pleased and doing what she pleased. The 
 wretched old man looked round for companionship and 
 found it in his illegitimate daughter Miss Walkinshaw, 
 now a woman of thirty years, from whom he had been 
 separated for more than twenty, and who had been all 
 the time at the convent at Meaux. She joined him in 
 Italy, and never left him till the drama closed, four 
 years later. She became the titular duchess of Albany. 
 The dreary ending had some flashes of interest. Occa- 
 sionally the fumes would be dissipated, and the debili- 
 tated brain would resume its functions : " Mr. Greathed, 
 a friend of Mr. Fox," says De Reumont, " visited him 
 
THE STUART BOOKS. 165 
 
 just before his death. They were alone. The con- 
 versation turned on 1745. At first, the Prince was 
 reserved ; the memories of the past seemed to pain him ; 
 but Mr. Greathed, with earnestness and yet with deli- 
 cacy, pressing him, he seemed suddenly, as it were, to 
 fling a great weight from his crushed spirit ; his eye 
 brightened, his countenance, usually stolid, became 
 animated. He began the narrative of his campaign 
 with almost boyish energy ; he spoke of his marches, 
 his victories, his flight amidst fearful dangers, the 
 absolute devotion of the Scotch, and the bloody fate 
 of so many of them. When he came to this point in 
 his narrative, though forty years of weary existence 
 had intervened, the recollection of the death and suffer- 
 ings of his followers became so vivid and so agonizing 
 that suddenly the words faded from his lips and he 
 sank with a sort of convulsion into a fainting fit." 
 This is not the narrative of Frenchman or German, 
 but of a cool-headed, guarded English witness. The 
 end was near. On the 80th of January, 1788, he died 
 in the arms of his daughter, who, in little over a year, 
 followed him to the grave, and 'Henry IX. of Eng- 
 land,' a childless priest, succeeded. With them ended 
 every known trace, legitimate or illegitimate, of the 
 Stuarts of Scotland and England. M. Taillandier has 
 many pages of fine writing on the wife's desertion of 
 the old man, and the remorse he supposes to be com- 
 prised in the three mild Italian words in which her 
 lover describes the conjugal woe : " I saw," says Alfieri 
 in his ' Memoirs,' " to my great surprise, that, on the 
 receipt of the news of her husband's death, she was non 
 foca compunta !" 
 
166 AMONG 3IY BOOKS. 
 
 These notes cannot be protracted through the long 
 period of the joint lives of these strange beings, nor of 
 that of the survivor — their ramblings and escapes — the 
 presentation of the Pretender's widow at the 'Elector 
 of Hanover's' Court, and the pension of £1600 she 
 was willing to accept; of Alfieri's death in 1803, and 
 the succession of the young painter Xavier Fabre ; of 
 the literary reign on the Lung' Arno, where she was a 
 sort of Italian Countess of Cork, down to her death, 
 seventy-two years old, in 1824. Is not all this pleas- 
 antly told by M. de Eeumont, and is this not that at 
 which the French biographer so loftily sneers, though 
 everybody reads such literary gossip with avidity ? 
 
 " I don't pretend," says M. Taillandier, " to enumerate 
 all who, from 1814 to 1824, composed the court of the 
 Queen of Florence. M. de Eeumont has given most of 
 them. Like a true master of ceremonies, he announces 
 solemnly all the illustrious personages, and, in subdued 
 tones, tells their history. No detail escapes him. He 
 knows the title and connections of all the English 
 nobility who come to salute Madame d'Albany. He is 
 acquainted with the private history of all the great 
 ladies, and even of the Secretaries of Legation." He 
 knows exactly the part played by every cardinal in the 
 last conclave ; what is the forte of every strange poet, 
 or painter, or sculptor, who had arrived from Rome or 
 Naples, Milan or Venice. He is never at a loss. He is 
 never so happy as when describing the retinue of a 
 peeress. It is the Duchess of Devonshire, or Cardinal 
 Consalvi, or Lady Jersey, or the poet Rogers, or 
 Byron's friend Hobhouse, or Ireland's poet Moore, or 
 Lord John Eussell, or the great historian of sculpture 
 
THE STUART BOOKS. 16Y 
 
 Cicognara, or greatest of all (so M. Taillandier thinks) 
 Lamartine or Chateaubriand. It is a perfectly Homeric 
 catalogue. It, nevertheless, was very good company, 
 and this was a bright society which clustered round the 
 restless old lady at the innocent close of her eventful 
 life. 
 
 Here end these desultory Stuart annotations, and 
 yet it would be wrong to close them without an ac- 
 knowledgment, due from every scholar interested in the 
 theme, to one living man with whom this exploration 
 of these Stuart traditions, in a truly catholic spirit, has 
 always been a labour of love. I mean Earl Stanhope, 
 better known in historic literature as Lord Malion. 
 Citations from his works fairly bristle on M. de Eeu- 
 mont's scholarly pages, and it is at his instance that 
 the translation of so valuable a work for the first time 
 into English is now in progress on this side of the 
 Atlantic. It is, in brief space and compact form, the 
 story of a century, from 1720, when Charles Edward 
 was born, to 1834, when his widow died. 
 
 Has the daring speculation not entered the reader's 
 mind whether, putting aside all the jargon of history, 
 all the postulates of party, England might not have 
 fared as well had the Stuarts never been exiled and 
 the Hanoverians never come in ? Religious liberty and 
 Protestantism were beyond the reach of kings or princes. 
 The Stuarts, at least, were Englishmen, with English- 
 men's instincts, and as to morals, the champions of 
 Hanover have not much to boast of on that score. 
 Antony Hamilton tells no worse tales than does Lord 
 Hervey, and "Take care of poor Nellie" sounds more 
 pleasantly than Queen Caroline's dying " Celaii'e'mp^clie 
 
168 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 pas," when George II., in an agony of tears, resisted 
 her request to marry again, by the blubbering out, 
 " Oh ! non, faurai des mditresses." It has been some- 
 where said that nothing so conclusively proves the 
 crimes of the Stuarts as the English people being con- 
 tent with the early Georges. 
 
THE BRITISH THEATRE- 
 MRS. INCHBALD. 
 
 As with scientific theology and law, so with any 
 ethical question about the drama, printed or acted, 
 these notes have naught to do. Thei*e have been thea- 
 tricals from the day of Sennacherib to our own, some 
 twenty-five centuries, and, if the crack of doom be so 
 long deferred, there will be actors and acting for as 
 many more. The love of mimic representation is as 
 near an instinct of our nature as may be, and, though 
 there are men, and women too, who pretend they have 
 no enjoyment in the theatre and really have a scruple 
 about it, if, from the life of ordinary humanity, all 
 dramatic memories could be obliterated, the residuum 
 would be flat indeed. I have known a pure, and excel- 
 lent, and religious woman, whose life was protracted 
 far beyond the Scriptural limit, cheered to the end by 
 bright recollections of the stage, and now, when 1 see 
 a gray head, an old man, sitting by his daughter or 
 grand-daughter, innocently enjoying a play, my Puri- 
 tanism is conscious of no shock. Every student recalls 
 Sir Walter Scott's beautiful apologetic essay on the 
 subject, written in the last hours of his happy life, and 
 on the edge of the dismal chasm into which he was 
 plunged. It is a charming paper in every sense. His 
 
 8 
 
lYO AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 excuse is all summed up in a few lines, and one detects 
 the lurking fun, and sees a merry twinkle of the great 
 blue eye as he gravely wrote : " We" (for he was writing 
 as a reviewer), " we frankly confess one may be better 
 employed than in witnessing the best and most moral 
 play that ever was acted, but the same may be said of 
 every action of our lives except devotion to God and 
 benevolence to man." And, with this comfortable 
 postulate, he ignores the existence of austere denuncia- 
 tion of what was dear to his own cheerful nature, and 
 revels in recollections of the past. The description of 
 his first play, the great event of childhood, the rich 
 reward of good behaviour, thought of for weeks, at 
 least it used to be, " the unusual form of the house/' 
 " the mystic curtain, whose dusky undulations permit 
 us, now and then, to discover the momentary glitter of 
 some sandalled or some tiny slippered foot which trips 
 lightly within — the slow rise of the shadowy curtain," 
 and then ! how many Pendennises, if the truth were 
 told, have been madly in love with Mrs. Hallers, and 
 no harm come of it ! The slippered foot beneath the 
 curtain is delicious; and I venture on one more quoted 
 word of the old man genial : " It is now a long while 
 since," says he, " yet we have not passed many hours 
 of such unmixed delight ; and we still remember the 
 sadness of the sinking lights when all was over, the 
 dispersing of the crowd, with the vain longing that the 
 music would again sound, the magic curtain once 
 more arise, and the enchanting dream recommence, 
 and the astonishment with which we looked upon the 
 apathy of our elders, who, having the means, did not 
 spend every evening at the theatre!" Scott was a 
 
TEE BRITISH THEATRE— MRS. INCHBALD. 171 
 
 grandfather when he thus wrote, and his biography 
 (and where in any language is there a more lovely 
 book ?) tells us that after poverty had overtaken and 
 palsy stricken him, and he was lying on his dying bed, 
 when some one read aloud hard lines of Crabbe on the 
 infirmities and frailties of actors, he bade him shut the 
 book because "it would give poor Terry pain," the 
 sympathies of his gentle heart shining through the 
 clouds which had settled on his memory, for Terry 
 had long before gone beyond the reach of human 
 pity. 
 
 One other interlocutory remark, as lawyers would 
 say, which this Scott reminiscence suggests. Let the 
 outside world denounce and exorcise the theatre as it 
 may, is it graceful for the drama to be untrue to itself? 
 There are certain themes which written fiction, novels, 
 and romances should never touch. There are charac- 
 ters and situations which the drama ought never to 
 illustrate. Of the former are the crimes of a parent 
 visited on an innocent child, such as the hideous pic- 
 ture of Dickens's paralytic old mother, or the worse one, 
 because, as was everything he wrote, more true to nature, 
 Thackeray's utterly scoundrelly father in ' Philip's "Way 
 Through the World.' It is, as he said of George the 
 Third's insanity, "too terrible for tears." The curse 
 of the second commandment is dreadful to think of. 
 There is no use of having it, as it were, set to music 
 and sounded in our ears when we want sweet, pleasura- 
 ble melodies. So of subjects which, in its own interests, 
 the acting drama should resent. Such are they which 
 degrade the theatrical function, and, in its own house, 
 hold it up to obloquy. A comedy of which the heroine's 
 
172 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 leading impulse, charmingly portrayed, is shame because 
 she had once been an actress, and is the daughter of 
 an actor, and he a drunken specimen of the worst his- 
 trionic class, ought (though the process has a Celtic 
 flavour) to be hissed off the stage by the actors them- 
 selves.* There are temptations enough to lower the 
 standard. They need not be encouraged. They are 
 painful accessories that should not be exaggerated. 
 There is an old age for the actor, and retirement, Avhich 
 need not be disfigured by self-inflicted stigmas. The 
 greatest of living players, in the quiet retreat of his 
 Dorsetshire home, doing good to all around him, looks 
 back, I doubt not, proudly to his professional career, 
 remembering that it was the labour of his life, and a 
 successful one, to purify and elevate the function to 
 which taste or necessity called him. 
 
 Mrs. Inchbald's "British Theatre," in its forty-seven 
 compact duodecimos, well printed, well bound, and 
 beautifully illustrated, is the dramatic treasury of our 
 mother-tongue. It is the acting drama of England, 
 from the inner edge of its licentiousness and indecency 
 down to our day of relative literary imbecility. It is, 
 fairly stated, the literature of a century, counting back- 
 ward from 1811, the date of the last volume. And who 
 fitter to collate and edit than this singularly clever and 
 refined woman, actress, dramatist, novelist, to whom, 
 by some incomprehensible neglect, so much injustice 
 has been done ? Can it be because she was, in vulgar 
 phrase, a 'Romanist,' that the prejudice which mutines 
 in the marrow and bones of Anglican protestantism 
 
 ♦ Alberry's comedy of " The Coquettes." 
 
THE BRITISH THEATRE— MRS. INCHBALD. 173 
 
 has been operative against her? There is no novel in 
 the language, according to my poor taste, more fasci- 
 nating than her almost forgotten ' Simple Story.' It 
 and the ' Vicar of Wakefield,' twin gems of gentle 
 luminousness, are the only English pictures which dare 
 to illustrate kindly the sorrows of an erring woman, 
 and poor Miss Milner and Olivia Primrose are as beau- 
 tiful impersonations as if sin and shame had never 
 touched them. 'All of them is pure womanly.' Let 
 any one contrast their story with Mr. Hawthorne's 
 dreary romance, whose very title is hideous, and 
 the merit will be manifest. Then, as a dramatist, 
 Mrs. Inchbald had great success in her day. ' Eveiy 
 One Has His Fault' is a wonderfully bright play, 
 with one character which is unique, that of the good- 
 natured man, Mr. Harmony, who invents and utters all 
 manner of fictions in order to make people love each 
 other. Why is it that while the wretched trash of 
 Holcroft and Morton and Colman (except 'The Jeal- 
 ous Wife' and 'The Clandestine Marriage'), and the 
 questionable morality of Centlivre, keep the stage, this 
 drama of Mrs. Inchbald is banished or forgotten ? 
 
 Looking at the title-pages of these multitudinous 
 volumes, one cannot fail to be struck with the vast 
 improvement in the acting drama, even since Mrs. 
 Inchbald's day. Few, as few as possible, are the 
 blemishes in this series. Yet there are some. There 
 is the 'Beaux's Stratagem,' coarse enough in single 
 scenes, and, to my judgment, very dull reading, as it 
 must have been dull acting, even though Garrick played 
 Scrub and Mrs. Abingdon, Mrs. Sullen ; but there is 
 a triad of tragedies, whose very essence, the pivot 
 
1Y4 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 of the plot, is ineffable indecency. The 'Fair Peni- 
 tent,' classic enough to have, in Lothario, created a 
 name for all time; the 'Orphan,' worse than any; 
 and, rather better but still very bad, 'Venice Pre- 
 served.' That part of the last which used to delight 
 his most sacred Majesty George the Second is omitted, 
 but still, as with Eowe's tragedy, the impulse, the 
 moving cause of Jaffier's treason and Belvidera's 
 woes, is an incident of gToss indelicacy. Yet these, 
 both in England and in this country, were, down 
 to a very recent period, popular plays and performed 
 before decorous audiences. These eyes have seen 
 Monimia's and Calista's sorrows, and ears of to-day 
 have heard the stately but very plain descriptions 
 of their mistakes and weaknesses. Such plays 
 would now be hooted from the stage, and yet the 
 Colliers of to-day tell us the drama has not im- 
 proved! Forty years ago these loathsome things 
 were habitually represented, the expiation being that, 
 on Christmas eve, George Barnwell and Milwood were 
 regularly conjured up, to deter apprentices from mur- 
 dering their uncles, or having to do with naughty 
 women. 
 
 Other recollections of past studies and enjoyments 
 are awakened by these familiar books. As if to show 
 that, in the midst of mimic licentiousness, a sol- 
 emn, sermonizing drama could be written and per- 
 formed, appeared ' The Provoked Husband.' Hannah 
 More or Mrs. Chapone might have written it, and an 
 audience of divines might listen to it. It was, too, 
 strange to say, an effective play upon the stage, and 
 Mr. Manly's platitudes and the final quarrel and re- 
 
THE BRITISH THEATRE— MRS. INCHBALD. 175 
 
 conciliation of the aristocratic hero and heroine were 
 made impressive by good actors. It was sc in America 
 at what may be termed the 'recitative' age, when, after 
 a tragedy or tragi-comedy, snch as the one just referred 
 to, the audience was recreated by Collins's ' Ode to the 
 Passions,' with a feeble orchestral accompaniment. 
 That, however, which killed, and forever we trust, the 
 nastiness of a century and a half ago, was not the 
 solemn, pretentious prudery of the 'Provoked Hus- 
 band' and 'that ilk,' but the advent, springing 
 lightly and gayly into the lists, armed in brightest 
 proof and with the sharpest weapons, of one who con- 
 quered by superior wit — him, 
 
 " The orator — dramatist — minstrel — ^who ran 
 Through each mode of the lyre and was master of all. 
 
 The ' School for Scandal,' the ' Eivals,' and the 
 * Critic' (too rarely played), demolished, or took cap- 
 tive and locked up, never to be extricated, the Con- 
 greves and Wyeherleys and Vanbrughs of a century 
 before. There is something absolutely weird about the 
 marvellous genius of Sheridan. He did, as Lord Byron 
 said, the best of everything — made the greatest speech 
 ever heard in Parliament, wrote the best comedy, the 
 best English opera, the best farce, the best epilogue, 
 and, bad as was his only tragedy, and it a translation, 
 Eolla's talk to the Peruvians did good work in its 
 day. Very drunk he often was, very unscrupulous 
 generally, but surely these sins carried penalty enough 
 along with them. There has always seemed to me 
 something inexpressibly sad, far worse than the 
 mythical seizure of the dead man by the bailiffs, in the 
 
176 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 record, kept by the Prince Kegent himself, of his meet- 
 ing 'poor old Sheridan,' as he styles him, in shabby 
 raiment in the streets of Brighton, and the broken- 
 hearted man turning down a by-road to avoid the 
 encounter of the host of the Pavilion. But all and en- 
 during honour to his literary genius ! Whose is there, 
 in its way, like it? Here, in 1870, are played, and 
 well played, his two great comedies, and if the inno- 
 cent merriment which Sir Peter and Mrs. Malaprop 
 have for a century provoked avails for mercy ; if Sir 
 Lucius O'Trigger and Lady Teazle, as perfectly repre- 
 sented now and here as they were by Johnston and 
 Miss Farren, are intercessory spirits, then 'poor old 
 Sherry' must be happy and at peace. The 'School 
 for Scandal' is contemporary with our Declaration of 
 Independence, and much more cheerful. 
 
 Of the comic writers of that day, or a little later, 
 putting aside Murphy and Cumberland and the feebly 
 moral school, was one other, whom Mrs. Inchbald has 
 embalmed, who has a sort of American affiliation, and 
 yet, as a writer, is well-nigh forgotten. We all know 
 of Burgoyne's surrender, but hardly one knows Bur- 
 goyne's comedies, and yet there are few cleverer or more 
 brilliant, of a second order, than 'The Heiress' and 
 ' Maid of the Oaks.' Eichard Fitzpatrick, the friend 
 of Walpole and Lady Ossory, and John Burgoyne, wits 
 and dramatists, and refined, gentle-minded men of 
 letters, were thrown away in that wretched civil war, 
 and forced to unnatural companionship with ' Black 
 Dick' and his brother, the General, and with the 
 Knyphausens and De Heisters and other ruffian Ger- 
 mans. Fitzpatrick was Lady Ossory's brother-in-law. 
 
THE BBITISH THEATRE— ME8. INCHBALD^ 177 
 
 and one of the Rolliad coterie. He came over here 
 with Sir Henry Clinton's reinforcements in 1777, and 
 was soon sickened with his military work. Portions 
 of his letters to his friends at home have been preserved 
 and are in print, and a sentence of sympathy in one 
 of them has a place in my memory. It is from a letter 
 dated at New York, June 2, 1777. "You cannot 
 imagine," he writes, " anything half so beautiful as 
 this country. It is impossible to conceive anything so 
 delightful. Lady Holland, in spite of her politics, 
 would, I am sure, feel for it, if she could see the ruin 
 and desolation we have introduced into the most beauti- 
 ful, and, I verily believe, happiest part of the universe." 
 The only tinge of politics that one detects in the 
 comic drama of the eighteenth century, was what 
 Macklin gave in two plays, in which was intensified a 
 transitory but bitter political sentiment. The ' Man 
 of the World,' originally called ' The True-blooded 
 Scotchman,' is a tremendous embodiment of acrid, 
 popular feeling. It was the Irishman giving vent to 
 a hatred of race, and Sir Pertinax MacSycophant is 
 really a modern Overreach, with an ending almost as 
 tragical. The time was well chosen. Scotchmen 
 were at Derby not very long before, and Drury Lane 
 had been grievously frightened. I am not sure that 
 the fleshless skulls of Lovat and Kilmarnock were not, 
 still, over Temple Bar, and the scandals of Lord Bute 
 and the Princess Dowager were fresh. Then it was 
 that Macklin struck his blow of dramatic satire, and 
 it was effective. But so vigorous and almost tragic 
 Were his impersonations that ordinary actors were un- 
 able to present them, and in the century which has 
 
 8* 
 
178 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 elapsed but two have mastered them — Macklia himself 
 and George Frederick Cooke. There is a scene con- 
 nected with this fierce comedy which is very life-like 
 as well as lively. Horace Walpole in 1781 writes to 
 Mason : " Boswell, that quintessence of busy-bodies, 
 called on me last week. He was let in, which he 
 should not have been could I have foreseen it. After 
 tapping many topics to which I made as dry answers 
 as an unbribed oracle, he vented his errand. ' Had 
 I seen Dr. Johnson's Lives of the Poets ?' I answered 
 slightly : ' No ; not yet,' and so overlaid his whole 
 impertinence. As soon as he had recovered himself, 
 with true Caledonian insincerity, he talked of Macklin's 
 new play, and pretended he liked it. I am told there 
 is very little good in the play, except the likeness of 
 Sir Pertinax to twenty thousand Scotchmen." * 
 
 But what, all this while, of Tragedy and her " sceptred 
 pall ?" Truth to say, it was not very ' gorgeous.' The 
 whole eighteenth century scarcely gives one. Shake- 
 speare, whom the Saturday Review thinks "no great 
 things after all," was a great monopoliser, and since he 
 died, no tragic drama has seized and kept the stage. 
 Othello and Lear, Hamlet and Macbeth, still rule the 
 
 * As is well known, our classic records had a narrow escape from 
 this temporary social or political prejudice. In Mr. Jefferson's first 
 draught of the Declaration of Independence, in the recital of wrongs 
 done us by the K'ng was this : " He is at this time transporting large 
 armies of Scotch and other foreign mercenaries to complete the works of 
 death, desolation, and tyranny already begun," etc. At Doctor Frank- 
 lin's suggestion, the italicized words were dropped. To retain them 
 would have been awkward with the Presbyterian Scot, John "Wither- 
 spoon, in Congress, and the Jacobite Hugh Mercer fighting our battles \ 
 
THE BRITISH THEATRE— MRS. INCHBALD. 179 
 
 English-speaking mind, and, from Dr. Johnson's 
 
 * Irene' and the Kev. Edward Yonng's ' Revenge,' to 
 Mr. Maturin's 'Bertram,' all is barrenness. 'Doug- 
 las,' that odd creation of a Scotch parson's brain, 
 which convulsed the Kirk, had a flashy sort of exist- 
 ence, but who that remembers, in the ' Virginians,' 
 good Colonel Lambert's criticism, can read a word of 
 it without laughing ? Yet, like the ' Stranger,' of 
 which Thackeray made so unmerciful fun, it moved hon- 
 est folks to cry, and the laughing cynic tells us " there 
 was a pillar in the front box, behind which mamma 
 could weep in comfort," and "the big grenadier on the 
 stage" did cry, and " My Name is Nerval" holds its 
 own in schools, and is a better elocutionary model than 
 Mr. Webster's " Sink or Swim" bombast or Barbara 
 Freitchie ; and Lady Randolph's euphemism of initiate 
 maternity has become classical. 'Fazio' and 'Ion' 
 and the ' Apostate' in our day have had a brief, pre- 
 carious hold on the acting stage, as, through Mr. 
 Macready's wonderful delineation, ' Werner' had, but 
 Byron's great dramatic poems (and they are great) and 
 
 * Philip von Artevelde,' a grand poetic creation, never 
 got or can get beyond the student's inner closet.* Lord 
 Lytton's 'Richelieu' has a vein of comicality in it, 
 and the treacle of the Lyonese lady is nauseous to the 
 youngest and the tenderest damsel, whether admin- 
 
 * A friend calls my attention to a very quotable passage in Sar- 
 danapalus, where Myrrha says, 
 
 " By teacliing thee to save thyself, and not 
 Thyself alone, but these vast realms, from all 
 The rage of the worst war — the war of brethren." 
 
180 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 istered tragically by Mr. Booth, or funnily by Mr. 
 Fechter. 
 
 There is another truth which a study of these vol- 
 umes and of English dramatic literature eliminates — 
 its manifest inferiority to that of the Continent of 
 Europe. I do not speak of Lope, or Calderon, or Mo- 
 liere, or ' the great masters,' as I do not of Shakespeare 
 at home, but of the current drama of the century just 
 ended. The French are essentially dramatic. Their 
 actors are the best in the world, because their drama 
 is, as who doubts who has seen Lemaitre, and Dejazet, 
 and Eose Cherie, to say nothing of that grand diabo- 
 lism, Eachel ? Their dramatic writers, the most modern 
 ones, are unequalled. Casimir Delavigne's ' Ecole des 
 Veillards,' and Girardin's (is it not?) 'La joie fait 
 peur/ and Scribe's ' Bertrand et Eaton,' (Talleyrand 
 and Lafitte, and Parisian politics realized in this tra- 
 vesty of an actual Danish tragedy) are all floating in 
 memory and make us feel how inferior the correspond- 
 ing literature of ours is. 
 
 This ' Bertrand et Eaton' suggests an odd reminis- 
 cence of its days of popularity. It had its origin and 
 success in the Orleans politics of 1830, had a wonderful 
 run, and was announced in London when Prince Tal- 
 leyrand was ambassador. Great was the consternation. 
 The Lord Chamberlain felt that the fate of the entente 
 cortZi«?e was in his hands. 'Bertrand' was so terribly 
 like the Prince that no one could mistake the carica- 
 ture. It was altered and mutilated and disguised till 
 nothing was left but the diplomatic wig. With doubt 
 and misgiving the emasculated comedy was produced, 
 and to the relief of cabinets and the composure of 
 
THE BRITISH THEATRE— MBS. INCHBALB. 181 
 
 nations, Prince Talleyrand took a box and laughed 
 heartily at the satire. There is in connection with 
 dramatic censorship in England another anecdote of 
 an ancient date — when Foote, ribald in everything, 
 sent one of his most pronounced farces to the Primate 
 at Lambeth with a meek request that his Grace would 
 make such corrections and erasures as he might think 
 right. The shrewd, good-humored prelate returned 
 the manuscript intact, for, said he: "If I had made a 
 single alteration, the fellow would have advertised his 
 farce 'As revised and corrected by the Archbishop of 
 Canterbury.' " 
 
NOVELS— DEFOE TO THACKERAY. 
 
 Let any inveterate novel-reader recast his exi)eri- 
 ence, and, if it be a tolerably long one, it will have 
 strange varieties ; from the time when ' Humphrey 
 Clinker' was surreptitiously taken from the paternal 
 bookcase, and Hannah More's ' Coelebs' as religiously 
 eschewed, down to this day of ours, when Wilkie Col- 
 lins keeps us awake at night, and Miss Thackeray moves 
 our minor and gentler sensibilities. One of the most 
 successful, and cleverest of living novelists, Mr. Trol- 
 lope, contemplates, as the complement to his strictly 
 professional work, a critical history of English fiction; 
 and, with some misgiving of success, we may hope his 
 plan will be carried into execution ; the doubt being, 
 whether an actor c^ best write the story of the drama, 
 or a novel-writer as nicely discriminate among novels 
 as the genuine, thorough-going novel-reader. And 
 when I speak of one of these, a man is meant (there 
 are many women) who, with a ' fancy all compact' and 
 'faith sincere,' reads a book of fiction as if it were a 
 book of truth, and believes implicitly, for the time being, 
 that Lord Orville did kiss Miss Anville's hand, and 
 that Edie Ochiltree and Major Pendennis are real- 
 ities. 
 
NOVELS— DEFOE TO THACKERAY. 183 
 
 It is not a very long record, this of English novels. 
 Less than two centuries will cover it all, though our 
 day has witnessed a wonderful growth of all sorts of 
 clever fictions. Sir Walter Scott tells us somewhere, 
 that in his boyhood Mrs. Aphra Behn's novels were the 
 choice reading of the modestest women ; and tlie Kew 
 Atlantis was once, we know, the fashion. I have, as 
 matter of critical duty, tried both, and the result is 
 simple, unutterable disgust. The 'Grand Cyrus' and 
 (with hesitation I say it) the 'Decameron,' have no 
 charm. I date no further back than Defoe, and begin 
 a pleasant experience of English fiction with one who 
 stands what is, after all, the great test — knowing how 
 to create a living character. Moll Flanders, and Rox- 
 ana, and Captain Jack, are stupid people enough ; but 
 the story of the Plague is true, and who doubts that 
 Robinson Crusoe and — as Madame Talleyrand called 
 him — ce patcvre Vendredi, are realities ? Who ever will 
 forget Robinson finding the footprint on the sand ? It 
 is not a very long jump from Queen Anne to George 
 II., from Defoe to Richardson ; and Richardson is read 
 yet, though his shortest novel is in five volumes and 
 the longest in seven. At circulating libraries (witness 
 that most complete one amongst us, the 'Eclectic,' 
 administered by an accomplished and scholarly gentle- 
 man) 'Pamela,' a very poor afiair, is in demand yet, ' Sir 
 Charles' not so much so, and ' Clarissa' more than all. 
 And who that ever read ' Clarissa Harlowe,' will for- 
 get it; or who, reading it, will ever wish to try it 
 again? There are books in the English language — 
 ' Clarissa' being one, and the ' Bride of Lammermuir' 
 and ' Kenilworth' — too painfuj to be read a second time. 
 
184 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 I am not quite sure that 'Jane Eyre,' with the mad 
 woman in the attic, and the ' Mill on the Floss,' are 
 not in the same category. (The ' Scarlet Letter' cer- 
 tainly is.) As one going to the theatre, now-a-days, 
 and watching the delicacy and refinement of the acting 
 drama as Mr. Wallack gives it to us, wonders that 
 Wycherley's or Farquhar's comedies, or the 'Fair 
 Penitent' and the 'Orphan,' ever were tolerated, so, 
 far greater is the marvel that a novel founded on such 
 an incident as is 'Clarissa,' could ever have been 
 popular. Yet it was, and, in a certain sense, it is. 
 There are scenes in it which haunt us — the deaths of 
 the procuress and Belton, and the duel between Love- 
 lace and Colonel Morden, the men fighting in their 
 shirts and hacking each other heroically. Yet Rich- 
 ardson created no immortal characters. He furnished 
 names — as 'Grandison' for elaborate politeness, and 
 'Lovelace' (like Rowe's 'Lothario') for profligacy — 
 but this was all. Not so, his rival and caricaturist. 
 Fielding. He made characters to live forever — Parson 
 Adams, and Partridge, and Booth — that good-natured 
 sinner — but they are in company so low, and so low 
 themselves, one does not care to recognize them ; and 
 he devised fictions, of complexity so wonderful and 
 minute that we cannot refrain from admiration ; but 
 this is all. The purest-minded man it was ever my lot 
 to meet, thought 'Tom Jones' (with Molly Seagrim 
 and Lady Bellaston) the most admirable work of fiction 
 ever written, and Thackeray bowed down his noble 
 head in homage at the feet of Fielding.* " The kind 
 
 * Professor Henry Reed, of Philadelphia, ob. 1854. Eheu ! 
 
NOVELS— DEFOE TO THACKEBAT. 185 
 
 old Johnson," says he, "would not sit down with him. 
 But a greater scholar than Johnson could afford to 
 admire that astonishing genius of Harry Fielding ; and 
 we all know the lofty panegyric which Gibbon wrote of 
 him, and which remains a towering monument to the 
 great novelist's memory : ' Our immortal Fielding,' he 
 writes, 'was of the younger branch of the Earls of 
 Denbigh, who drew their origin from the Counts of 
 Hapsburg. The successors of Charles V. may disdain 
 their brethren of England ; but the romance of ' Tom 
 Jones,' that exquisite picture of human manners, will 
 outlive the palace of the Escurial, and the Imperial 
 Eagle of Austria.' There can be no gainsaying," adds 
 Thackeray, " the sentence of this great judge. To have 
 your name mentioned by Gibbon is like having it 
 written on the dome of St. Peter's. Pilgrims from all 
 the world admire and behold it." * Coleridge some- 
 
 * The best comment on Gibbon's stateliness is in a poem of Lander, 
 from which, as it is fugitive, I quote a few lines : 
 
 There are who blame thee for too stately iftej) 
 And words resounding from inflated cheek. 
 Words have their proper places, just like men. 
 I listen to, nor venture to reprove, 
 Large language swelling under gilded domes, 
 Byzantine, Syrian, Persepolitan ; 
 Or where the world's drunk master lay in dust. 
 Fabricius heard and spake another tongue, 
 And such the calm Cornelia taught her boys, 
 Such Scipio, Ca2sar, Tullius, marshalling, 
 Cimber and wilder Scot were humanized, 
 And, far as flew the Eagles, all was Rome. 
 
 History hath beheld no pile ascend 
 So lofty, large, symmetrical, as thine. 
 
186 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 where says: "There is a cheerful, sunshiny, breezy 
 spirit that prevails everywhere in Fielding, strongly 
 contrasted with the close, hot, day-dreamy continuity 
 of Eichardson." 
 
 Start not, gentle reader, when I say I like Smollett 
 (not his history, which Sir Pitt Crawley thinks is good 
 reading, but his novels) better than Fielding, and pre- 
 fer 'Eoderick Random,' which sounds like truth, to 
 'Joseph Andrews,' which, beginning in coarse carica- 
 ture, never gets quite over it. Matthew Bramble and 
 Lismahago and Win Jenkins are immortal, and, in a 
 coarse form, Commodore Trunnion and Strap. 
 
 We pass to a new scene, and into a pure, womanly 
 atmosphere, when, at memory's bidding, rise up around 
 us ' Evelina' and ' Cecilia' and ' Camilla' and ' Edgar 
 Mandlebert' (lovers have no such names now-a-days, 
 but are 'John' and ' Stephen') and 'Delville' and ' Old 
 Briggs.' Doctor Johnson, of his pet author's works, 
 thought ' Cecilia' the best ; but on such topics ' the great 
 lexicographer' is no authority, and our vote is cast for 
 
 * Evelina,' the first, the shortest, and best, and her 
 minute perplexities, and Camilla's woes, with her lover 
 offering up the church's prayers for the sick by her 
 bedside, his voice curing her at once. Miss Burney 
 yet gives the reading world of the English language a 
 vast amount of innocent delight; but she made no 
 living characters ! Still less did she, who founded the 
 English school of harrowing romance, Mrs. Ann Rad- 
 cliffe ; and I doubt much if anybody reads now what 
 once made childhood sleepless, or cares more for the 
 
 * Mysteries of Udolpho' or the 'Italian' than for those 
 other forgotten monstrosities, ' Abellino the Bandit' or 
 
NOVELS— DEFOE TO THACKERAY. 187 
 
 * Rinaldo Rinaldini.' Thackeray, when in this country, 
 used to say, that his choice novel-readiug was thrilling 
 *dime' literature, and that he liked, of all things, such 
 romances as the ' Black Brig of Bermuda' or the 
 ' Bloody Barber of the Bowery ;' and I confess it seems 
 to me they compare favoui-ably with Schedoni, or the 
 gore-stained dagger in the 'Eomance of the Forest.' 
 Then came Miss Porter, with her school-boy delights, 
 Helen Mar and Wallace and Thaddeus of Warsaw, 
 which surely no grown man ever reads ; and Godwin's 
 
 * Caleb Williams,' dark, vigorous, without a woman, 
 and which no child ever relished ; and ' Zeluco,' and 
 kindred to it, though of later date, ' Anastasius'— a 
 triumvirate of the hardest-hearted, stoniest books that 
 fiction ever framed; heroes all wicked, remorseful, and 
 unrepentant. One woman of that day — indeed, there 
 are two — must not be forgotten : Sophia Lee, with her 
 ' Canterbury Tales,' and Mrs. Inchbald's really lovely 
 'Simple Story,' with its double plot, and poor Miss 
 Milner and Doriforth. Than this, I reiterate, there is 
 no more beautiful novel in the English language, and 
 in a gentle, winning way, there are scenes painted in 
 it which tighten the throat and moisten the eye won- 
 derfully. We must pretermit the immortal 'Vicar,' 
 and can only take our hat reverentially to the good 
 old man, and Moses, and Olivia, in passing by. As 
 I have said, the 'one sin which women never for- 
 give' is gently and pitifully treated by the Roman 
 Catholic lady in the 'Simple Story,' and the kind- 
 hearted Irishman in the ' Vicar of Wakefield.' 
 
 Coming down nearer to our own day, we hail the 
 steady, healthful, if not very brilliant, reign of Miss 
 
188 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 Edgewortli and Mrs. Austin. Of the former, give us 
 the Irish novels; and let us, in the delight of the 
 'Absentee' and ' Orniond' (who can forget King Corny 
 dying on the field of sport ?), really clever books, pardon 
 the stately dullness of ' Patronage' and the grotesque 
 machinery of ' Harrington' (said to have been written 
 at the request of a Jewish lady of Philadelphia), where, 
 however, we may incidentally say, there is a clearer 
 and more life-like picture of the ' No-Popery' riots than 
 Mr. Dickens painted on the highly-tinted bizarre pages 
 of ' Barnaby Rudge.' It is in Mr. Hope's gloomy 
 oriental romance, we read, that in some Eastern land, 
 after all adult supplication had failed to arrest a raging 
 pestilence, the hands of little children, raised in prayer, 
 pacified the angry God. So, if the gratitude of the 
 girls and boys who read and speak the English lan- 
 guage avail aught in regulating the literary canon, 
 then surely is Maria Edgeworth a saint ; for ' Lazy 
 Lawrence' and ' Barring Out' and ' Simple Susan' 
 (take a 'poon, pig!) and the 'Little Merchants' avail 
 more for innocent pleasure and do more good to the 
 young than the aggregated tracts, and dismal, technical 
 fictions which have been issued from all the combined 
 Sunday-school unions from the days of Richard Raikes 
 till now. 
 
 At the end of the first decade of this century, Eng- 
 lish fiction was beginning to become very feeble, when 
 there came shooting, in a mysterious form, and regu- 
 lar though weird-like effulgence, the Great Northern 
 Light, before whom, in our judgment, all antecedent 
 writers of fiction pale. I once heard an eminent novel- 
 
NOVELS— DEFOE TO THACKERAY. 189 
 
 ist of our day criticise the dialogues and conversations 
 of Scott's heroes and heroines as impossible things. 
 ' No men and women,' said he, ' could talk so.' The 
 minute criticism may be just; but what then ? Who 
 ever in prose held the human heart so captive as did 
 this whole-hearted, large-brained Wizard of the North ? 
 We have lived to see the day when the genus or species 
 * historical novel' has run to seed, from Horace Smith's 
 ' Brambletye House' to Miss Louisa Mtihlbach's mis- 
 eries ; but yet how different and how wonderful were 
 Scott's illuminations of historical truth! He took 
 realities like Claverhouse and John Balfour and the 
 young Pretender, and both the Argyles and Leicester, 
 and brightened them up and made them shine forth 
 distinctly from the dull ground of history. In no 
 instance more so than Dundee, sitting 'calm as a 
 summer's morning' in the parlour at Tillietudlem after 
 the disaster at Loudon Hill, or dying in the arms of 
 victory at Killiecranckie, where, 
 
 ' In the glory of his manhood 
 Passed the spirit of the Graeme.' 
 
 But Scott's realities were nothing to his pure fictions, 
 embodying the history of times and manners. He 
 created, from the mere spirit of the times, immortal 
 men and women — the Baron of Bradwardine reading 
 the service at the head of his men on the eve of Preston 
 Pans, or hiding, ragged and unshaven, in the cave, 
 with a pistol in one hand and Titus Livius in the 
 other, and Edie Ochiltree, and Dominie Sampson, and 
 Jeanie and David Deans, and Dugald Dalgetty. No 
 
190 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 writer of prose-fiction ever made such an epic as the 
 ' Heart of Mid Lothian.' No painter ever drew a finer 
 picture than the broken-hearted Glenallan at the head 
 of his tenantry, with the bugles sounding, in the 
 ' Antiquary ;' and all, though history, pure imagina- 
 tion! 
 
 Sir Walter Scott died just when there was stepping 
 on the stage of active life — his career to be shorter 
 than Scott's — the only one who, when the final verdict 
 of criticism comes to be recorded, can claim to be his 
 equal. This, too, is said when, in the gush of sensibil- 
 ity which sudden death is apt to let loose, the world is 
 mourning over the fresh grave of one who claimed to 
 be a rival. The only high writer of fiction since the 
 days of Scott is he whose bust, not his bones, is in the 
 Abbey ; who, seven years ago, died sleeping in his bed ; 
 whose children, two motherless girls, sorrowed meekly ; 
 whose family treasures were not greedily divided; 
 whose Avails were not covered with pictures from his 
 own works, for he was too modest for that ; who had 
 been a visitor in America without either slandering or 
 flattering us ; who shed a tear for a desolated land 
 — and left behind him, with those who knew him 
 personally, and those who did not, save through his 
 works, that sweet and lovely memory which literally 
 blossoms in the dust. There lie before me as I write, 
 the words of a bright American woman, a helpless 
 invalid, which tell a tale of truth. " Often," says she, 
 " when I have closed one of Thackeray's books, I sit 
 thinking with a full heart how much I owe him of 
 what is best in me, of the purest pleasure I have ever 
 known, filled with thankfulness for the power which 
 
NO VEL8— DEFOE TO TEA CKERA Y. 191 
 
 has been given me to appreciate him in my poor way." 
 This is the track which he left behind him here.* 
 
 We liken him to Scott, aside from the mere resem- 
 blance of noble natures; and some doubting critic 
 may ask us, why ? One wrote naught but what, in 
 one sense or another, was historical romance ; the other, 
 ' novels of society.' But did not Thackeray illuminate 
 history; and does not tradition tell us and his Avorks 
 reveal, that history was his chief and favourite study ; 
 and did he not, when, on the Christmas-eve of 1863, 
 pallida mors crossed his doorstep, contemplate, as his 
 crowning work, a history of Queen Anne ; and is not 
 'Denis Duval' an historical fragment? f Mr. Dickens 
 tried history in his * Tale of Two Cities' and 'Barnaby 
 Eudge,' with the caricatures of Sim Tappertit and Miss 
 Miggs and Hugh ; but let any one turn to that won- 
 derful treasury of fact, and fancy made fact, ' Henry 
 Esmond,' and, in a less degree, the ' Virginians,' and 
 comparison is at an end. They are wonderful histori- 
 
 * I am permitted, here, gratefully to mention the name of Miss 
 Sarah C. Robinson, of Jamaica Plains, a devout Thackerayite, 
 though with a touch of the Dickens infection. Her's are not the 
 only kind words from distant pens that have cheered these poor 
 essays. 
 
 t It was designed to toiich the edge of our Revolutionary story, 
 and a leading incident to have been the betrayal of a French 
 gentleman by a German spy : " This Liltterloh had been a crimping 
 agent for German troops during the American war, then a servant 
 in London during the Gordon riots, then an agent for a spy, then a 
 spy over a spy — a consummate scoundrel, and doubly odious from 
 speaking English with a German accent." Thackeray died before 
 ' crimping agents' came into fashion again, and mercenaries, too, — to 
 do bloody work in this land of ours. 
 
192 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 cal romances; more wonderful as treating of times 
 not too long ago. ' Esmond' is, in some respects, and 
 certainly to the scholar's eye, the greatest of his works. 
 He thought so himself. It requires the thorough 
 student of history to estimate it fairly ; and hence, of 
 course, it has not the wide popularity of ' Vanity Fair,' 
 for everybody knows about Waterloo; or the New- 
 comes, for broken banks and scheming noverccB are of 
 all times ; and here, in this our day of war and panic 
 and European disturbance, when stock-brokers are 
 failing because our Napoleon is moving, or thinks he 
 is moving, to the Ehine, one notes a striking, homely 
 passage in 'Vanity Fair:' "Our surprised story now 
 finds itself for a moment among very famous events 
 and personages, and hanging on the skirts of history. 
 When the eagles of Napoleon, the Oorsican upstart, 
 were flying from Provence, where they had perched 
 after a brief sojourn in Elba, and from steeple to steeple 
 until they reached the towers of Notre Dame, I wonder 
 whether the Imperial birds had any eye for a little 
 corner of the parish of Bloomsbury, London, which 
 you would have thought so quiet, that even the whirring 
 and flapping of those mighty wings would pass un- 
 observed there ? — Bon Dieu, I say, is it not hard that 
 the fateful work of the great Imperial struggle can't 
 take place without aflecting a poor little homeless girl 
 of eighteen, who is occupied in billing and cooing and 
 working muslin collars in Russell Square ? You, too, 
 kindly, homely flower! — is the great roaring war- 
 trumpet coming to sweep you down, here, although 
 cowering under the shelter of Holborn ? Yes ; Napo- 
 leon is flinging his last stake, and poor little Emmy 
 
NOVELS— DEFOE TO THACKERAY. 193 
 
 Sedley's happiness forms, somehow, part of it. Her 
 father is bankrupt." 
 
 This was history in 1815 ( now repeated in 1870), 
 painted as Gerard Dow paints, truth with no other 
 varnish than a gentle touch gives; and if the student 
 who knows 1710 only through books of history — Swift's 
 ghastly Journal to Stella, that dreary diary of a great, 
 bad, half-crazed man's revenges, or Bolingbroke's Letter 
 to Wyndham — will turn to the ' History of Henry Es- 
 mond, Esq., a colonel in the service of her Majesty 
 Queen Anne,' he will be amazed to find how bright and 
 truthful, how much like history fiction can be made. 
 James the Third, brave in battle, false as were all the 
 Stuarts, lazy, profligate, has had two portraits taken of 
 him. One by Thackeray in this wonderful romance, and 
 one by him who knew him in the flesh, who sacrificed 
 all for him and received in full those wages of which the 
 exiled family were so prodigal, — ingratitude and neg- 
 lect. "Henry of Navarre, the great-grandfather of 
 the Pretender," writes Bolingbroke, in a fury, " the hon- 
 estest gentleman, the bravest captain, and the greatest 
 prince of his age." "This man," he adds, "the simplest 
 man of our time, has drunk off the whole chalice of big- 
 otry and folly. The poison met in his composition with 
 all the fear, all the credulity, and all the obstinacy of tem- 
 per proper to increase its virulence and strengthen its 
 efiect. His religion is not founded on the love of virtue 
 and the detestation of vice ; on a sense of obedience 
 which is due to the will of the Supreme Being, and of 
 those obligations which creatures, formed to live in 
 mutual dependence on one another, lie under. The 
 spring of his whole conduct is fear — fear of the horns 
 
 9 
 
194 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 of the devil and of the flames of hell. He has been 
 taught to believe that nothing but a blind submission 
 to his church can save him from these dangers. He 
 has all the superstition of a Capuchin, but no tincture 
 of the religion of a Prince. No Italian ever embraced 
 the man he was going to stab with a greater show of 
 affection and confidence than he did me." 
 
 There is no passage like this in Thackeray, for he 
 did not write didactically or rhetorically; but there 
 are dramatic pictures — scenes in Esmond — which 
 make history and historical characters more plain than 
 St. John, with all his skill — and it was marvellous' 
 — knew how to paint. We have them before us — th( 
 same false, cowering prince, when Henry Esmond res 
 cues Beatrix and burns his patent of nobility at Caa 
 tlewood: "You will please to remember, sir," (not 
 'sire,' for reverence was gone and loyalty was dead), 
 " that our family hath ruined itself by fidelity to 
 yours; that my grandfather spent his estate and gave 
 his blood and his son, to die for your service; that 
 my dear boy's grandfather died for the same cause ; 
 that my poor kinswoman, my father's second wife, 
 after giving away her honour to your perjured race, 
 sent all her wealth to the King, and got in return 
 that precious title that lies in ashes, and this ines- 
 timable yard of blue ribbon. I lay this at your feet, 
 and stamp upon it. I draw this sword and break it, 
 and deny you; and had you completed the wrong 
 you designed us, by Heaven, I would have driven it 
 through your heart, and no more pardoned you than 
 your father pardoned Monmouth." 
 
 1 hasten to an end with much, very much unsaid, and 
 
NOVELS-DEFOE TO THACKERAY. 195 
 
 a heart full of gratitude to this marvellous writer of 
 fiction. The great test of being able to create char- 
 acters to live forever, Thackeray stands bravely, and 
 nowhere so wonderfully as in these historical romances 
 to which we have confined our attention. I pass by 
 Becky Sharpe, and Major Pendennis, and Colonel New- 
 come, grandest of men, and Ethel, loveliest of women, 
 even in her infirmities, and Costigan, and Foker, to 
 dwell for an instant on the most perfectly drawn 
 character, with all its shading, ever idealized, Beatrix : 
 " She was imperious, she was light-minded, she was 
 flighty, she was false, she had no reverence for char- 
 acter, and she was very beautiful." We know of no 
 other experiment in imaginative writing like this. 
 Heroines or leading female parts are ordinarily dis- 
 missed when the bloom of youth and beauty has 
 passed, or introduced as old folks. Lady Kew and 
 Miss Crawley in the pages of fiction are born old. 
 But in Beatrix — the beautiful and bad — Thackeray 
 did what, we repeat, no one else has attempted, and 
 painted her from the cradle to the grave; and what a 
 picture ! Its very contrasts are marvellous. At four 
 years old "the little girl looked at Henry Esmond 
 solemnly, with a pair of large eyes, with a smile shin- 
 ing over a face which was as beautiful as a cherub's, 
 and then came up and put out a little hand to greet 
 him." At twenty, when Kneller painted her, but did 
 not, as she says, do her justice, when the Great Duke 
 came to the playhouse and all eyes were turned to 
 her and not to him, "she was a brown beauty — that 
 is, her eyes, hair, and eyebrows and eyelashes were 
 dark — her hair curling with rich undulations and 
 
196 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 waving over her shoulders ; but her complexion was 
 as dazzling white as snow in sunshine; except her 
 cheeks, which were a bright red, and her lips, which 
 were of a deeper crimson. Her mouth and chin, they 
 said, were too large and full, and so they might be for 
 a goddess in marble, but not for a woman whose eyes 
 were fire, whose look was love, whose voice was the 
 sweetest love song, whose shape was perfect symmetry, 
 health, decision, activity, whose foot, as it planted 
 itself on the ground, was firm but flexible, and whose 
 motion, whether rapid or slow, was always perfect 
 grace — agile as a nymph, lofty as a queen — now melt- 
 ing, now imperious, now sarcastic, there was no single 
 movement of hers but was beautiful. As he thinks of 
 her, he, who writes, feels young again." This is very 
 lovely, and Beatrix seems like Burke's queenly heroine 
 — a bright vision lighting on an orb she scarcely 
 seemed to touch — and yet she was of the earth, very 
 earthy, and no one but Thackeray would dare to 
 follow out the dreary, selfish, worldly course of this 
 woman for fifty years; for it is as near as may be that 
 interval between the fierce, defiant farewell in Esmond 
 as the still lovely Beatrix, to her reappearance as the 
 old Baroness Bernstein, with her face red with rouge 
 and redder with punch, hobbling about on her tor- 
 toise-shell cane, and making modest boys and girls 
 blush for her coarseness. And then, the end of three- 
 score and fifteen years of folly and self-indulgence, 
 'what preacher need moralize that story ?' No Eng- 
 lish writer ever drew such a picture. It is the 
 great triumph of genius to tell a sad tale so simply 
 and so well. Here it is: "Let us draw the curtain 
 
NOVELS— DEFOE TO THACKERAY. 197 
 
 round this bed. I think with awe still of those rapid 
 words, uttered in the shadow of the canopy, as my 
 pallid wife sits by, her prayer book on her knee ; as 
 the attendants move to and fro noiselessly; as the 
 clock ticks without, and strikes the fleeting hours ; as 
 the sun falls upon the Kneller picture of Beatrix in 
 her beauty, with the blushing cheeks, the smiling 
 lips, the waving auburn tresses, and the eyes which 
 seemed to look toward the dim figure moving in the 
 bed." 
 
 Death-bed scenes, in fiction or reality, have no charm 
 for me. Many a great man in history has been dis- 
 figured by the record of his moribund agonies. AVhen 
 Mr. Webster was dying at Marshfield, the Boston doc- 
 tors published the details of his homely agonies down 
 to the last hiccough, and when he was dead, dissected 
 him and printed the autopsy in the medical journals, 
 as if the viscera of a Massachusetts statesman had 
 more pathological interest than those of any hod- 
 carrier that lifted stones to the top of Bunker Hill. 
 Napoleon fared as badly ; though, there, there was a 
 mystery to be solved; and the last narrator of the 
 sorrows at Saint Helena, Mr. Forsyth, draws a veil 
 over the dying hero's bed.* In fiction they are, as a 
 general rule, quite as unpleasant. Scott, to the best 
 of my recollection, has no such scenes, though all re- 
 member the fisherman's funeral in the 'Antiquary,' 
 
 * " I respect the sanctity of the sick-roora, and throw a veil over 
 the infirmities of poor, suffering humanity. Before he strikes his last 
 blow, the King of Terrors tramples on our pride, and the weakness of 
 our mortal nature is shown at the death-bed of the greatest as well as 
 of the meanest of mankind." — Forsyth, v(jl. iii. p. 287. 
 
198 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 and the death-struggle of Morris in ' Bob Eoy.' Mr. 
 Dickens dotes on death-beds, and has a dying hero 
 and heroine always on hand. Smike, and little Paul, 
 and Nell, and Kosa, and Mrs. Skewton ; and, if any 
 one wishes to measure the skill of artists, let him study 
 in contrast this last horrid picture, where every tremor 
 of palsy is recorded, and the wretched old woman is 
 "wi-apped up in a greasy flannel gown and put to 
 bed," and Beatrix Esmond's, around which the cur- 
 tains are closely drawn; or poor Miss Crawley's in 
 'Vanity Fair.' "Peace to thee, kind and selfish, vain 
 and generous old heathen ! We shall never see thee 
 more. Let us hope that a tender hand supported her 
 kindly, and led her gently out of the busy struggle of 
 Vanity Fair." Colonel Newcome's is too solemn to write 
 about.* 
 
 * In Arthur Helps' latest work, ' The "War and General Culture,' 
 is this imaginary conversation : " Mr. Milverton gave us a descrip- 
 tion of the photographs of the war in America, which had been 
 sent to his friend Dickens, and which they had looked over together, 
 and then : — Sir Arthur: I should like to have been with you. Dickens 
 would have been sure to make such shrewd remarks. Milver- 
 ton : He did. He pointed out how the dead men all lay upon their 
 backs, and he noticed a peculiar swelling that was visible in all 
 of them ! !" 
 
THACKERAY— AGAIN. 
 
 On the 23d of December, seven years ago, a good 
 man (the words are weighed and measured) laid his 
 head upon the pillow, and with mother and chil- 
 dren at hand unconscious of the sorrow which was in 
 store for them, slept his last sleep on earth. When 
 the morning came and he was found dead, they wept 
 for a dear parent and child taken from them, and in 
 this grief there was no alloy. He was buried, not in 
 England's mortuary museum, (he was not thought 
 worthy of that), but in Kensal Green, alongside of 
 Hood, and Leigh Hunt, and Sidney Smith, and Lock- 
 hart, and Sophia Scott, and whither John Leech and 
 Mark Lemon, as genial as he, have followed him ; and 
 he was mourned by true friends. When his will (if he 
 made one) was opened, there was no posthumous sting 
 for any one ; no regret for charities which he had 
 grudgingly or ungrudgingly bestowed in life, and no 
 parade of sentimental antipathy to mutes or under- 
 takers. 
 
 And when the news of his death, so sudden, so 
 mysterious, so impressive in its solitude, was flashed 
 over the earth, who that ever knew and loved him in 
 the flesh, or worshipped him in his writings, will forget 
 the pang it inflicted ? There was nothing spurious or 
 
200 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 artificial about it, as there was nothing spurious or ar- 
 tificial about him. The pervading sorrow, through 
 the English-speaking world, was described at the mo- 
 ment in words so wonderful that I am tempted to 
 reproduce them. Eead them, reader, and carry your 
 mind back to the events winch then were clouding and 
 agitating our humanity. It was the day of undecided 
 war. It was the day of madness. 
 
 " Just now," wrote Henry Kingsley, " the mails are 
 going out. A hundred splendid steamships are speed- 
 ing swiftly over every sea, east, Avest, and north, from 
 the Omphalos called London, to carry the fortnight's 
 instalment of British history and British thought into 
 every land where the English language is spoken. But 
 the saddest news they carry — sadder than they have 
 carried for many a month — is the announcement of 
 the death of William Tbuckeray. It will come first to 
 New York, where they loved him as we did. And the 
 flaneurs of Broadway, and even the busy men in Wall 
 Street, will stay their politics and remember him. They 
 will say, *Poor Thackeray is dead.' Though they may 
 refuse to hear the truth, though they choose to insult 
 us beyond endurance at stated times, let us keep one 
 thing in mind; the flags in New York were hung at 
 half-mast high when Havelock died. Let us remem- 
 ber that. And so the news will travel southward. 
 Some lithe clear-eyed lad will sneak, run swiftly, pause 
 to listen, and then hold steadily forward across the 
 desolate war-wasted space between the Federal lines 
 and the smouldering watch-fires of the Confederates, 
 carrying the news brought by the last mail from Eu- 
 rope, and will come to a knot of calm, clear-eyed, lean- 
 
THA CKERA Y—A GAIN. 201 
 
 faced Confederate officers (oh ! that such men should 
 be wasted in such a quarrel, for the quarrel was not 
 theirs, after all) ; and one of these men will run his 
 eye over the telegram and say to the others, 'Poor 
 Thackeray is dead.' And the news will go from picket 
 to picket along the limestone ridges which hang above 
 the once happy valleys of Virginia, and will pass south 
 until Jefferson Davis — the man so like Stratford de 
 Eedcliffe, the man of the penetrating eyes, and of the 
 thin, close-set lips ; the man with the weight of an 
 empire on his shoulders — will look up from his papers 
 and say, with heartfelt sorrow, ' The author of ' The 
 Virginians' is dead.' High upon the hillside at Simla 
 there will stand a group of English, Scotch, and Irish 
 gentlemen, looking over the great plain below, and 
 remarking to one another how much the prospect had 
 changed lately, and how the gray, brown jungle has 
 been slowly supplanted by the brilliant emerald 
 green of the cotton-plant, and by a tholisand threads 
 of silver water from the irrigation trenches. They 
 will be hoping that Lawrence will succeed poor Lord 
 Elgin, and that he will not be sacrificed in that ac- 
 cursed Calcutta ; they will be wondering how it fares 
 with Crawley. Then a dawk will toil up the hillside 
 with the mail; and in a few minutes they will be say- 
 ing, ' Lawrence is appointed ; Crawley is acquitted ; but 
 poor Thackeray is dead!' The pilot, when he comes 
 out in his leaping whale-boat and boards the mail 
 steamer, as she lies to off the headlands which form 
 the entrance gates to our neAV Southern Empire, will 
 ask the news of the captain ; and he will be told ' Lord 
 Elgin and Mr. Thackeray are dead !' That morning 
 
 9* 
 
202 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 they will know it at Melbourne, and it will be an- 
 nounced at all the theatres; the people dawdling in 
 the hot streets half the night through, awaiting for 
 the breaking up of the weather, will tell it to one 
 another and talk of him. The sentence which we 
 have repeated so often that it has lost half its meaning, 
 will have meaning to them. ' William Thackeray is 
 dead!' So the news will fly through the seventy mil- 
 lions of souls who speak the English language. And 
 he will lie cold and deaf in his grave, unconscious, after 
 all his work, of his greatest triumph ; unconscious that 
 the great so-called Anglo-Saxon race little knew how 
 well they loved him till they lost him. ' Vaiiitas 
 vanitatum.' Let us shut up the box and the puppets, 
 for the play is played out." 
 
 This is a powerful word-painting, and the words are 
 not a whit too strong. The air was freighted with 
 sad news then. 1863 was a fatal year for all kinds of 
 genius. It was the year when, of statesmen, Lord 
 Elgin died on the mountain steep of India, following 
 to the grave that other victim of the East — model of 
 accomplished gentlemen — Lord Elphinstone; among 
 heroes, Colin Campbell, and Outram, and Stonewall 
 Jackson ; and among men of letters, besides Thacke- 
 ray, Cornwall Lewis and Whateley. But Thackeray, 
 with the one exception of the Southern chieftain, was 
 nearer to us than all. He had been amongst us, had 
 found and made friends, and, while here and when he 
 went away, said no word or did no thing to give pain 
 to any one. He carried his reserve, when there was a 
 chance of wounding national susceptibilities, to an 
 excess. That he saw our manifold absurdities, is just 
 
TEA CKERA Y—A GAIN. 203 
 
 as certain as that he measured those of his own coun- 
 trymen, but you may search his books through and 
 not find a word of sting. The young diplomatist in 
 ' Vanity Fair/ who is angered because a peer conducts 
 the pretty woman to dinner, albeit a perfectly natural 
 character (for does not Mr. Hawthorne tell us some- 
 thing of the same kind of himself?), was drawn long 
 before he came to America.* Even in private corre- 
 spondence he indulged in playfulness at our expense 
 very sparingly. His patriotism must, indeed, be of 
 the most touchy texture who can be angry at what he 
 wrote to a friend from Switzerland : " The European 
 Continent swarms with your people. They are not all 
 as polished as Chesterfield. I wish some of them 
 spoke French a little better. I saw five of them at 
 supper at Basle, the other night, with their knives 
 down their throats. It was awful ! My daughter saw 
 it, and I was obliged to say: 'My dear, your great, 
 great, grandmother, one of the finest ladies of the old 
 school I ever saw, always applied cold steel to her 
 wittles,' which is all very true ; but I wish five of 'em 
 at a time wouldn't." Then, too, when sorrow comes, 
 who so tender and so considerate ? There are private 
 letters of his, printed since his death, and which some 
 privileged readers are familiar with, which amply 
 
 * In the American reprint of the Prize Novelists, the burlesque on 
 Cooper was omitted. It is the " Stars and Stripes," and thus ends : 
 " Three days afterward, as the gallant frigate, the Repudiator, was 
 sailing out of Brest harbor, the gigantic form of an Indian might be 
 seen standing on the binnacle in conversation with Commodore 
 Bowie, the commander of the noble ship. It was Tatua, the chief of 
 the Nose-rings." 
 
204 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 attest this. And what could be in better taste or 
 feeling than his reference in the 'Eonndaboiit Papers' 
 to one of the enormities of our civil war which hap- 
 pened to touch his social sympathies ? Of that war, 
 the writer of these notes happens to know, he shrank 
 from speaking or writing. Scarcely a word was uttered 
 or traced by him on the subject. He had been the 
 honoured guest of the affluent South. He had seen 
 slavery for himself, with its evils and its good — for it 
 had both. He couldn't bear Mrs. Stowe and her 
 school of puritanized fiction. He loved to talk of the 
 jolly little negro boys, happy as the day was long (now 
 voters), whom he once saw playing in the sun on the 
 Alabama River, and his ideal negro ripened in the 
 delineation of the pet servant in 'The Virginians.' 
 The only departure from this resolute silence on the 
 subject of ' the war of brethren,' is in the passage I 
 have referred to. Writing, in 1862, when Mr. Seward 
 and his colleagues were filling the dungeons of Fort 
 Warren with the purest and most accomplished gen- 
 tlemen of the land, Thackeray, in the CornMll, said : 
 " I went to the play the other night, and protest I 
 hardly know what was the entertainment that passed 
 before my eyes. In the next stall was an American 
 gentleman who knew me. And the Christmas piece 
 which the actors were playing proceeded like a piece 
 in a dream. To make the grand comic performance 
 doubly comic, my neighbour presently informed me 
 how one of the best friends I had in America — the 
 most hospitable, kindly, amiable of men, from whom 
 I had twice received the warmest welcome and the 
 most delightful hospitality — was a prisoner in Fort 
 
TEA CKEBA Y—A GAIN. 205 
 
 Warren on charges by which his life might be risked, 
 I think it was the most dismal Christmas piece whicli 
 these eyes ever looked upon." So felt the distant 
 Englishman who was called cynical, and we, at home, 
 full of the gushing sensibilities of our American 
 nature, heard these things and saw our friends drag- 
 ged to prison by the hand of lawless power, and hardly 
 gave it a thought, or if we did, were afraid to utter it. 
 It Avas in the matter of feeling to this country, North 
 and South, which had been kind to him, that Thack- 
 eray stands in so proud contrast with Mr. Dickens. 
 And now let me make a clean breast of it. I chafe 
 under the unreal enthusiasm about Dickens. In the 
 name of sound literary taste, I protest against it. 
 There are two things which Thackeray did not do, 
 and, we have a right to say, however tempted, would 
 not do — slander and caricature this country, and, 
 what seems to me equally enormous, read his own 
 works. He delivered lectures, original essays, here, 
 but they were not on Thackeray. Can any one fancy 
 him reading to an audience, with dead-heads and free 
 lists in profusion, the death-bed of Colonel Newcome, 
 with the bell ringing, and the ejaculated ' arfswrn' on 
 his cold lips, or Beatrix, dying, with the sunlight fall- 
 ing on the golden-tressed Kneller on the wall, or that 
 awful tragedy of Deuceace, in the Bois de Boulogne, 
 striking his crippled wife. They may not be too ter- 
 rible for tears, but they are too grand to be recited by 
 him who imagined them. It may be very well for an 
 author to read, with or without contortions, his 'Little 
 Nells' and his 'Pickwicks' and his 'Bumbles,' but not 
 grand themes such as those I have referred to. I see 
 
206 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 that Mr. Dickens's house at Gadshill was adorned 
 with pictures out of his own works, — ' Peggotty' and 
 'Pecksniff' and 'Bill Sykes,'— on which he must have 
 looked yery much as a Broadway coiffeur does upon 
 the wax heads with wigs and ringlets in his window. 
 But would Milton have tolerated Martin's mezzotints 
 in his study, or Shakespeare or Schiller, Eetsch, or de- 
 scending, I admit very far, Thackeray, a silhouette of 
 Major Pendennis, or an oil painting of Mrs. Macken- 
 zie ? They had nothing in common, and vain is it, 
 now that they are dead, to drag them into companion- 
 ship, for which in life they were unsuited. One of 
 Thackeray's recent panegyrists has, in a distant way, 
 made the effort, but it is not a success. The rollick- 
 ing, whole-hearted Thackeray has nothing in common 
 Avith the sharp, business-like Dickens. Thackeray 
 returns the money to the poor man who loses by his 
 lectures in Philadelphia, and Dickens, as Mr. Field 
 tells us, drives a hard bargain when ' he shouted in 
 his impressive manner' to his business man, ' we are 
 not getting on, sir; we are not getting on.' 
 
 Nor did Dickens's death produce in this country 
 the actual effect which Thackeray's did. There was a 
 parade in it, — a "Westminster Abbey flavour about it. 
 There was a fuss about his funeral, and, as with Mr. 
 Peabody and Doctor Kane, one felt glad when he was 
 finally entombed. Lecturers are not quite done with 
 him, but it will not be long before the critical world 
 will wonder that it saw anything marvellous in the 
 writings, and will detect something of the earth, very 
 earthy, in the writer. I feel that this sounds terribly 
 like heresy, or blasphemy, or what not, but with criti- 
 
TEA CKERA 7— A GAIN. 207 
 
 cal truth, as with grander scientific facts, ^ pur si 
 muove. 
 
 But to the books, for the temptation is irresistible, to 
 one who knew him, to talk or write of the man. Of 
 what writer is it said, that when an admirer was asked 
 which of his works he preferred, answered, ' the last?' 
 This, it seems to me, is true and not true of Thackeray. 
 His later novels, dating as far back as * Lovel, the 
 Widower,' are not the most agreeable, yet the fragment 
 of ' Denis Duval' seems to foreshadow a work as grand 
 as anything he ever wrote. I never read it but once, 
 and then the sense of misery with which I closed the 
 last unfinished page has kept me from ever looking at 
 it again. The series of which ' Philip' is the leading 
 and the final figure, founded, first, on a base seduction, 
 and then on the just condemnation of a father by a 
 child, are too terrible for pleasurable reading, and I 
 don't care to read 'Lovel' again, and 'Barry Lyndon' 
 I have never read, and ' Catharine' I wish I hadn't. 
 Of 'Esmond' I have elsewhere in these notes said my 
 say. It is, as a genial critic has lately written, 'a 
 marvel of literature.' Not to speak of its wonderful 
 intricacy of plot (I know a lady who went deliberately 
 to work, so involved and interested did she become, to 
 draw out a pedigree of the Castlewood family), but open 
 it anywhere, and see the gems that shine oiit from its 
 wondrous pages. When foolish, sentimental women 
 say that Thackeray had no sense of female loveliness 
 and perfection, could they have read ' Esmond' and 
 remember one picture of Lady Castlewood ? " It was 
 this lady's disposition to think kindnesses, and devise 
 silent bounties, and to scheme benevolence for those 
 
208 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 about her. We men take such goodness, for the most 
 part, as if it was our due ; the Marys who bring oint- 
 ment to our feet get but little thanks. Some of us 
 never feel this devotion at all, or are moved by it to 
 gratitude or acknowledgment ; others only recall it 
 years after, when the days are past in which those sweet 
 kindnesses were spent on us, and we offer back our re- 
 turn for the debt by a poor, tardy payment of tears. 
 Then forgotten tones of love come back to us, and kind 
 glances shine out of the past — 0, so bright and clear! 
 0, so longed after ! because they are out of reach ; as 
 holiday music from withinside of a prison wall, as sun- 
 shine seen through the bars, more prized because un- 
 attainable, more bright because of the contrast of pres- 
 ent darkness and solitude whence there is no escape ;" 
 or, in that other marvellous passage which it is hard 
 for a man (a woman may) to read without tears, if he 
 has ever had such love, or felt such sorrow, where 
 Lady Castlewood confesses her love to Esmond : " As 
 he had sometimes felt, gazing up from the deck at mid- 
 night" (Thackeray had made a voyage from India, and 
 knew well its solemn nightly beauties, with the stars 
 overhead and the ocean in sparkles below, and the 
 balmy atmosphere around), "gazing up from the deck at 
 midnight into the boundless star-lit depths overhead, 
 in a rapture of devout wonder at that endless bright- 
 ness and beauty — in some such a way now, the depth 
 of this pure devotion (which was for the first time 
 revealed to him) quite smote upon him and filled his 
 heart with thanksgiving. Gracious God ! who was he, 
 weak and friendless creature, that such a love should 
 be poured out upon him ? Not in vain — not in vain, 
 
TEA CKERA Y—A GAIN. 209 
 
 had he lived ; hard and thankless should he be to think 
 so that has such a treasure given him. What is ambi- 
 tion compared to that, but selfish vanity ? To be rich, 
 to be famous ? What do these profit a year hence, 
 when other names sound louder than yours, when you 
 lie hidden away under ground, along with the idle 
 titles engraven on your cotfin ? But only true love 
 lives after you — follows your memory with secret long- 
 ings, or precedes you and intercedes for you. IVoti 
 omnis moriar; if dying, I yet live in a tender heart 
 or two ; nor am lost and hopeless, living, if a sainted 
 departed soul still loves and prays for me." 
 
 Who dares say that he who wrote such words as these 
 — and many are the kindred jewels, of prose and poetry, 
 too, which can be dug from this mine — was harsh or 
 cynical, and did not know how to fathom a loving 
 woman's heart? Ethel Newcome stands before us, 
 with all her imperfections, like the statue to which her 
 creator compares her, now hidden in the cellars of the 
 Louvre, and rebukes the slander; Ethel Newcome, 
 peerless in beauty, impetuous in temper, flirting with 
 the Marquis of Farintosh, or doing, in the Brighton 
 tunnel, what young ladies properly brought up are 
 supposed not to do, is worth all the Clarissas and Ceci- 
 lias of the past, and a myriad of Little Nells and Kate 
 Nicklebys, the dolls of Dickens. 
 
 Thackeray was, in one sense — not a technical one — 
 a religious, or rather a devout man, and I have some- 
 times fancied (start not, Protestant reader!) that he 
 had a sentimental leaning to the Church of Christian 
 antiquity. Certain it is, he never sneered at it or dis- 
 paraged it. ' After all,' said he one night to him who 
 
210 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 writes these notes, driving through the streets of an 
 American city and passing a Eoman Catholic Cathe- 
 dral, 'that is the only thing that can be called a 
 church.' The brief extracts I have made from 'Es- 
 mond' show how dear to him was the doctrine, so alien 
 to Calvinistic Protestantism, of the intercession of the 
 saints, ' the departed soul still loving and praying for 
 us ;' and whenever he introduces a ' Papist,' it is in no 
 disrespect. The clergyman, with downcast eyes, saying 
 his offices in the railway cars while the fierce John 
 Bull Protestant glares at him over his newspaper; 
 Father Holt, priest and soldier, in Esmond, the hero's 
 early friend; broken-hearted Lady Steyne, bursting 
 into tears when Becky plays some of Mozart's music 
 familiar in her convent days, and her memory goes 
 back to innocence ; and above all, that saintly ' Ro- 
 mish' woman in contrast to Mrs. Hobson'slow church 
 vulgarity, Mme. de Florae, lovely in her old age, pious, 
 devote in every sense, and praying for the parting soul 
 of her dying lover, a broken-hearted, ruined, noble, 
 Christian man. 
 
 But my limits are overstepped, and not one tithe 
 which this theme prompts is said. It would be a rich 
 subject to take Thackeray's minor characters, not his 
 Beckys, and Warrington s, and Esmonds, and Major 
 Pendennis (marvellous creation — one sees him now 
 breaking his seals at the club window), but humble 
 parts in the drama of fiction, such as will occur to 
 every one without enumerating them; or his evil 
 characters, some very bad, like the ' Great Marquis,' 
 but none purely so, except hypocrites like Dr. Firmin 
 and Sir Barnes Newcome. Old Steyne's rugged sym- 
 
THACKERAY— AGAIN. 211 
 
 pathy breaks forth in very unsaintly phrase iu 
 'Pendennis,' when he sees the Major's sorrow for his 
 nephew's danger, and the " Drive Hke h — 11" of the 
 reprobate peer is worth all the Uncle Toby profanity, 
 and the recording angel to boot, which once were so 
 classical. There is not even this redeeming trait in 
 the scoundrel of the Newcomes, and Thackeray used 
 to say (for he sometimes, though but rarely, talked 
 of his books) that had Sir John Dean Paul and his 
 confederates been convicted before he had reached 
 the catastrophe of his novel, he certainly should have 
 transported Sir Barnes ; ' but,' added he, ' to my British 
 mind the idea of sending a baronet to penal servitude 
 seemed too monstrous and unnatural!' 
 
 Eeader, these notes are nearly done, but they would 
 have been ungratefully imperfect had they not bestowed 
 a special thought on one so good, so genial, and so 
 gre^b. 
 
WALTER SCOTT. 
 
 Theue notes are drawing to an end ; but the mem- 
 ories — the bound and unbound spectres of pleasant 
 books read and pencil-marked, and yet not spoken of, 
 are thronging around me, and it is not easy to turn 
 one's back on them. And, apropos of pencil-marking, 
 let me in passing say that, like other diabolisms, it is 
 not i^er se as black as it is painted. Vulgar, sijlashy 
 pencil-marks, of admiration and negation and interro- 
 gation, such as 'Jones of the Club' makes in 'Vanity 
 Fair,' are simply detestable; quite as bad as what, ac- 
 cording to De Quincey, so much shocked Wordsworth 
 — cutting a new book's leaves with a butter-knife. But 
 a faint pencil-note on a margin, and the correspond- 
 ent page marked on the fly-leaf, hardly visible except 
 for memorial uses to the writer's eye, do no harm, and 
 are very precious. I have in my day studied Scott's 
 proof-sheets (the originals now in this country) with 
 curious interest, to see how he altered and corrected — 
 and who would not love to see Byron's notes on Bar- 
 row (which "he studied weekly") ? The dead some- 
 times live in these innocuous pencil-marks. There are 
 books, in spirit around me now, enriched with such 
 notes by one of the most graceful critics in our land — 
 long since dead, — and I seem to hear his gentle voice, 
 and feel again the pressure of the hand that traced 
 
WALTER SCOTT. 213 
 
 the fading marks as I gaze on them. Their unex- 
 pected apparition sometimes startles me. 
 
 To annotate Scott seems to be like annotating 
 Shakespeare, without any excuse of necessity. Is not 
 Scot! part of our modern nature — I mean his prose, — 
 though, unlike Shakespeare, he don't admit of isolated 
 quotation ; and is he not destined to continue so in 
 spite of controversy ? His volumes are part of child- 
 hood's associa'tion. Every one, I imagine, remembers 
 the first shape in which he saw them. A dear friend 
 pointed me the other day in his study to a rusty, dis- 
 colored duodecimo, one of Cadell's edition (the best), 
 as the sole survivor of that winter day of fire which 
 burned up the gentlemen's houses and private libraries 
 in Columbia! JMemory carries me back much farther, 
 and looking, as one does now-a-days, on the multitudin- 
 ous copies all around — scarcely a house without them, 
 — it would be curious to know the early statistics of 
 these books, when one firm had the monopoly and is- 
 sued them at high prices, and on paper on which no vil- 
 lage almanac would now condescend to appear. But 
 those primitive days had their delight. To be the first at 
 the circulating library ; to crowd to the counter and get 
 one of the ten or a dozen copies, and devour a fresh 'Ivan- 
 hoe ;' if need be, taking it stealthily to school, and being 
 caught at it by a Scotch Calvin istic or Covenanting 
 schoolmaster who thought ' Old Mortality' as pestilent 
 a book as the ' Age of Reason.' And then it was a 
 mystery as to who wrote them. The ' Great' was truly 
 'unknown,' and I am very sure we reading boys did 
 not care much about identification, and rather liked it 
 the better for not being known. Mr. Allibone, in his 
 
214 amo:no my books. 
 
 Dictionary of Authors (that marvellous monument of 
 judicious industry), tells us that Governor Everett once 
 told him that he 'knew' Scott wrote the 'Waverleys' 
 as early as 1818, and I am not prepared to deny, or de- 
 termined to doubt, conceding the precocious sagacity 
 of that eminent representative of a guessing commu- 
 nity; but Scott did not avow it till 1827 or 1828, and 
 the Adolphus Essay did not appear till 1821 ; and un- 
 less Mr. Everett had access to the booksellers' secrets, 
 or knew the handwriting, as Mr. Bancroft says he does 
 Benedetti's, I incline to regard the notion as an amiable 
 senile delusion. We, boy-readers of half a century 
 ago, cared nothing, as I have said, as to who wrote the 
 novels, provided we got early copies, and went on 
 voraciously reading (do boys read so now ?) — the 
 ' Scottish Chiefs,' and ' Thaddeus of Warsaw,' and Mrs. 
 Eadcliflfe, fading away in the new daylight, — and so 
 onward, till the sad day when ' Peveril' and ' Saint 
 Eonan's Well' told us the wand was bent, if not broken. 
 There was a flash in the ' Talisman,' and then all was 
 night ; and we were grown men. It has always seemed 
 a curious fact in literary pathology that never, in his 
 best day, did Scott write more charmingly, as if in 
 briglit spirits too, than in 'Woodstock,' and it, as we 
 know now, was the child of his direst, sharpest, mental 
 agony, in the crisis of 1826. Who that has gone 
 through phases of pecuniary ruin, and felt the misery 
 with which the victim looks round on the. innocent 
 sufferers from his own imprudence, can forget the 
 passage in his diary of the 19th January, 1826 ? It 
 reads thus : " To-day when I lock this volume, I go to 
 Woodstock. Heigho — Knight came to stare at me to 
 
WALTER SCOTT. 215 
 
 complete my portrait. He must have read a tragic 
 page comparative (sic) to what he saw at Abbotsford. 
 We dined, of course at home, and before and after 
 dinner, I finished about twenty printed pages of Wood- 
 stock, but to what effect, others must judge. A painful 
 scene after dinner, and another after supper, endeavour- 
 ing to convince these poor dear creatures that they 
 must not look for miracles, but consider misfortune 
 as certain and only to be lessened by patience and 
 labour." 
 
 Ten days before that dreary portrait was painted, 
 Scott had given one to America. It is still here, and 
 he, for whom it was painted, a welcome visitor at 
 Abbotsford at that very crisis, survives to look at it 
 with affectionate reverence. He was then a young 
 traveller wandering along the Tweed, and, as I have 
 said, now, after forty-five years, still lives amongst us 
 — a Boston man of letters, whose record is defaced by 
 no fanaticism, and who, true to his section, when sec- 
 tions first were thought of, never prostituted literature 
 to sectional politics, and from whose scholarly and 
 catholic pen no acrid drop ever fell to blot his page of 
 letters. He never presented a flag, or made a speech, 
 or wrote an ode. Prescott died, happily, before the 
 day of hatred dawned, but George Ticknor, the guest 
 of Scott at Abbotsford, still lives.* 
 
 That year, 1826, ' sorrows in battalion' came to 
 Abbotsford ; and here, with a tender hand, I touch 
 what biography and friendly criticism pretermit, and 
 which, with our American notions, still unsophisti- 
 
 * Since this essay was written, Mr. Ticknor has died. 
 
216 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 cated, I confess passes comprehension. There is a 
 skeleton, "we know, in every house, but what was it 
 that took Scott from his wife's death-bed, he know- 
 ing when he left her that she was about to die ? 
 From a frivolous voluptuary, such as was Moore who 
 would, like Miss Pratt in the Scotch novel, if need be, 
 go out to dinner in a hearse, one expects nothing 
 better. He always ran away to Bowood or London 
 when one of his children was about to die, and left his 
 * darling Bessie' to Avatch the fleeting breath at home. 
 But, somehow, one expects better things from Scott. 
 What can it mean ? Read his own account of it : 
 "May 11. — Charlotte unable to take leave of me, being 
 in a sound sleep after a very indiSerent night. Per- 
 haps it is as well — it withers my heart to think of it — 
 but in her present lethargic state what would my 
 presence have availed, and Anne has promised close 
 and constant intelligence. I must dine with John 
 Ballantyne to-day enfamiUe. I cannot help it!" On 
 the 12th, 13th, and 14th, nothing, — and on the 15th : 
 " Eeceived the melancholy intelligence that all is 
 over at Abbotsford." Then, he hurries home, and 
 meets 'poor Anne,' who did watch, and is hysterical 
 and sobs out 'Poor mamma — gone forever!' and he 
 visits the chamber of death and writes in his diary 
 those striking words, the best description of physical 
 after-death I know of: "I have seen her. The figure 
 I behold is, and is not, my Charlotte, my thirty years' 
 companion. There is the same symmetry of form, 
 though those limbs are rigid which were once so grace- 
 fully elastic; but that yellow mask with pinched 
 features which seems to mock life rather than to emu- 
 
WALTER SCOTT. 217 
 
 late it, can it be the face that was once so full of lively 
 expression? I dare not look on it again." There 
 were skeletons in that Abbotsford household and, but 
 that one might seem to emulate the gossips who 
 lacerate the feelings of the living by hinting that 
 they know the secrets of the dead, there would be no 
 difficulty in 'guessing' what they were. 
 
 But the 'Novels' — the staple of romantic litera- 
 ture! Wherever the language is spoken, there they 
 are. They go where the language is not written or 
 understood. There is a scene in the 'Antiquary' which 
 always moved me much, and gave that tightening of 
 the throat — hardly amounting to the hysterica 2)assio 
 — so familiar to genuine novel readers. It is when, at 
 the end, in the alarm of the French invasion and 
 amid the wild, vulgar confusion of F airport, the bugles 
 of the Glenallan yeomanry are heard and the broken- 
 hearted Earl, Eveline Neville's husband, — the spirit of 
 an ancient race brightening on his helm, — marches in 
 at the head of his men to the rescue. I can hardly 
 write it, such is the force of some sort of association, 
 without tears. So I read it as a boy at school. So, in 
 early manhood on the plains higher than that of 
 Mexico, in sight of the snowy mountain of Toluca; 
 and so I read it when manhood was more than mature, 
 on Christmas eve, in the mountains of Penang on the 
 edge of a jungle tenanted by tigers and with the inter- 
 ocean of Malacca literally shining at my feet. Who 
 shall not be grateful to him who gives so pervading, 
 so enduring, and so purely innocent pleasure ? 
 
 His novels are not perfect, according to any stand- 
 ard, but that is of no moment. To Thackeray is im- 
 
 10 
 
218 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 piited, by those who forget Ethel Newcome, the blemish 
 that he cannot make a heroine. Scott failed on both 
 heroines and heroes. As to the former, he always 
 had a subordinate character in reserve, who throws 
 the nominal heroine into eclipse. Meg Merrilies is 
 the heroine of ' Guy Mannering ;' and Eebecca, of 
 ' Ivanhoe,' puts the Saxon maiden in the shade, as to 
 the latter of whom, there is a painful veri-similitude 
 in the Thackeray ' Rebecca and Eowena,' which is 
 distressing. Scott meant Effie Deans, the beauty, to 
 be the heroine of the ' Heart of Mid-Lothian,' but 
 freckled-faced, homely Jeanie is. Eose Bradwardine 
 is a sort of lieutenant to the Scottish chieftain's sister, 
 and Edith Bellenden is a nonentity. Di Vernon and 
 Amy Eobsart are the best. Heroes — we mean those 
 who love and get married, for such is the novel read- 
 er's hero — fare worse. Waverley and Henry Morton 
 are naught alongside of Fergus and Dundee, and 
 Henry Bertram never seems to be rid of a certain 
 cabin-boy flavour or the name of 'Brown.' So it is 
 throughout. 
 
 But how this writer of fiction has taken possession 
 of and, as it were, personated history ! If memory 
 does not very much mislead, sermons were preached 
 and grave books written to prove (and perhaps they 
 did) that Scott was wrong in his caricature, as they 
 denounced it, of the Covenanters, and his enthusiasm 
 for the Jacobites; but it will take centuries of severe 
 criticism to disabuse the minds of studious, imagina- 
 tive men, and make us think the murder of Magus 
 Muir a righteous sacrifice, or that Claverhouse was a 
 ruffian. Scott never verified his romances by history, 
 
WALTEB SCOTT. 219 
 
 and I am aware, speaking from memory, of no in- 
 stance of his referring to a book while he was writing. 
 He would read books, all manner of odd ones, and 
 finding in them something picturesque out of Avhich 
 to weave a novel, he threw them away and worked 
 up history to suit himself. 
 
 In ' maundering,' as it were, among these familiar, 
 learned-by-heart books, and using them as cheering 
 agencies in hours of suffering and gloom, I cannot 
 but recall what Robertson said of them. There 
 never was a sharper contrast than between odd 
 Chai-lotte Bronte, and genial, healthful Walter Scott, 
 and it is thus stated : "I have just finished ' Villette,' 
 and several of Sir Walter Scott's, and am much struck 
 by the marked difference between the fictions of his 
 day and ours. The effect produced is very opposite. 
 From Scott's you rise with a vigourous, healthy tone 
 of feeling; from the others with that sense of ex- 
 haustion which comes from feelings stirred up to end 
 in nothing." "I am tired," he adds, "and mentally 
 and physically shattered, and I find Scott the most 
 healthful restorative of anything. There was no mor- 
 bid spot in that strong, manly heart and nature." 
 
 It is not easy to determine what the judgment of 
 later writers of fiction is on this, their great master. 
 Yet master he was not, in the line of what may with- 
 out disparagement be termed sentimental novels — 
 novels of the day. He wrote none such, with the 
 exception, perhaps, of ' St. Eonan's Well.' All else 
 were more or less antique and historical. 'The Anti- 
 quary' and ' Guy Mannering' are on the edge of the 
 century, but none nearer to us. With him, too, as I 
 
220 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 have said, historical novel-writing came to an end. 
 All since have been caricatures, like Miss Mlihlbach's, 
 or dreary in the extreme. Thackeray rarely refers to 
 Scott, and Dickens, of course, never does. But con- 
 temporary 'fictionists' clustered round him. Miss 
 Edgeworth and Miss Terrier loved him dearly. It is 
 of the latter, of whom I must say a Avord, that Lock- 
 hart relates a graceful incident. When Scott's artic- 
 ulation, at the close of life, became thickened by pa- 
 ralysis, she would make her partial deafness an excuse 
 for compelling him to repeat what had eluded his 
 hearers, and thus save his feelings. To Scott, Miss 
 Ferrier owes some of her reputation, for he it was who, 
 in the preface to one of the series of the ' Tales of My 
 Landlord,' called attention to 'Marriage;' and there 
 is not in the language a more charming triad than 
 'Marriage,' 'Inheritance,' and 'Destiny.' She repaid 
 it, by making Uncle Adam weep over ' Guy Man- 
 nering.'* 
 
 Scott seemed to have no enemies among the gentle- 
 men of his day, English or Scotch. Not even his 
 extreme Toryism alienated them, for though Whig or 
 Kadical ruflfians hissed him and pelted him at Jed- 
 burgh, Whig gentlemen were his dear friends. Faed's 
 well-known picture and engraving of Scott and his 
 friends, hanging in view as I write these lines, is hardly 
 imaginary ; for all of them, from Hogg up to Words- 
 worth, listened to him devoutly as they are painted. 
 
 * In writing on this theme, of Fiction, these were omitted, as were 
 Miss Eden's lovely novelettes — the ' Semi-Attached House, and the 
 ' Semi-Detached Couple.' Miss Eden is recently dead. 
 
WALTER SCOTT. 221 
 
 It is a fine group, with burly Wilson leaning over the 
 chair and Crabbe, the best face and figure, intently 
 gazing, with Sir Adam Ferguson in the foreground. 
 How few Americans, by-the-bye, remember that this 
 steady soldier- friend of Scott, was the son of the fight- 
 ing chaplain of Fontenoi, the secretary of the British 
 Commission which came here in 1778 to conciliate, 
 and if need be, bribe, the revolted colonists into sub- 
 mission. All, long since, gone to rest, and the Scott 
 male race extinct. 
 
 As a general rule, and I have presumed to assert it 
 more than once, it is no part of the duty of biography 
 to record the progress of bodily decay, with its homely 
 symptoms. Yet is there any one who wishes that Mr. 
 Lockhart had foregone his wonderful and almost 
 poetic account of Scott's end of life, from the first 
 apoplectic attack at Abbotsford, or Castle Street, I 
 forget which, down to the last breath on that autumn 
 afternoon, "with the window open and the sound of 
 the Tweed rippling over the stones ?" There is some- 
 thing terrible in the final crash, the subsidence of 
 intellect, when, descending the Khine, and leaving its 
 castled crags, he passed Cologne, and sank down to 
 the dead level of hopeless imbecility. The house is 
 still pointed out in London where the crowd as- 
 sembled at night to hear the news, and, as Allan 
 Cunningham tells us, reverentially to point out the 
 room where 'he' was lying, as if there was no other 
 dying 'he' in London. I confess to the weakness of 
 looking for the house in Malta in the Strada Pon- 
 ente, and the window where Lady Davy watched him 
 working, before I went to the Church of Saint John 
 
222 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 or the hotels of the ancient knights, or the catacombs 
 of the older Christians. 
 
 And here, in this connection, and in conclusion, let 
 me refer to two matters, one of literary curiosity, and 
 the other of personal interest as respects Scott which 
 though familiar story in Great Britain is not so gen- 
 erally known here. 
 
 Mr. Lockhart little dreamed of plagiarism — indeed 
 was wholly unconscious of it — when, speaking of Scott's 
 dying hours, after the final return to Abbotsford, he 
 said, " Doctor Watson, having consulted on all things 
 with Mr. Olarkson and his' father, resigned the patient 
 to them and returned to London. None of them could 
 have any hope, but that of soothing irritation. Ee- 
 covery was no longer to be thought of; but there might 
 be euthanasia^ Ninety-eight years before, on the 
 17th July, 1734, Arbuthnot had written to Pope, "A 
 recovery in my case and at my age is impossible ; the 
 kindest wish of my friends is euthanasia." 
 
 Not pausing to discuss the ethical or sentimental 
 puzzle of ' first loves,' their sanctity, and involution 
 with later entanglements, the fact is unquestionable, 
 that Scott never forgot his, and the son-in-law, in 
 commemorating his ineradicable sorrow on this head, 
 very placidly records that " he never wrote either 
 sonnets, or elegies, or monodies, or even an epitaph 
 on his wife ; but what an epitaph is his Diary through- 
 out, and what a picture have we in his entry about the 
 Eunic letters which he carved in the day of young 
 passion among the grave-stones of St, Andrews!" 
 Who that ' first love' was, was unknown to me when 
 this essay first appeared in print, and I venture to give 
 
 i 
 
WALTER SCOTT. 223 
 
 it to American readers now, as it comes to me from one 
 to whom I am at liberty no farther to allude than as a 
 friend of Scott, whom the Diary of October, 1826, 
 mentions, as among the kind friends who, on the last 
 visit but one to London, clustered round him, "the 
 amiable and very clever young man" of that day. 
 
 "I quite sympathise," he writes, "in the interest 
 you feel about the lady as to whose name you inquire 
 — the first love of Sir Walter Scott. She was the only 
 daughter (said to have been a beautiful blonde) and 
 heiress of Sir John Stuart, a landed gentleman of 
 Forfarshire; and slighting the future author of Waver- 
 ley, she married Mr. William Forbes, who afterward 
 succeeded to a Baronetcy, and was the head of a 
 great banking establishment at Edinburgh, The lady 
 herself died in or about 1811, and was at that time 
 fondly pourtrayed by Sir Walter as the ' Matilda' of 
 his ' Rokeby ;' Matilda also, as you may recollect, in 
 the poem rejecting a young poet and preferring to him 
 — not indeed a banker, which would not sound so well 
 in poetry, but a warrior chief. You will find several 
 references to her in the later journals of Sir Walter ; 
 one passage I recall where he says he met her mother 
 by appointment, not having seen her for many years, 
 and that they passed the whole evening both in tears for 
 the long since departed one." 
 
 It will be thirty-nine years next September since 
 Scott died and was buried at Dryburgh, and a century 
 next August since he was born. He was but sixty-one 
 when he died. Men of taste shrink by a sort of instinct 
 from Centenaries and unnecessary anniversaries, peri- 
 odical commemorations of the spurious or the really 
 
224 AMONG MY BOOKS 
 
 great ; and yet, if there be an exception, to whom is it 
 more justly due than to him who has given to all who 
 read this language of ours so much perfectly pure 
 enjoyment ? 
 
 I 
 
BULWER'S PALMERSTON. 
 
 Why not a new book as well as old ones ? "Whj 
 not the record of a man just dead as well as his who 
 died a century ago ? Why not a Viscount of Victoria's 
 as well as a Viscount of Queen Anne's day? Why 
 not, toward the end, Henry Temple, as well as Henry 
 St. John, with whom these notes began ? Why not 
 Palmerston, as a congenial sequel to Bolingbroke? 
 Every laAvyer-student recollects the * sublime' yet venial 
 egotism with which the Scotch biographer of the 
 Chancellors (it is a failing of Whig literary Scotchmer. 
 to write about themselves), when after recounting 
 the traditionary and recorded doings of them all, 
 from Sir Thomas More downward, he breaks 
 forth : " With these eyes have I closely beheld the 
 lineaments of Edward, Lord Thurlow ; with these 
 ears have I distinctly heard the deep tones of his 
 voice." 
 
 So, in humbler phrase, may I say : these eyes have 
 seen Henry, Viscount Palmerston, and watched him 
 step jauntily into the lists, as knight sure to win, in 
 the House of Commons, the old as well as the new, 
 and noted those marvellous reddish-gray whiskers ; and 
 these ears have heard the pleasant, cheery voice, with 
 which, in good Saxon words, he said what he had to 
 10* 
 
226 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 say. Mine was the lot to see and hear him at long 
 intervals, and each time when a leader of opposition, 
 though with his foot surely planted on the threshold 
 of power — in 1845 in the only surviving room (I be- 
 lieve) of old St. Stephen's, when he was sixty-one years 
 of age, and in 1859, when he was seventy-five ; and he 
 seemed, if not as young, quite as full of vitality at last 
 as at first. It was on the edge of the brief but mo- 
 mentous disturbance of 1859, the Franco-Italian-Aus- 
 trian war, for on my way of travel westward the Alpine 
 passes were crowded with Sardinian soldiers returning 
 from furlough, and Cavour was on the same train with 
 us going to consult Napoleon, and France was power- 
 ful, and Wilhelmshohe was not dreamed of. Then 
 was it, that on a night of early April, 1859, the opposi- 
 tion taunted Lord Derby's government with inactivity 
 not masterly, and Lord Palmerston led the attack, not 
 at all acrimoniously, and D'Israeli, then Chancellor of 
 the Exchequer, replied (the words are in my ears yet), 
 warning them of ' the especial danger of a continental 
 war in exciting the hopes and obtruding the preten- 
 sions of dynastic aspirants, scattered everywhere, whom 
 tranquillity disarmed,' and the Orleans Princes were 
 eagerly listening in the gallery ; and now, Palmerston 
 is dead and irretrievable ruin has settled all pretensions 
 and usurpations; and the great bugbear^ which Sir 
 Henry Bulwer tells us 'frightened England and forced 
 and kept her in war,' — a sea-coast from the Elbe to 
 Ushant in the hands of a single Power — seems about to 
 be realized, though in a form widely different from that 
 which then haunted her. 
 Yet Parliament and constitutional government and 
 
BULWERS PALMERSTON. 227 
 
 free discussion still stand, and seem more likely to 
 stand than they did when the knights and burgesses 
 met six hundred years ago. And here, annotating this 
 pleasant but rather disappointing book, a word as to 
 I'arliamentary eloquence, past and present. Is it 
 deteriorating ? This is not an easy question to answer, 
 for the simple reason that, while between reported 
 speeches of different periods comparisons may be 
 made, the great ' reserve,' to use a military phrase, on 
 which the praiser of the past falls back, are Parlia- 
 mentary traditions — what great orators are said to have 
 done ; Bolingbroke's lost orations, for which the younger 
 Pitt mourned ; Charles Townsend's champagne, and 
 Hamilton's ' single speech ;' Sheridan on the Begum 
 charge, or Fox on the Westminster scrutiny. There 
 is no measuring them. Lord Chatham comes to us in 
 rather a peculiar form, for though reporting was no 
 science in his day, there were exceptional reporters 
 even then, and he had in Philip Francis one who wor- 
 shipped at his feet and had a kindred spirit within 
 him, and knew how to report him characteristically. 
 There are passages in the remnants of the speeches of 
 the elder Pitt, as reported by Francis, which stir the 
 blood as we read them now. The biographer of Pal- 
 merston long ago told the writer of these notes that he 
 had conversed with one (Earl Fitzwilliam) who had 
 heard and remembered Lord Chatham. He spoke of 
 the general tone as being conversational, and not at 
 all declamatory, only occasionally breaking into vehe- 
 mence and animation. How unlike the popular notion ! 
 The conversational part has evaporated, — the vehement 
 declamation survives. And here let me, in passing, 
 
228 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 note a practical perplexity about these orators of 
 vehemence. Demosthenes had as full scope at Athens 
 as on the seaside, and so had Mirabeau with the 
 Notables, and Pitt in the House of Commons ; but a 
 fierce, railing declamation, with loud voice and exag- 
 gerated gesture, in a room no larger than that in which 
 Chatham spoke after he was translated, seems an im- 
 possibility. It was much better suited to what these 
 ears have listened to, a shrewish squabble between two 
 old men across a red table, the actors being Lords 
 Brougham and Campbell. But still greater is the 
 difficulty in comprehending these picturesque tradi- 
 tions in the case of our own ' forest-born Demosthenes.' 
 Any one who has visited Carpenter's Hall in Philadel- 
 phia, a plain, modest building, up an alley, worth his- 
 torically fifty Faneuil Halls, not yet disfigured with 
 cracked bells, and Liberty caps, and William Penn's 
 corpulence, as is Independence Hall, and looked at the 
 room, not twenty feet square, where the old Continental 
 Congress sat — a body never exceeding thirty or forty in 
 number — any one going there may well wonder how, 
 in such a compass and to such an audience, Patrick 
 Henry could have made such speeches as he did. And 
 yet it must have been so, for has not Mr. Wirt in stilted 
 phrase described it, and Mr. Eothermel painted it, in 
 colours no less gaudy ? Art is not, we know, always to 
 be relied on, for in this very case of Mr. Henry, the 
 portrait which purports to pourtray his lineaments 
 was a copy of one of Captain Cook on Arrowsmith's 
 map of the world, some one having fancied there 
 was a resemblance between the navigator and the 
 orator. 
 
BUL WEB'S PALMERSTON. 229 
 
 With this passing protest, I accept the traditions of 
 Parliamentary and Congressional eloquence. As to 
 that of the House of Commons there can be no ques- 
 tion. In connection with it, there is what always 
 seemed to me a very precious though incomplete vol- 
 ume, but which, strange to say, is not to be found in 
 Mr. Astor's Library, generally in this department so 
 rich — Sir Henry Cavendish's Debates from 1768 or 
 1769 to 1774, taken on the spot in short-hand, and 
 partially deciphered and edited (for he died at his 
 work) by the eminent parliamentologist, Mr. Wright. 
 There, we catch the conversational spirit of the dis- 
 cussions of that day, when Fox and Burke were young 
 men, and before the latter began to speak essays; 
 there we can measure George Grenville's stately cold 
 formality, and get an idea (the only place I know of) 
 of an orator whom America ought to honour, but who 
 is strangely neglected, Henry Conway, who had the 
 good luck, as was said of Lord Eockingham and 
 Burke, ' to have his portrait set in diamonds' by Wal- 
 pole. Here it is we find the best revelations of Lord 
 North as a debater, always able, always courteous, 
 the incarnation of genial wit, whom accident and a 
 crazed, bigoted master made our enemy. He never, 
 or so rarely that ' never' may be said, used an unkind 
 word; and tradition is rich in his good-humoured 
 clever sayings. His pleasant ' There's nothing like 
 being in the secret, gentlemen,' is one of the Joe 
 Millers of Parliament. Another, — told, if I remember 
 rightly, in Mr. McKnight's Life of Burke, — is less 
 familiar, when he said on some occasion when the 
 Episcopal bench 'divided' against him, "That the 
 
230 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 first thing the bishops were apt to forget was their 
 Maker." There is somewhere on record a specimen 
 of Episcopal eloquence of a later day than Lord 
 North, which is rather Chathamic. In a debate on 
 the slave-trade at the beginning of this century, 
 Bishop Horsley said, "What is the language of St. 
 Paul ?" At this some of the peers laughed. The 
 angry bishop turned on them with : " My lords, when 
 I quote the words of a holy apostle, I expect to be lis- 
 tened to, not only with reverence, but with awe." There 
 are charming recollections of Lord North in his old 
 age, preserved by his grand-daughter, familiar to every 
 historical student. 
 
 Lord Palmerston saw the light just at the close of 
 Lord North's political career, the close of the coali- 
 tion ministry, and the beginning of the younger 
 Pitt's long administration, and from birth in 1784 to 
 death in 1870, was the golden age of English Parlia- 
 mentary story. He was an actor all the time. He 
 was twenty-two when Pitt and Fox died. He was the 
 contemporary of those who had seen Warren Hastings 
 impeached and had heard the glorious debating which 
 England's entangled policy, during the French Revo- 
 lution, provoked. In that era there was one man to 
 whom Lord Palmerston's meagre journal, as now given, 
 does injustice, and whom the critical student will not 
 fail to recall as one of the most brilliant, though with a 
 milder light than the great planets, of the Parlia- 
 mentarians of the times. I speak of Mr. Windham, 
 the embodiment of all that is graceful in the character 
 of a Tory Englishman of sixty years ago, without any 
 of its coarseness. His speeches, tolerably reported. 
 
 1 
 
BULWERS PALMERtiTOK 231 
 
 though evidently not revised, are charming, and emi- 
 nently characteristic of the manly man. He detested 
 French Eepublicanism and Bonapartism as cordially 
 as did Mr. Burke or Lord Grenville. He loathed 
 Parliamentary reform. He defended bull-baiting and 
 prize-fighting, and said so with a candour which would 
 startle Mr. Bergh out of his propriety. He had a 
 sovereign contempt for all shams, including sham 
 philanthropy, and he said what he thought in the 
 plainest and simplest, and, therefore, the most grace- 
 ful English. ' He was,' says a most competent judge, 
 the late Lord Lansdowne, 'the most agreeable speaker 
 I ever listened to.' It was he who called the press the 
 * Fourth Estate.' Windham was Secretary of War in 
 "all the talents." Lord Palmerston was one of the 
 ministry which succeeded them, though not in the 
 cabinet till three years later. Mr. Windham died in 
 1810, when Palmerston was twenty-six. 
 
 His biographer does not tell us much of the boy 
 ^Palmerston, and the skeleton of an autobiography, put 
 into an appendix, tells less. Perhaps education pro- 
 ducing fruits as it did then, and developing so busy 
 and eminently practical a man, had no salient points 
 on which biography could fasten ; perhaps the biog- 
 rapher desired to hasten to that period when he him- 
 self could appear as an actor and a witness. Lord 
 Palmerston tells the story very curtly : " I left Harrow 
 at eleven, and went for three years to Edinburgh. I 
 lived with Dugald Stewart and attended the lectures 
 at the University. In those three years I laid the foun- 
 dation of whatever useful knowledge and habits of 
 mind I possess." In 1807, he was in Parliament, and 
 
282 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 we have the scraps of a journal, not ■very sprightly in 
 itself, and which, as most sensible men do, he very soon 
 discontinued. The pleasant letters which, while in the 
 Admiralty, he writes to his sisters, are far better than 
 the diary or the biographer's text. It was the time of 
 the second action of England against Denmark, in 
 August, 1807 — the Nelson attack on Copenhagen 
 having been six years before — and Sir Henry Bulwer, 
 in illustration, quotes Avithout comment (for it needed 
 none) a cu7'ious letter, which one reads now with in- 
 terest, from Napoleon on the subject. It is dated on 
 the 2d of August, 1807, twenty days before Admiral 
 Gambler seized the Danish fleet, and is addressed to 
 Bernadotte, ' Governor of the Hanseatic cities.' I note 
 but one phrase: 'If England does not accept the 
 Eussian mediation' (Alexander and Napoleon had just 
 been rafting it on the Niemen) ' Denmark must declare 
 war, or I shall declare war on Denmark. In this last 
 case it will be your duty to take possession of the whole 
 Danish continent.' He did not seem to care for the 
 islands. Such was he whom Americans were once 
 taught to reverence! There is something of melan- 
 choly justice in the recollection that one of Napoleon's 
 greatest oiitrages on our young nation was a decree 
 dated at Berlin.* 
 
 This book is very cursory in portions of the narra- 
 
 * In Lord Malmesbury's correspondence is a letter to him from the 
 then Lord Granville, dated in July, 1802, where Napoleon is described 
 as ending a conversation, held " en face, a la Reinc et au Roi," with 
 these words : — " Je sens qu'a I'avenir il doit y avoir une haine implac- 
 able contre nous de la part des Prussiens, mais je veux et dois les 
 mettre hors d'etat de me nuire." 
 
BUL WEB'S PALMERSTON. 233 
 
 tive, and the reader finds himself, almost without know- 
 ing it, brought down — the Percivals and Liverpools 
 and Castlereaghs of the interval being hardly noticed — 
 to Mr. Canning's brief ministry of 1827, when Lord 
 Palmerston, having been successively offered the places 
 of Governor of Jamaica, at which he says he burst out 
 laughing, and Govern or- General of India, whither 
 Canning had once nearly gone, became Secretary of 
 War. And here, as these are desultory, — very desul- 
 tory notes, and in no sense a review, let me recall an- 
 other instance in my experience of dissipated prejudice. 
 In the days — long since gone by — when, as I have said, 
 Americans were taught to idolize Napoleon, there were 
 correlative objects of detestation. We had thoroughly 
 imbibed English whiggery (more intensely hostile to us 
 than toryism ever was), and believed in Holland House 
 and Tom Moore. Of course the bete noir was Lord 
 Castlereagh. Now, if any reasonable man or studious 
 boy desires to have this folly purged away, let him read, 
 as I have faithfully. Lord Castlereagh's diplomatic cor- 
 respondence when, in 1814, he was controlling the 
 Anti-Napoleonic policy of Europe. He will then see 
 what a brave, manly spirit animated this disparaged 
 statesman. This is specially marked in the letters from 
 Chatillon, and show that it was English sturdiness 
 which finally broke down Napoleon.* Of that quality, 
 be it high and heroic or not, this Irish viscount was 
 the genuine representative. Of him, however, it was 
 not the cue of Lord Palmerston or his biographer 
 
 * See Sir Henry Bulwer's estimate of him in his delightful " His- 
 torical Characters," vol. ii. p. 259. 
 
234 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 to say much, for they are Canningites of the straitest 
 sect. 
 
 Of their idol's praises, one might have looked for 
 more. The truth, however, is that, brilliant as was 
 the subordinate career of Canning as wit and debater 
 and orator, his primacy was a brief and troubled one. 
 He never flashed more brightly than at the end, and 
 it was as Prime Minister, in 1827, that he made his 
 celebrated speech on "redressing the balance of the 
 world." Surely there never was more supreme egotism 
 or vaster bombast than his boast, " I called the New 
 World into existence to redress the balance of the Old" 
 — history telling us that in the recognition of the 
 Spanish-American republics, to which he referred, 
 James Monroe and Henry Clay had anticipated George 
 Canning. And yet the boast was rhetorically effective, 
 for we learn from a critic by no means friendly, that 
 the vigour of the language and the magnificent elocu- 
 tion of the orator carried away the House of Commons 
 in a perfect storm. Moore tells us in his diary that 
 Sir James Graham came to a dinner party fresh from 
 the scene, and said that " tiie best comment on the 
 power of the speaker was that he could reconcile a 
 severe audience like the House of Commons to such 
 bombast as this." It was in this or a coincident speech 
 that Mr. Canning announced, when the Holy Alliance 
 menaced the Peninsula, that British troops had actually 
 sailed to the rescue : " We go to plant the standard of 
 England on the well-known heights of Lisbon. Where 
 that standard is planted foreign dominion shall not 
 come." This has the true ring. There is, however, 
 something uncomfortable about Canning's whole career. 
 
 1 
 
BULWER8 PALMEBSTON. 235 
 
 Not that we need adopt the Carlton House story (for, 
 to their honour be it said, George IV. hated both 
 Canning and Palmerston with a hate sincere, though 
 Canning conquered it), that he was, as Lord Yarmouth 
 called him, 'a scamp;' but he was a born manceuvrer, 
 and there is nothing more melancholy in political story 
 than the record, as given in the Malmesbury diary, of 
 the successful intrigue, directed by the veteran diplo- 
 matist, the old lion of the Foreign Office, and manipu- 
 lated by his younger ally, against Mr. Addington for 
 trying to make peace with France in 1801. Canning's 
 triumphant bark came to sudden shipwreck in 1838, 
 among the coral reefs of an alien and adverse aristoc- 
 racy. There is told of him an anecdote of American 
 interest, which seems droll, not so much from the 
 cleverness of what he jocularly said, as the stupendous 
 gravity with Avhich it is narrated by the most formal 
 and least jocose of chroniclers, the late Mr. Kichard 
 Rush, in his Reminiscences. It was the fresh day of 
 that venerable and inconvenient dogma, the Monroe 
 Doctrine, and Mr. Rush tells us that when he communi- 
 cated the dogma " that the United States would not 
 permit or countenance any European power to colonize 
 any part of the American continent," Mr. Canning 
 asked if the President meant to interfere with any new 
 discovery that Captain Parry, then in the Polar Seas, 
 might make ? To which Mr. Rush replied : " When 
 such a contingency occurred, it would be properly 
 considered!" Jesting apart, no Canningite, not the 
 founder, not his nephew, not Lord Palmerston, no one, 
 unless it be Sir Henry Bulwer, ever had, or pretended 
 to have, any especial love for us Americans. 
 
236 AMONG MY BoOKS. 
 
 The year 1828 brings us (for in less than two hun- 
 dred pages of the first volume is told the crowded story 
 of forty-four years) to the Duke of Wellington — not 
 soldier, but politician — and Palmerston, Chancellor of 
 the Exchequer in the Goderich ministry — and the 
 Duke's first appearance is as a manager, and a 
 dexterous one too. Lord Palmerston records in his 
 diary that when the Duke of Wellington was 
 made commander-in-chief, his military friend. Lord 
 Anglesea, came to his colleagues and said: "Well, 
 gentlemen, I have done what you sent me to do. I 
 have brought you the Duke of Wellington's acceptance 
 as commander-in-chief, and, by God, mark my words, 
 as sure as you are alive he will trip up all your heels 
 before six months are over your heads." And Lord 
 Palmerston simply adds : " Before the six months were 
 well over the Duke was in and our heels were up !" 
 
 These notes are neither history nor systematic criti- 
 cism, but are meant to record random and casual im- 
 pressions, not only of a book but of the associations, 
 sometimes remote, it awakens. Hence it is aside from 
 their aim and irreconcilable with their limits, to follow 
 throughout the course of personal or historical inci- 
 dents. The second volume of this biography extends 
 from 1831 to 1841, the most of which time, Palmerston 
 was a leading actor, and then it was that his protege 
 (and well worthy of confidence he was) the biog- 
 rapher appears on the scene. It is, after all, the true 
 way to have biography written, when hero and biog- 
 rapher move, as it were, together. Sir Henry does it 
 very gracefully, and with no excess of the first person 
 singular. We understand both men much better than 
 
BULWERS PALMEBSTON. 237 
 
 we could by the study of Blue Books, as when Lord 
 Palmerston writes to Mr. Bulwer, in Paris, at the crisis 
 of the Egyptian muddle in 1840 : " Bullies seldom 
 execute the threats they deal in ; and men of trick are 
 not always men of despei'ate resolves. But if Thiers 
 should again hold to you the language of menace, 
 however indistinctly and vaguely shadowed forth, pray 
 retort upon him to the full extent of what he says ; 
 and with that skill of language which I know you are 
 master of, convey to him in the most friendly and 
 inoffensive manner possible, that, if France throws 
 down the gauntlet, we shall not refuse to pick it up ; 
 and that, if she begins a war, she will to a certainty 
 lose her ships, colonies, and commerce before she sees 
 the end of it ; that her army in Algiers will cease to 
 give her anxiety, and that Mehemet Ali will be just 
 chucked into the Nile. I invariably do this when 
 Guizot begins to swagger." These were the words, the 
 insolent, brave words, of 1841, when perhaps Thiers 
 did bully and Guizot swaggered. And now thirty 
 years are over, and the voice of insolence is no more 
 heard, and Thiers and Guizot are fugitives, and France 
 is prostrate ; and if there be any truth in what, in that 
 same year, 1841, Palmerston wrote to Lord Granville, 
 and Sir Henry Bulwer italicizes : "The aggressive pol- 
 icy of France is like an infection clinging to the walls 
 of a dwelling. It breaks out in every successive occu- 
 pant that comes within its influence," — there is no 
 longer any danger, for the building, purged by fire^, is 
 in ruins, and its mischievous occupants scattered 
 everywhere ! 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 
 
 Tee temptation to be for once didactic is irresisti- 
 ble, and as undue gravity, some readers will say, has 
 not characterized these fugitive ' notes,' a little sober, 
 serious teaching may be pardoned at the end. Then, 
 too, it is in behalf of oppressed and gentle youth these 
 words are written. In a suburban village, which shall 
 be nameless, a bright young girl, the other day, was 
 pondering, with aching brain and frowning brow, over 
 what, in scliool phrase, is called a 'review' of lessons 
 in American history, and, on inquiry as to the cause 
 of perplexity, it was revealed that the military opera- 
 tions on the Ohickahominy and the pleasant details of 
 the Rebellion were the subject of academic medita- 
 tion ; and this was called studying American history ! 
 That all this will, by-and-by, be history for study, and 
 sad, significant history too, is certain, but not yet ! 
 The minds of children, North, and, if possible, South, 
 one would think, might as well be left free from the 
 bitter memories of yesterday. And this child knew 
 little or nothing of Columbus, or Cabot, or Ealeigh, or 
 even Washington! Doubtless, she knew (as who in 
 this region does not ?) the day and hour and minute 
 when the Mayflower was 'entered' in the Plymouth 
 Custom-house, but naught besides. Jamestown is ta- 
 
 1 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 239 
 
 oooed, and ' Romish' Saint Mary's has no place in this 
 canon. Yet American history may be taught, and 
 may be made attractive to the veriest youth, and a vis- 
 ion has, many a time and oft, floated round one rest- 
 less brain, that American " Tales of a Grandfather" 
 might well and gracefully be written. Who has for- 
 gotten how the first ' Tales' came into being ? 
 
 "A good thought," Scott writes, "has come into my 
 head, to write stories for my little grandson from the 
 history of Scotland, like those taken from the history 
 of England. But I will not write mine quite so sim- 
 ply. I am persuaded both children and the lower 
 class of men hate books which are written down to 
 their capacity, and love those which are composed 
 more for their elders and betters. I will make, if pos- 
 sible, a book which a child shall understand, yet a man 
 will feel some temptation to peruse, should he chance 
 to take it up. It will require, however, a simplicity of 
 style not quite my own. The grand and interesting 
 consists in ideas, not in words. A clever thing of this 
 kind might have a race." 
 
 The child, the little grandson, for whom this charm- 
 ing book was written, was then exactly six years old ; 
 and the practical sagacity which prompted Scott not 
 to write too fur down for children, was verified. Every 
 one knows the complete success of the experiment, in 
 its fascination, not only of the six-year-old boy, but of 
 all the reading boys of England and Scotland — I wish 
 I could add of America, but unhappily the minds of 
 American children are afflicted by downward writing, 
 by too much of the system of instruction suited (such 
 is the wretched misnomer) to the youngest capacity, 
 
240 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 which labours to keep it in all the helplessness and fee- 
 bleness of childhood. 
 
 My theory of systematic study of these annals of 
 ours is somewhat in this wise : 
 
 The discovery and settlement should, of course, be 
 starting-points. I would make them strictly so; and 
 this, as a mode of adapting the study to the youngest 
 minds. If it were thought necessary, in elementary 
 instruction, to consider American as an offset or shoot 
 from European story, then the boy must have in ad- 
 vance some knowledge of the history of the nations 
 whence the discoverers and first settlers came, and 
 American history must be postponed. But, on the 
 other hand, if the boy be taught that when Columbus 
 and Cabot put to sea on their Westward adventure, 
 they began a new career, then little or no previous 
 knowledge is requisite. The scholar begins with 
 American discovery. And what practical difficulty or 
 objection is there to this? The child who learns 
 Eoman history is not troubled with Homeric legends 
 or Etruscan antiquities, but setting out with Eneas' 
 farrowing sow, or the cradle of Eomulus and Eemus, 
 learns the liistory of Eome from its beginning. So with 
 English and all other annals. Taking for illustration 
 the New England and Virginia settlements, why may 
 not the intelligent child (for it is now a question of 
 childish instruction) learn, as a beginning, that the 
 adventurers, seeking a place of refuge, crossed the 
 Atlantic and began settlements at Jamestown and 
 Plymouth, — their privations and courage, their primi- 
 tive habits, their wars with the savages, their gradual 
 growth, might be picturesquely told, without referej|ce 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 241 
 
 to the history, the perplexed previous history of the 
 fatherland; and thus a series of impressions of Ameri- 
 can incidents be stamped that Avould, if distinct, never 
 be obliterated. Of course, as the narrative advanced 
 and complex relations arose abroad when the settle- 
 ment, growing in importance, became properly a col- 
 ony subject to metropolitan authority, the student 
 will be directed to this foreign authority. But it 
 would be purely incidental. The main narrative of 
 American events need not be interrupted. European 
 history would be illustrative. Of course, I shall not 
 be understood as meaning to sever American from 
 British history, or as broaching the absurd theory that 
 the principles out of which our Eevolution sprang were 
 not in a measure derivative. No one can be blind to 
 the clear connection between the principles of English 
 liberty, as embalmed in the English laAV, and those 
 which were invoked and asserted when they cast oif the 
 British yoke. The inheritance of the sturdy common 
 law is ours ; the security of parliamentary law is ours 
 too. No one can study thoroughly without knowing all 
 about this and other transatlantic association. But I 
 refer to this mode of isolating American events as a 
 necessary and convenient mode of placing them at first 
 within the grasp of a very youthful mind. It is entirely 
 feasible, if this process of simplification be adhered 
 to ; and, if the instructor succeed in making distinct 
 and intelligible his narrative of early American adven- 
 ture and settlement, he will find his pupils better able 
 at the end of a given period to comprehend the more 
 complex relations of grooving society. Of course, in 
 this it may be necessary to appeal largely to the im- 
 
 11 
 
242 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 agination of young students ; and, luckily, the history 
 of adventurous colonists admits this. It is fortunate, 
 too, that from the story of the American first settlers, 
 lessons of no little moral value may be learned ; and 
 the intelligent child who is made to understand them 
 is taught the merit of heroism and endurance, of self- 
 control and self-reliance, in a way which keeps him 
 from ever forgetting them. Our children should learn 
 their story thoroughly, poetically, and reverentially. 
 Such were the views of that great teacher. Dr. Arnold, 
 as to history generally. 
 
 " These illustrative pictures," says he, " should con- 
 tain as much as possible the poetry of history— the 
 most striking characters and most heroic actions, 
 whether of doing or suffering — but they should not 
 embarrass themselves with its philosophy, with the 
 causes of revolutions, the progress of society, or the 
 merits of great political questions. Their use is of 
 another kind, to make some great name and great 
 action of every period familiar to the mind ; and so, in 
 taking up any more detailed history or biography (and 
 education should never forget the importance of pre- 
 paring a boy to derive benefit from accidental reading), 
 he may have some association with the subject of it, 
 and may not find himself on ground wholly unknown 
 to him. He may thus be led to open volumes into 
 which he would otherwise have never thought of look- 
 ing. He need not read them through; indeed it is 
 sad folly to require either man or boy to read through 
 every book they look at, but he will see what is said 
 about such and such persons and actions, and will 
 have his stock of associations increased, so as to render 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 243 
 
 more and more information acceptable to him. After 
 this foundation, the object still being rather to create 
 an appetite for knowledge than to satisfy it, it would 
 be desirable to furnish a boy with histories of one or 
 two particular countries, Greece, Eome, and England 
 for instance, written at no great length, and writ- 
 ten poetically, much more than philosophically, with 
 much liveliness of style and force of painting, so as 
 to excite an interest about the persons and things 
 spoken of. The absence of all instruction in politics 
 or political economy, nay, even an erroneousness of 
 judgment on such matters, provided always that it 
 involves no wrong principles of morality, are compara- 
 tively of slight importance. Let the boy gain, if possible, 
 a strong appetite for knowledge to begin with ; it is the 
 later part of education which should enable him to pur- 
 sue it sensibly, and to make it, when obtained, wisdom." 
 Passing to the colonial times and to a period of 
 higher development in the student, the chief difficulty 
 will be in the variety of materials. But there is no- 
 thing formidable in this. An intelligent boy can easily 
 be made to understand that the narrow belt of civilized 
 settlement on the Atlantic coast, from Canada to 
 Florida, was inhabited by one people, or rather that 
 one sovereign authority was recognized, whilst, within 
 local divisions, they had governments of their own. 
 He can as easily learn, for the difference is well defined, 
 what these governments were, and how charter and 
 proprietary and royal colonies are distinguished. The 
 growth of colonial society is easily traced. The influ- 
 ence of an Indian frontier can be defined, with all its 
 romantic horrors. He can form an idea of the wonder- 
 
244 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 ful, though impotent, scheme of empire by which 
 France girdled the British settlements by a chain of 
 armed missionary posts from Quebec to the Balize. 
 It is for those only who have not studied it to deny 
 the interest — the captivating interest — of the French 
 and Indian wars, the bloody prowess of Montcalm and 
 Dieskau. It is for such to say that the minds of 
 American youth, I care not how immature, may not 
 find attractions here. Neither Marathon nor Ther- 
 mopylce, Cannae nor Actium, need be neglected, but 
 the American student may learn the actual deeds of 
 border warfare against savages and European merce- 
 naries with as much interest, and profit too, as any 
 legend of antique romance. There is a storehouse of 
 incident in the memoirs of the French ecclesiastical 
 emigrants, yet unexplored ; and as to practical lessons 
 in the chronicles of these early times, I say, incident- 
 ally, that my mind has always fastened with curious 
 interest on the lesson of one colonial life, which, for 
 the benefit of American youth, I trust may some day 
 be illustrated better than it has been. I mean the 
 development of Washington's character as marked in 
 his early provincial training and adventure. His 
 mother-guarded education, his use of humble oppor- 
 tunities, his copy-books, his self-devised rules of con- 
 duct, his geometrical calculations, his rough books of 
 survey (all yet extant), and, at a later period, his wild 
 adventures in the Western wilderness, and the heavy 
 responsibilities, so nobly borne, of liis early manhood; 
 all these are materials of biography which might be 
 made to win the attention and repay the studious 
 curiosity of any boy or man. In fact, if simplification 
 
 4 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 245 
 
 of education be still thought important, there would 
 be no better mode of treating the last part of colonial, 
 and the first of independent history, than by making 
 it illustrative of the single career of Washington, from 
 the date of his first public trust, when sent, at the age 
 of twenty-one, by Governor Dinwiddle (1753) as a 
 Virginian Ambassador to St. Pierre's camp on the 
 banks of French Creek, to his final retirement from 
 public life nearly half a century later, at the end of 
 Mr. Adams's quasi war, in 1798. The classic history 
 of America is in this single life, and yet how few 
 American students so consider it! They are content 
 to call him "the father of his country," and "first in 
 war," etc., and know less of his history in detail than 
 of Epaminondas or Publicola. 
 
 The reader will understand the natural association 
 which, in noticing these early incidents of our history 
 and Washington's life, prompts me to refer to the fol- 
 lowing striking contrast from a valuable though un- 
 known periodical.* It was written twenty-five years 
 ago: 
 
 "It is now almost one hundred years since Brad- 
 dock received his death-wound in the vicinity of 
 Pittsburg, and the field where his army was defeated, 
 
 * ' Pittsburg Olden Time,' 1846, p. 525, edited by the late Neville 
 B. Craig. It is referred to with commendation by Mr. Parkman, in 
 his ' Conspiracy of Pontiac,' and is a rich mine of original matter. 
 Great are the obligations of the student of history to such pains- 
 taking men, among the dead, as Neville B. Craig and Samuel 
 Hazard of Pennsylvania, and Winthrop Sergeant, of New York ; 
 and among the living, eminently to Henry B. Dawson, of Mor- 
 risania. 
 
246 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 which was then far beyond the frontier of the Anglo- 
 Saxon settlement, is now but a point on the great 
 route of travel from the East to the far-distant West. 
 Probably, in the whole history of our country, no 
 more striking illustration can be given of the exten- 
 sion of our power than the overthrow of the English 
 army at Braddock's Field in 1755, and the capture of 
 Monterey in 1846. In India, the year after Brad- 
 dock's defeat, the English sustained severe losses, Cal- 
 cutta fell into the enemy's hands, and British affairs 
 seemed as hopeless in Asia as in America, but the 
 appointment of Clive in the former and Amherst in 
 the latter soon gave a more encouraging aspect to 
 public affairs in both countries. From that period to 
 the present the Anglo-Saxon race in both countries 
 has extended its dominions with unexampled rapidity. 
 The capture of Calcutta on the Ganges, and the defeat 
 of Braddock on the Monongahela, in 1755 and 1757, 
 mark the extreme points of depression of Anglo-Saxon 
 affairs on both continents; when they are to reach 
 the utmost extent in advance and prosperity, time 
 alone can tell." As these words are written, we have 
 the news that Pondicherry, all that remains of French 
 empire in Asia, has gone from her too. 
 
 By the time the student has got to the verge of the 
 convulsion, he will have knowledge enough to fit him 
 for more exact inquiries. From the peace of Paris to 
 the first shedding of blood at Lexington, there is not a 
 year whose history is not full of interest. 
 
 On one side, it is to be found in parliamentary 
 debates, statutes, and orders in council. It is a period 
 in regard to which the common notion is singularly 
 
AMEBWAN BISTORT. 247 
 
 inexact. Its true history is not yet written. Grahame 
 has done the best for it. Its incidents should be 
 traced, one by one, from the day when a penny-wise 
 minister of the crown conceived the idea of raising 
 specific revenue from America, through the long se- 
 ries of parliamentary expedients and equivocations, 
 stamp acts, declaratory laws, tea duties, down to the 
 day when accidental blood-shedding broke the bond 
 forever. This, and the remonstrances, the supplica- 
 tions on our side, which preceded resistance, should 
 be minutely understood. Without it, no one can pre- 
 tend to measure the true merit of our Revolution, and 
 its difference from all others in the history of man- 
 kind. It can never be said of us, or of our ancestors 
 of the Revolution, as was once eaid by Niebuhr of 
 some later Republicans, that we were "proud of the 
 title of slaves broke loose." The student should be 
 made to study the enumeration of actual grievances in 
 the Declaration of Independence rather than its ques- 
 tionable rhetoric and its false philosophy, and to point 
 out the evidence, which a little study will enable him 
 to do, on which each assertion of a wrong rests. It 
 has been truly said that the vitality of the instrument 
 of Independence itself was its specification of sub- 
 stantial grievances — not the assertion of abstract 
 rights of man. There is authority for saying, that in 
 Great Britain its platitudes made no impression, but 
 such a business-like phrase as "enemies in war, in 
 peace friends," did. "It shows," says Lord Camden 
 to the Duke of Grafton, speaking of these very words, 
 " that the empire is rent asunder." Yet how few are 
 there of the thousands who read and listen every year, 
 
248 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 in the routine of patriotic festivity, who, if asked 
 to verify any or all of the accusations of metropoli- 
 tan power, would be able to answer the appeal ? To 
 teach the student to look behind the mere declama- 
 tion of patriotism, is an object worthy of attention. 
 He should learn the deliberate character of revolution- 
 ary redress. He should learn it minutely, accurately, 
 and impartially. He should learn to discriminate be- 
 tween the just and unjust causes of complaint; for 
 there were some, though few, of the latter — and his 
 pride when, thus nurtured in rational reverence for 
 the founders of his country's conservative freedom, he 
 comes to be an American man, will rest on a steadier 
 and a safer basis than mere unreasoning patriotism 
 can supply. 
 
 The Revolution itself can be studied in detail most 
 agreeably. Its military story, minutely told, is full of 
 interest ; for though its battles were skirmishes in con- 
 trast with the campaigning of later times, yet is it not 
 worth while for an American student to learn how, in 
 ancient days, on little more than a month's notice, a 
 rude militia iirst besieged and then vanquished (for 
 inglorious retreat is defeat) a British army led by 
 veteran generals and strong in all the accomplish- 
 ments of war ? How the same raw levies ripened into 
 armies of regularity and discipline ? These were times 
 when "great men led little armies, but little armies 
 did great things." This was Antony Hamilton's say- 
 ing : "En ce temps," he says, " il n'en alloit pas en 
 France comme a present : Louis XIII. regnoit encore, 
 et le Cardinal de Richelieu gouvernoit le royaume, De 
 grands hommes commandaient de petites armees, et ces 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 249 
 
 armees faisoient de grandes choses," He will see, too, 
 that there are worthier glories than those of victory, 
 and, from careful and systematic study, will do more 
 honour than he ever dreamed of for the laurels of 
 Trenton and Princeton, to Washington in his hour of 
 overwhelming disaster, his young army cut to pieces 
 and seeking refuge within the Hues of Brooklyn, and 
 his resolute spirit in the desolate camp at Valley 
 Forge. For six long years, was he the victim of rash 
 counsels and imperfect means; urged by a military 
 department (such as it was) to action, and left by its 
 improvidence in vexatious helplessness. The Ameri- 
 can student who makes himself master of Washing- 
 ton's letters to Congress, to his friends at home, and 
 his distant fellow-soldiers, will have a rationally ex- 
 alted estimate of his character, such as he never before 
 imagined. He will by pure processes of reason become 
 the 'idolater,' which, strange to say, Thackeray is re- 
 proached for being, and that, too, by a New England 
 writer of repute.* 
 
 From May, 1775, when the Revolutionary Congress 
 first met as a business body, down to the institution 
 of the executive departments in 1781, its action is 
 worthy of the closest study. How it was constituted, 
 how it grew, and how wisely and patriotically, as a 
 general rule, it acted, should be understood by all 
 American men. The old Congress is not benefitted by 
 comparison with the noisy and declamatory body of 
 a later day. It was in the strict sense of the word 
 ' deliberative,' almost conversational. It sate in an 
 
 * ' The Virginians,' chapter 87. 
 11* 
 
250 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 apartment not larger than a common dining-room. 
 It was not a speech-making or speech-listening body. 
 It worked well. For the first few years, it was busy 
 with desperate experiments of currency and credit, 
 raising soldiers, clothing and arming them, and all the 
 while distrustful of its own imperfect organization, 
 and striving to build up something in the way of gov- 
 ernment stronger and safer. And here let me do hon- 
 our to the discredited but not dishonoured dead, the 
 maligned Confederation ! It did good service in its 
 day. It was an honestly written document — those 
 Articles. It meant what it said. It was not, like an- 
 other instrument of later date, veneered or varnished 
 with rhetoric, which cracked, and was meant to crack, 
 the moment it was subjected to heat. Gouverneur 
 Morris, although he signed it, did not tinker it, and 
 then boast he had made it ambiguous on purpose. It 
 bore the names of Eoger Sherman, and Oliver Wol- 
 cott, and Eobert Morris, and Joseph Eeed, and William 
 Henry Drayton, and the Lees ; and it declared itself — 
 alas ! for human forecast ! — ' perpetual.' 
 
 In 1781, Congress relinquished to three executive 
 officers its active functions, settling down into a nega- 
 tive attitude ; and here the student will find a new 
 chapter of great interest. I refer to Eobert Morris's 
 financial administration. Of Mr. Morris's services the 
 prevalent idea is not an exact one. In the common 
 praise bestowed on him as the great financier of the 
 Eevolution, dates are strangely confounded. As an 
 executive officer he had nothing to do with federal 
 finance till five months before Cornwallis's surrender, 
 when the war virtually ended. He had been a mem- 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 251 
 
 ber of Congress and of the State Legislature, but no- 
 thing more. In the latter position, he had. done good 
 service in fighting tender laws and price regulations, 
 errors into which the purest and some of the most 
 intelligent of our public men fell; but with federal 
 finance, till then, he had nothing to do. His labours 
 were, if possible, more burdensome, more admirable, 
 than if they had been in the midst of the perils of war 
 and its attendant enthusiasm, which helps finance 
 wonderfully. He came into office when credit had 
 collapsed and the day of expedients was over, and sus- 
 tained public faith at a moment of perilous transi- 
 tion, when the instincts of self-interest cast back on 
 the country its worthless currency, and revenue was 
 mocked by its own devices. That, at this moment of 
 prostration, when the chances of healthy reaction were 
 as nothing, he should have succeeded in maintaining 
 anything like 'revenue,' and in building up order, 
 is Mr. Morris's true glory. How he did it, the student 
 learns from his official letters. It has always seemed 
 to me that nowhere can the practical part of political 
 finance be better studied than in these letters of a far- 
 seeing merchant, who, called to public trust, adminis- 
 tered it on the same principles which guided him in 
 his counting-room. There is, in them, none of the jar- 
 gon of finance, but a simplicity and directness of style 
 eminently characteristic. 
 
 Coincident with what was doing at home, are the 
 foreign relations of the country and the curious yet 
 unsolved problem as to who showed the truest wisdom, 
 Franklin, or his less confiding colleagues, Mr. Jay and 
 Mr. Adams. From the time when Beaumarchais first 
 
252 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 sounded Arthur Lee, to the signing of the preliminary 
 Treaty, through all our unskilled diplomacy, the mys- 
 terious incident of the robbing of the American lega- 
 tion in Berlin, and 'the lost million' claimed by the 
 French adventurers, with the vexed question of the 
 extent of the obligations to France, the student will 
 find a wide field for the gratification of curious research. 
 I only allude to them, taking occasion to say, that no- 
 where is to be found a more agreeable, and, so far as I 
 am able to judge, trustworthy account of this portion 
 of our annals than in Mr. Pitkin's neglected volumes. 
 It is the era for which elementary instruction is least 
 competent ; and one may hope, by the time the student 
 has reached this point, he will know how to look for 
 himself into the original documents and correspond- 
 ence through which alone it is to be understood. If it 
 be true that "the proper mode of judicially interpret- 
 ing the Constitution is by reference to fixed and techni- 
 cal rules sanctioned by the law ; if in the appeal to the 
 common law as a standard, in exposition of all doubts 
 as to the meaning of such a written instrument as the 
 Constitution, there is safety, certainty, and authority ;" 
 then more than ever is it important that the mind of 
 the student — him who may, by-and-by, be the judicial 
 expounder to apply these principles — should be im- 
 bued with the spirit of the times when the Constitu- 
 tion was made, and understand the necessities which 
 forced it into existence. There is no better safeguard 
 against extremes of construction than this actual his- 
 tory of ' mischiefs to be remedied.' Here, too, as in 
 all instances, may AVashington's familiar correspond- 
 ence be studied. In his unpretending diary, kept 
 
AMERICAN BISTORT. 253 
 
 during the session of the Federal Convention, he notes 
 that, on its adjournment, on receiving the papers 
 from the secretary of the convention, he retired to his 
 room to 'meditate' on the momentous work, which was 
 then, for weal or woe, completed. And if the imagina- 
 tion of the American student, invigorated by the pe- 
 rusal of Washington's writings and by a true judgment 
 of his character, can rise to communion Avith these 
 solitary musings, he will better understand the true 
 spirit of the Constitution than from the study of vol- 
 umes of criticism. He will then know what Washing- 
 ton thought the framers of the Constitution meant it 
 to be. If this be a fanciful craving not to be satisfied, 
 he has at hand a practical exposition in Washington's 
 administration, to which, at the close of this already 
 too much protracted essay, and as a branch of neces- 
 sary instruction, a passing remark is due. 
 
 The Washington administration should be thoroughly 
 and systematically studied, and, as a suitable intro- 
 duction to it, the debates in the first Congress. They 
 are more valuable than the debates — necessarily more 
 speculative — in the Convention itself, because they are 
 properly legislative discussions, the consultations of 
 men striving to give an organized machine of govern- 
 ment a proper direction — trying to make the Constitu- 
 tion ' work.' The first ' administration' can be made 
 matter of comparatively easy instruction. Its incidents 
 are well defined. The first four years have peculiar 
 domestic interest, whilst the end opens the new chap- 
 ter in which our country, as a recognized independent 
 community, came in contact and collision with foreign 
 nations. How the frail and untried structure escaped 
 
254 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 the fearful whirlpool of European politics, at the 
 French revolution, the student should be made tho- 
 roughly to understand. If he does, his grateful vene- 
 ration for the character of Washington must be immea- 
 surably increased. No other man conld have held the 
 helm steady in so fearful a strife of exaggerated sym- 
 pathies and antipathies. A foreign writer, less known 
 than he should be among American scholars, has 
 alluded to this influence of Washington in a passage 
 of so miich beauty that I cannot resist the temptation, 
 misplaced as it may seem, here to quote it : 
 
 " The conduct of Washington," says Professor Smith, 
 of Cambridge, " indeed great in these moments, as in 
 all the past, remains above all praise. He persuaded 
 his country, — he enabled his country, to stand aloof 
 from the unhappy storm of European politics; he 
 resigned his popularity to accomplish so great an end, 
 and he maintained the Constitution over which he 
 presided, by severe and dignified confidence in its 
 merits, and a calm exercise of its acknowledged powers 
 and authority. He was insulted, — he was resisted in his 
 own executive department, as the Chief Magistrate of 
 America, by the French Ambassador. The labours 
 of the press, the enthusiasm of the people, the intrigues 
 of societies who voted themselves the guardians of 
 American liberty, the natural sentiment of hatred to 
 England — all were united against the temper and 
 wisdom of Washington ; but he rose superior to them 
 all. He contented himself with steadily maintaining 
 the principle of the law of nations and the regulation 
 of his own government, and he then laid an able ex- 
 position of his case before the French government, and 
 
AMERICAN HISTORY. 255 
 
 calmly desired a recall of their ambassador. A new 
 ambassador was sent from France; the clouds grew 
 lighter, the thunders rolled away, the horizon at length 
 cleared up, discovering the President left in the same 
 place and attitude by the storm as when the storm 
 had found him ; but the countenances of all wise and 
 good men were instantly turned upon him with the 
 most animated smile of reverence and love." 
 
 No American panegyrist could write of Washington 
 more eloquently or with finer discrimination. If this 
 be ' idolatry,' then, in spite of the Gnostics and Ebion- 
 ites of our day of image-breaking, am I a worshipper! 
 
HENRY REED. 
 
 On tlie morning of Wednesday, the llth of October, 
 1854, a heavy sorrow fell on this gay metropolis, and 
 for once the pulse of money-getting and money-spend- 
 ing stood still. Then, was received the news that one 
 of the floating palaces of which this community was 
 so proud, buoyed up by private patronage and public 
 subsidy, had sunk to the bottom of the ocean, and with 
 it, it was believed, nearly all the passengers. It was 
 the day when the Arctic news reached us ; and when 
 the fragmentary intelligence came slowly along that 
 there were a few survivors, and we found how few 
 they were, the realization of the actual horror that 
 not a woman or a child had been saved, was almost as 
 overpowering as the first shock. Sixteen years have 
 rolled by, and the sharpness of grief is dulled, but 
 truly was it the saddest calamity and the darkest 
 scandal which the history of peaceful navigation re- 
 cords. The failure to devise some mode of rescue 
 while the wounded ship was floating for hours on a 
 perfectly smooth sea, is awful to think upon. But 
 the loss of the Arctic spread sorrow far beyond these 
 local limits. It clouded homes elsewhere. In the 
 sister city of Philadelphia, a singularly sharp pang was 
 inflicted when the honoured name which heads this 
 last chapter of my rambling Notes was recorded among 
 
HENRT REED. 257 
 
 those of the certain dead. There was a desperate 
 search, if not for some trace, at least for some memory 
 of him, in the crowd of victims, but it was in vain or 
 nearly so. " The only survivor," says one of his family, 
 writing soon after, "who was personally acquainted 
 with Mr. Reed, saw him about two o'clock (the collision 
 was at noon, and at five all was over) sitting with his 
 sister in the small passage aft of the dining-saloon. 
 They were tranquil and silent, though their faces wore 
 the look of painful anxiety. It is supposed they left 
 this position and repaired to the promenade deck. 
 For a selfish struggle for life, with a helpless com- 
 panion dependent upon him, with a physical fi"ame 
 un suited for such effort, and above all, with a senti- 
 ment of religious resignation, which taught him in 
 that hour of agony, even with the memories of his 
 wife and children thronging in his mind, to bow his 
 head in submission to the will of God ; — for such a 
 struggle he was wholly unsuited; and his is the praise 
 that he perished with the women and children." 
 
 One other personal word, and I pass to books. Mr. 
 Reed was in England in the interval between Thack- 
 eray's first and second visit to this country. They had 
 known each other here, and when the news of hia 
 death reached the old country, thus wrote Thackeray 
 to a common friend in America. It has never been 
 ' published,' though in print. Reader, if there be one 
 such who does not recognize already the gentle, sym- 
 pathetic nature, pass this by too, for nothing will 
 convince! It is dated at the old modest house, 36 
 Onslow Square (in my eyes as classic as 39 Castle 
 Street), on the 8th November, 1854. 
 
258 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 " I have your melancholy letter this morning. I 
 had heard of your sorrow, of course, and have kept 
 back writing, knowing the powerlessness of consola- 
 tion, and having, I don't know what, vague hopes that 
 he might have been spared. That ghastly struggle 
 over, who would pity any man that departs ? It is 
 the survivor one commiserates of such a good, pious, 
 tender-hearted man as he seemed whom God Almighty 
 has just called back to himself. He seemed to me to 
 have all the sweet domestic virtues which make the 
 pang of parting only the more cruel to those who are 
 left behind ; but that loss, what a gain to him ! A just 
 man summoned to God, for what purpose can he go 
 but to meet the Divine Love and Goodness ? I never 
 think about deploring such ; and as you and I send 
 for our children, meaning them only love and kindness, 
 how much more Pater Noster ? So we say, and weep 
 the beloved whom we lose all the same with the 
 natural, selfish sorrow, as you, I dare say, will have a 
 heavy heart when your daughter marries and leaves 
 you. You will lose her, though her new home is ever 
 so happy. I remember quite well my visit to his house 
 in America; the pictures in his room, which made me 
 see which way his thoughts lay; his sweet, gentle, 
 melancholy, pious manner. That day I saw him here 
 in Dover Street, I don't know whether I told him, but 
 I felt at the time his very accents affected me somehow ; 
 they were just American enough to be natural ; and 
 when shall I ever hear voices in the world that have 
 spoken more kindly to me? It was like being in 
 grave, calm, kind, old Philadelphia over again, and 
 behold ! now they are to be heard no more !....! 
 
HENRY REED. 259 
 
 told him how I should like to be going with him in 
 the Arctic, and we parted with a great deal of kindness, 
 please God, and friendly talk of a future meeting. May 
 it happen one day, for I feel sure he was a just man !" 
 
 In nine years the hand that traced these gentle 
 words was cold in death, and the Great Secret Avas 
 known to both. 
 
 There are many men now whose lives are devoted 
 to letters, and not a few to that kind of literature 
 which the French have an honest and expressive word 
 for, and we none. 'Polite letters' is coxcombical — 
 'Beautiful letters' sounds awkwardly, but, as applied 
 to Poetry and Rhetoric proper, it is perfectly expres- 
 sive. It was not so forty years ago. There were Pro- 
 fessors of Classics, and History, and Moral Philosophy, 
 with a divergence to Doctor Blair or Lord Kames, but 
 a teacher of English literature, and a student who, like 
 Henry Reed, gave his whole life to it, for he left the 
 bar and became a teacher at the age of twenty-three, 
 were relatively rare. Even now, we sometimes import 
 them. Of his modest, almost secluded life, little is 
 known beyond the family circle and the city of his 
 birth and manhood (and that city not very loyal to its 
 own), and the result is that the literary materials 
 which he left behind, though promptly published and 
 as carefully edited and annotated as the circumstances 
 permitted, while they are the precious gems of many a 
 discriminating student's library, have not had the ex- 
 tensive circulation they deserve. English booksellers 
 greedily 'pirated' them, as in the present disgraceful 
 state of the law they had a perfect right to do, even 
 though, as here, the sufferers were the widow and 
 
260 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 fatherless. One meets them in odd, out of the way 
 places. Corning and Cornell and Schenectady do not 
 use them. But less ambitious seminaries of learning, 
 — quiet, retired schools, — do. In the Southern colleges, 
 at the University of Virginia, and, I believe, at Wash- 
 ington, or, as it is now called, Washington-Lee College 
 (the Eockbridge ' Liberty-Hall Academy' of Washing- 
 ton's will, — the house where Lee's last gentle hours 
 were passed), one finds them, for Henry Keed left be- 
 hind him no recorded word, as in his gentle heart he 
 had no emotion, of unkindness or sectional animosity. 
 Fanaticism was no part of his nature. He never 
 stained literature with politics. I have lately found 
 Professor Eeed's lectures used as a text-book in one of 
 the largest Eoman Catholic colleges in the neighbour- 
 hood of New York, and this though he was and was 
 known to be a staunch and devout Churchman of the 
 Anglican communion in its best and most conserva- 
 tive and moderate days. It was repugnant to his truly 
 catholic nature to allow the pure, spring-like well of 
 literary meditations and utterances to be darkened 
 and poisoned by sectarianism. No word of intolerance 
 disfigures his pages, and if there be any decided ex- 
 pressions in any way or to any extent adverse, they 
 were in a different direction than toward that of the 
 Ancient Church. Anglican schools, such as that model 
 one guided by an accomplished lady, of St. Agnes 
 near Albany, make them text-books, and the copy 
 now before me, well thumbed and marked by tha 
 judicious pencil, is that of a Congregational clergyman 
 of the straitest Protestantism, but whose gentle nature 
 and refined taste finds everything congenial here. 
 
EENBT REED. 261 
 
 It has been said that the non-user of Mr. Eeed's 
 books is owing to their not being systematic — that is, 
 notconstiinting a single volume or a series of element- 
 ary instructions in English literature. Their merits, 
 it seems to me, is their being just the very reverse of 
 this. They do cover, in one way or another, the whole 
 course of the poetical literature of our mother tongue 
 from Chaucer to Tennyson, but they are oral teachings 
 — almost conversational utterances. These lectures are 
 what, night after night, he said to his class, and as he 
 said it. They were all written out, but they were 
 fresh, and the reflex of a rich mind. He often did not 
 finish a lecture till a few hours or minutes before he 
 began to deliver it, and, after his death, they were 
 printed exactly as he wrote them and left them. This 
 is their especial charm. Literature, especially poetic 
 literature, was part of Henry Eeed's nature — inter- 
 woven with the chords of his being. It was always 
 present, and yet there was, in common intercourse, 
 less of the pedant, or what is often synonymous, of the 
 professor, than any human being I ever knew. Note, 
 for example, how literary illustrations were always 
 brightening up around him. 
 
 In one of his Lectures on Early English Literature 
 is this passage in reference to Chaucer's 'House of 
 Fame:' "It contains a passage which has struck me 
 as in curious anticipation of a scientific hypothesis 
 suggested in our own days ; poetic imagination fore- 
 shadowing the results of scientific reasoning. In the 
 ninth Bridgewater Treatise from the pen of Mr. Bab- 
 bage, he propounded a theory respecting the perma- 
 nent impressions of our words — spoken words — a 
 
262 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 theory startling enough almost to close a man's lips in 
 perpetual silence : That the pulsations of the air, 
 once set in motion by the human voice, cease not to 
 exist with the sounds to which they give rise ; that the 
 waves of the air thus raised perambulate the earth and 
 ocean's surface ; and soon every atom of its atmosphere 
 takes up the altered movement, due to the infinitesi- 
 mal portion of the primitive motion which has been 
 conveyed to it through countless channels and which 
 must continue to influence its paths through its future 
 existence. 'Every atom,' says the philosopher, 'im- 
 pressed with good and with ill, retains at once the 
 motions which philosophers and sages have imparted 
 to it, mixed and combined, in ten thousand ways, with 
 
 all that is worthless and base The atmosphere we 
 
 breathe is the ever living witness of the sentiments we 
 have uttered. ,. .and (in another state of being) the 
 offender may hear still vibrating in his ear the very 
 words, uttered perhaps thousands of centuries before, 
 which at once caused and registered his own condem- 
 nation.' 
 
 " Now I have no thought," says Mr. Reed, " of inti- 
 mating, in the most remote degree, that m this remark- 
 able train of thought Mr. Babbage was under obliga- 
 tions to Chaucer. The passage has an air of absolute 
 originality ; and, besides, the writer of it is too strong- 
 minded and manly to allow such obligations, if they 
 existed, to pass unacknowledged. I have no sympathy 
 with the spirit which delights in detecting plagiarisms 
 in the casual and innocent coincidences which every 
 student knows are frequently occurring. That there 
 
HEKRY REED. 263 
 
 is such a coincidence worthy of notice, will be seen in 
 these lines in ' The House of Fame :' 
 
 * Sound is nought but air that's broken, 
 And every speeche that is spoken, 
 Whe'er loud or low, foul or fair. 
 In his substance is but air : 
 For as flame is but lighted smoke. 
 Eight so is sound but air that's broke ; 
 Eke when that men harpstrings smite. 
 Whether that be much or lite, — 
 Lo ! with the stroke the air it breaketh ; 
 Thus wot'st thou well what thing is speeche. 
 Now henceforth I will thee teach 
 However each speeche, voice or soun'. 
 Through his multiplicacion. 
 Though it were pijxid of a mouse. 
 Must needs come to Fame's House. 
 I prove it thus : taketh heed now 
 By experience, for if that thou 
 Throw in a water now a stone 
 Well wot'st thou it will make anon 
 A little rounded as a circle. 
 Par venture as broad as a coreicle, 
 And right anon thou shalt see well 
 That circle cause another wheel. 
 And that the third, and so forth, bother, 
 Every circle causing other. 
 Much broader than himselfen was, — 
 Right so of air, my live brother, 
 Ever each air another stirreth, 
 More and more and speech up beareth 
 Till it be at the ' House of Fame.' " 
 
 It SO happened that, on his English pilgrimage, in 
 1854, Mr. Eeed made the personal acquaintance of Sir 
 Charles Babbage, and in a letter to a friend at home 
 
264 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 he thus describes the use he happened to be able to 
 make of this recollection : 
 
 "I told him that I had once in a lecture quoted 
 from his Bridgewater Treatise, that startling passage 
 about the perpetuity of sound — and that some of my 
 audience used to say that it almost made them afraid 
 for some days to speak, from the dread that the sounds 
 were to last and mayhap come back to them in the 
 hereafter ; on telling him 1 had cited the passage in a 
 literary connection — a curious parallelism with a 
 description in Chaucer, he expressed a good deal of 
 surprise and asked me to refer him to it; this led on 
 to some brilliant talking on his part : he said he had 
 been asked why he had not used light as an illustra- 
 tion of the subject as well as sound — that he had not 
 done so, because it would serve the purpose less effect- 
 ively for the general reader : he told me that there was 
 a little work so generally attributed to him that it 
 might be asked for at the publisher's as Mr. Babbage's 
 religious pamphlet on light, etc., — he spoke well of it, 
 but did not appear to know the writer — (are you 
 acquainted with it?) He told me that Sir John Her- 
 schel mentioned to him that Sir William Hamilton 
 one day, as they were walking together, said — ' "Would 
 you not like to see some great battle of ancient times 
 — say Marathon or Actium ?' 'Yes, but how is it to be 
 done?' 'Well, if one could travel away from the 
 earth with a velocity exceeding that of light, he would 
 at last be able to look back on the waves of light first 
 set in motion by the battle and so get a good sight of it.' " 
 
 It was in this letter that there is a reference of some 
 interest, not to the Byron ' scandal,' which was only 
 
HENRY REED. 265 
 
 to be breathed into female ears, and to be repeated by 
 a woman's tongue, but to the sorrows of the Byron 
 family : 
 
 "After he got up to go, by some chance of conver- 
 sation the late Lady Lovelace's name (Lord Byron's 
 daughter 'Ada') was mentioned; he knew her inti- 
 mately, and spoke highly of her mathematical powers, 
 and of her peculiar capability — higher, he said, than 
 of any one he knew — to prepare (I believe it was) the 
 descriptions connected with his calculating machine 
 (I fear I am not expressing myself rightly here as to 
 the precise nature of the subject he mentioned). He 
 described her as utterly unimaginative, but it was the 
 recollection of her miserable life — he spoke of it as a 
 tragedy — that seemed to sadden him for the while, as 
 he recurred to it, speaking in a lower tone of toice 
 and with a manner so subdued that as I stood listen- 
 ing to him, I could scarce believe he was the same 
 nervously-mannered gentleman who had entered the 
 room an hour before; there was so much feeling in 
 both his words and manner that I did not feel at 
 liberty to question him as to the precise nature of the 
 unhappiuess of the life he was speaking of and its 
 tragic termination — he used some phrase of that kind, 
 which led us to think of its having ended with suicide 
 — though I believe this was not the fact. I gathered 
 that 'Ada' had a good deal of the Byron devil in her, 
 and that having made an uncongenial match with 
 Lord Lovelace, she cordially disliked him, and that 
 she had also no better feeling for her own mother. It 
 seems to have been a case of triple antipathy between 
 the wife, and husband, and mother." 
 
 12 
 
266 AMONG MT BOOKS. 
 
 The subjects of Professor Reed's Lectures are : Eng- 
 lish Literature arranged according to centuries and 
 subjects ; English Poetry, being a serial criticism upon 
 the principal poets from Chaucer to Tennyson ; Eng- 
 lish History, as illustrated by poetry in the plays of 
 Shakespeare, from legendary Lear to Henry VIII. — 
 from Cordelia to Anne Boleyn. The complete series, 
 regarding it as one work, and such it really is, has 
 but one aim — the purpose and power of the imagina- 
 tion as a teacher of historic, poetic, and religious 
 truth. These lectures were Avritten in what may be 
 termed a transition state of public taste. Mr. Eeed 
 was old enough to have lived tlirough that season in 
 which the school of Byron and Shelley was in the 
 ascendant, and he began to teach and write at a 
 moment when a purer, and, to him, more congenial 
 mfinence was beginning to be felt. His poetic idol, 
 strictly speaking, was Wordsworth ; and even without 
 sharing in all his enthusiasm on this head, one can 
 easily understand how the shrine was erected and how 
 the worship began. He had faith in Wordsworth and 
 his school, because he thought that, with their advent, 
 there came a spirit, not of tumultuous passion, but of 
 earnestness, and pure and high poetic philosophy. For 
 a long period (it was so in my boyhood) poetry had 
 been regarded as perhaps the most harmless indul- 
 gence of the young and idle and sentimental, to be 
 copied into albums, to be pasted into scrap-books, to 
 be sung, to be recited, to be quoted, to be anything 
 but studied. Mr. Reed's theory (rather an exclusive 
 one, but still his) was, that in the expression of the 
 highest poetical excellence there was a long void from 
 
EENRT REED. 267 
 
 Milton to Wordsworth — from 'Paradise Lost' to the 
 'Excursion.' He thought that from Charles 11. and 
 his revellers, John Dryden leading them — through 
 the reign of Queen Anne, with Pope (to whom he 
 hardly did justice as an artist) and Swift and Parnell 
 — and the Hanoverian reigns, down to the end of 
 George III.'s, there was no high, earnest, imaginative 
 power; but that frivolity and sentimentalism in poetic 
 art naturally brooded on the cold pool of infidelity 
 beneath — that it was the long reign of false gods, and 
 that Wordsworth and his reforming, earnest followers 
 were the Iconoclasts who were to break down the 
 images. Mr. Keed, thinking that in his day he had 
 seen this victory of the pure over the impure, the good 
 over the bad, the genuine over the spurious, began, in 
 the glow of theoretic enthusiasm, to teach and expound 
 his views of the power and purpose of the imagination. 
 On these high principles of criticism Professor Reed 
 taught, and he taught with an earnestness of tone 
 that no one can easily resist. 
 
 Among these books, if called on to select the 
 one which is most original and attractive, I should 
 choose the Lectures on English History from the dim 
 period of legendary story down to the Reformation — 
 from King Lear to Henry VIIL, — all illustrated by 
 Shakespeare. So far as I know, this use of the great 
 dramatist is purely original, though I have a grave 
 suspicion that if the truth were honestly confessed, 
 more have studied English history in Shakespeare 
 than anywhere else. The idea was the realization of 
 the Baconian apothegm : '^Dramatica est veluti speda- 
 lilis : nam consiituit imaginem veram tanquam pre- 
 
268 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 sentium: Historia, mUem, tanquam prmieritarumP 
 This, he says, was the text of these lectures; and, as 
 it seems to me, — a partial judge, — beautifully is it 
 evolved and illustrated. 
 
 And strange as it may at first sight seem, the most ' 
 attractive and thoughtful of the course are the two 
 lectures where he had fewest authentic facts to deal 
 with, and which treat of individuals purely fictitious, 
 and of times on which the darkest cloud of mystery 
 rests — the legendary Britain of Lear and the Eoman 
 period of Cymbeline. In the first, is an appeal for the 
 fatherland, as against what may be termed the Latin- 
 Mediterranean monopoly, which anticipates Tennyson. 
 The passages are too long to quote, and (to my mind) 
 too perfect to be mutilated; but if he or she who 
 kindly reads these words of comment will take the 
 trouble to look at the text, what is said in praise will 
 not be found fault with. So with the Cymbeline lec- 
 ture, — though here the materials are more abundant; 
 it is a noble sketch of the incipient struggle between 
 the South and North — the Latin and the Teuton — 
 from the time when, as Arnold somewhere says, "The 
 Koman colonies on the banks of the Rhine and the 
 Danube looked out on the country beyond those 
 rivers as we look up to the stars and see with our 
 eyes worlds of which we know nothing," down to the 
 dark days when the conflict began, and Rome was 
 worsted — from Marius and the Cimbri through all the 
 alternations of the Augustan period, down to the hour 
 when 'Northern barbarians sought the plunder of the 
 temple of Apollo,' and 'many a gallant Goth lay 
 buried beneath the rocks of Delphi.' 
 
HENRT REED. 269 
 
 Among the Augustan annals there is no sadder or 
 more dramatic page — and Mr. Keed so regards it — 
 than the moaning of the Emperor, in the palace of the 
 Caesars, for his lost Varian legions. It is not a whine 
 from Wilhelmshohe, but a truly imperial wail. "Per 
 contmuos meiif^es, harhd capillo que suhrnisso, caput in- 
 terdum foribus illideret, vociferans 'Quiniili Vare, 
 legiones redde !' " And then how grandly solemn was 
 the scene when, years after, "amid the silence and 
 gloom of the Forest of Teutoberg, Germanicus and his 
 army discovered the rusting fragments of Eoman wea- 
 pons and the bleaching bones of the slaughtered sol- 
 diers of Varus." And here it is that memory suggests 
 a parallelism in our own homely story, to which I 
 refer with entire confidence as to the fact, but some 
 hesitation as to details, for the authority on Avhich I 
 give it has escaped my memory. When, years after 
 the defeat of Braddock's army in the forests of the 
 Monongahela, a victorious British army advanced on 
 Fort Duquesne by the same route, they came, as did 
 the soldiers of Drusus, to the scene of sorrow, and 
 there they found and recognized the unburied bones 
 of their countrymen. It was actual recognition, too, for 
 the body of a dead brother, bearing a soldierly name 
 (from the days of Braddock to Wellington), Major 
 Halket was recognized (the anti-climax is more ap-. 
 parent than real) by the gold filling of a tooth. 
 
 Let not the reader imagine for one moment that 
 sombre or undue gravity characterizes Mr. Reed's 
 literary works. He was in all respects genial, and 
 with a rare and refined sense of humour which is con- 
 stantly revealing itself. This is very marked through- 
 
370 AMONG MY BOOKS. 
 
 out the Lecture on the ' Literature of Wit and Hu- 
 mour,' in the First Course — to one manifestation of 
 which, of some local interest, I venture in conclusion 
 to refer. " The most remarkable instance of obtuse- 
 ness to light letters that I ever met with occurred in 
 anotlier region. Goeller, a German editor of Thucy- 
 dides, in annotating a passage of the Greek historian, 
 describing the violence of the Athenian factions, gives 
 two modern illustrations : one of the Guelf and Ghibe- 
 line parties m Italy; the other — citing Washington 
 Irving and his book very gravely in Latin — the fac- 
 tions of the long pipes and short pipes in New York, 
 under the administration of Peter Stuyvesant. Im- 
 agine the erudite and ponderous German poring over 
 Knickerbocker as seriously as over Guicciardini !" 
 This instance of simplicity has a droll effect in the 
 original, printed at Leipsic in 1836: " Addo locum 
 Wtishingtonis Irvingii, Hist. Novi Ehoraci., lib. vii. 
 cap. V." 
 
 The enthusiasm — venial I hope — as to these charm- 
 ing books, almost lost sight of in the vast alluvies of 
 print that is rushing by us, I can hardly hope to im- 
 part to others; but I cannot better close these ram- 
 bling notes — too much prolonged, but most indul- 
 gently tolerated — than by this tribute to one so dearly 
 loved, so sincerely mourned. 
 
 And now, readers, who have been my kind com- 
 panions for more than a year — Farewell ! The familiar 
 books are long ago scattered, and nothing is left but 
 their fast-fading memories. 
 
 1 
 

 
 
 
 
 
 
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