■ ill it?8sif^$$ qass-^/rV ESSAYS AND SKETCHES BY LEIGH HUNT All rights reserved ~c lK.ersca.rrkt. Handel, Corcll i. a>n,cl Mozart The (bss&ys of ^ LEIGH HUNT 4 ' OS PREFACE In making this selection from the essays of Leigh Hunt, my aim has partly been to provide a companion volume to the volume of essays which I edited in 1887 for the Scott Library. I have therefore avoided using more than a very few of the essays which I had previously chosen, and I have used these because they seemed specially suitable for a book which is to be illustrated. Here, the illustrator will be seen collaborating with Leigh Hunt in his endeavour to bring vividly before us those aspects of streets, and shops, and theatres, and manners, which change from generation to generation, gaining, from generation to generation, something of the additional interest of things which already belong to the past. The triviality of yesterday becomes, to the reader of to-day, a part of history. In my selection of 1887 I permitted myself to edit Leigh Hunt with a severity which seems to me now to have been a little excessive. Most of Leigh Hunt's work was written hastily, for publication week by week ; and the consequences of that haste, and of that mode of publica- tion, are visible on every page. With all the instincts of a man of letters, Leigh Hunt was condemned to be, for the most part, a journalist of genius. Everything that he has left is a little unsatisfactory ; we must grope hither and thither, among crowding quotations and ragged references, for those evidences of " graceful fertility, of clearness, vi PREFACE lovingness, truthfulness, of childlike, open character," which Carlyle divined in the man, and which stamped him, before those exacting eyes, "a man of genius, in a very strict sense of that word, and in all senses which it bears or implies." It seemed to me, when I was making my first selection, that it would be doing a service to Leigh Hunt if I pruned away some of the excrescences which de- formed so much of his work. To-day I am inclined to think that it is best, under all circumstances, to leave things as they were written. Every man may then be his own critic, but the writer speaks for himself. In turning over the old volumes of Once a Week, some years ago, I came upon a poem of Mr George Meredith in the number for December 31, 1859. It was accompanied by a delicate and vigorous woodcut of Millais, who, I be- lieve, afterwards developed the sketch into a painting. The poem has never been reprinted, and as it tells in verse the story which Leigh Hunt told in prose in " The Mountain of the Two Lovers," it may be quoted here by way of commentary. THE CROWN OF LOVE. " O might I load my arms with thee, Like that young lover of Romance, Who loved and gain'd so gloriously The fair Princess of France ! Because he dared to love so high, He, bearing her dear weight, must speed To where the mountain touch'd the sky : So the proud King decreed. Unhalting he must bear her on, Nor pause a space to gather breath, PREFACE vii And on the height she would be won ; — And she was won in death ! Red the far summit flames with morn, While in the plain a glistening Court Surrounds the King who practised scorn Thro' such a mask of sport. She leans into his arms ; she lets Her lovely shape be clasp'd : he fares. God speed him whole ! The knights make bets : The ladies lift soft prayers. have you seen the deer at chase? O have you seen the wounded kite ? So boundingly he runs his race, So wavering grows his flight. ' My lover ! linger here, and slake Thy thirst, or me thou wilt not win.' 1 See'st thou the tumbled heavens ? they break ! They beckon us up, and in.' ' Ah, hero-love ! unloose thy hold : O drop me like a cursed thing.' ' See'st thou the crowded swards of gold ? They wave to us Rose and Ring.' ' O death-white mouth ! O cast me down ! Thou diest ? Then with thee I die.' ' See'st thou the angels with a Crown ? We twain have reach'd the sky.' " The greater part of the essays which follow are taken from The Indicator, The Companion and The Seer ; some from The Wishing- Cap Papers, a collection of essays from various magazines, made in America in 1872, and containing some emendations made by Leigh Hunt on his own copies of The Tatler and The Literary Examiner. . One is taken from Men, Women and Books (1849), and five are from the very viii PREFACE curious and interesting early volume of dramatic criticisms : Critical Essays on the London Theatres ( 1807). The essays from The Indicator, The Companion and The Seer are re- printed in most cases from the latest editions published dur- ing the lifetime of Leigh Hunt ; two, however, which he never reprinted, are taken from the original edition .of The Indicator (1819-21). ARTHUR SYMONS. C O NX ENTS PAGE A Flower for your Window I A Dusty Day ..... 8 The East Wind ..... H Autumnal Commencement of Fires 20 Country Little Known .... 24 Far Countries ..... 27 The Old Gentleman .... 33 The Old Lady ..... 4i A Walk from Dulwich to Brockham 45 Sunday in the Suburbs .... 77 Advice to the Melancholy 83 Of the Sight of Shops . . . . . 87 A Nearer View of some of the Shops 96 Coffee-houses and Smoking 105 On Washerwomen ..... 116 xii LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Headpiece to Sunday in the Suburbs . Headpiece to Advice to the Melancholy Headpiece to Of the Sight of Shops . Tailpiece to Of the Sight of Shops " With an easy and endless exactitude of toe " Headpiece to Coffee-Houses and Smoking " Impatient waiting for the newspaper" Headpiece to On Washerwomen Headpiece to The Butcher " Walks through an endless round of noise" Headpiece to Fine Days in January and February Headpiece to Bad Weather Headpiece to Rainy-Day Poetry Headpiece to English and French Females . "They ran up to her and stood looking and talking" Headpiece to Poets' Houses .... Headpiece to On Receiving a Sprig of Laurel from Vaucluse " While they renew their addresses under the boughs" Headpiece to On Death and Burial Headpiece to May-Day Headpiece to Coaches " Imparting his knowledge" " An emblem of all the patience in creation " Headpiece to Going to the Play Again Headpiece to Madame Pasta . "Asa lover" .... LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS Headpiece to Mr Kemble Headpiece to Mrs Siddons Headpiece to Mr Munden Headpiece to Mr Mathews Headpiece to On the Talking of Nonsense Headpiece to Bookbinding and " Heliodorus " Headpiece to A Treatise on Devils " Came up when he was called by art" Headpiece to The Mountain of the Two Lovers " I think of an English field " Headpiece to Twelfth Night . PAGE 265 277 282 286 *93 3OO 309 .3*5 347 355 359 NAMES OF FLOWERS. MYSTERY OF THEIR BEAUTY. In the window beside which we are writing this article, there is a geranium shining with its scarlet tops in the sun, the red of it being the more red for a background of lime- trees which are at the same time breathing and panting like airy plenitudes of joy, and developing their shifting depths of light and shade of russet brown and sunny inward gold. It seems to say, " Paint me!" So here it is. Every now and then some anxious fly comes near it : — we hear the sound of a bee, though we see none ; and upon looking closer at the flowers, we observe that some of the petals are transparent with the light, while others are left in shade; the leaves are equally adorned after their opaquer fashion, with those effects of the sky, showing their dark- brown rims ; and on one of them a red petal has fallen, where it lies on the brighter half of the shallow green cup, making its own red redder, and the green greener. We perceive, in imagination, the scent of those good-natured leaves, which allow you to carry off their perfume on your fingers ; for good-natured they are, in that respect above 2 A FLOWER FOR YOUR WINDOW almost all plants, and fittest for the hospitalities of your rooms. The very feel of the leaf has a household warmth in it something analogous to clothing and comfort. Why does not everybody (who can afford it) have a geranium in his window, or some other flower ? It is very cheap ; its cheapness is next to nothing if you raise it from seed, or from a slip ; and it is a beauty and a companion. It sweetens the air, rejoices the eye, links you with nature and innocence, and is something to love. And if it cannot love you in return, it cannot hate you ; it cannot utter a hateful thing, even for your neglecting it ; for though it is all beauty, it has no vanity : and such being the case, and living as it does purely to do you good and afford you pleasure, how will you be able to neglect it ? But pray, if you choose a geranium, or possess but a few of them, let us persuade you to choose the scarlet kind, the " old original " geranium, and not a variety of it, — not one of the numerous diversities of red and white, blue and white, ivy-leaved, &c. Those are all beautiful, and very fit to vary a large collection ; but to prefer them to the originals of the race is to run the hazard of preferring the curious to the beautiful, and costliness to sound taste. It may be taken as a good general rule, that the most popular plants are the best ; for otherwise they would not have become such. And what the painters call " pure colours," are preferable to mixed ones, for reasons which Nature herself has given when she painted the sky of one colour, and the fields of another, and divided the rainbow itself into a few distinct hues, and made the red rose the queen of flowers. Variations of flowers are like variations in music, often beautiful as such, but almost always inferior to the theme on which they are founded, — the original air. And the rule holds good in beds of flowers, if they be not very large, or in any other small assemblage of them. Nay, the largest bed will look well, if of one beautiful colour ; A FLOWER FOR YOUR WINDOW 3 while the most beautiful varieties may be inharmoniously mixed up. Contrast is a good thing, but we should first get a good sense of the thing to be contrasted, and we shall find this preferable to the contrast if we are not rich enough to have both in due measure. We do not in general love and honour any one single colour enough, and we are instinctively struck with a conviction to this effect when we see it abundantly set forth. The other day we saw a little garden-wall completely covered with nasturtiums, and felt how much more beautiful it was than if anything had been mixed with it. For the leaves, and the light and shade, offer variety enough. The rest is all richness and sim- plicity united, — which is the triumph of an intense percep- tion. Embower a cottage thickly and completely with nothing but roses, and nobody would desire the interference of another plant. Everything is handsome about the geranium, not except- ing its nnme ; which cannot be said of all flowers, though we get to love ugly words when associated with pleasing ideas. The word " geranium " is soft and elegant ; the meaning is poor, for it comes from a Greek word signify- ing a crane, the fruit having a form resembling that of a crane's head or bill. Crane's-bill is the English name of Geranium ; though the learned appellation has superseded the vernacular. But what a reason for naming the flower ! as if the fruit were anything in comparison, or any one cared about it. Such distinctions, it is true, are useful to botanists ; but as plenty of learned names are sure to be reserved for the freemasonry of the science, it would be better for the world at large to invent joyous and beautiful names for these images of joy and beauty. In some in- stances, we have them ; such as heart's-ease, honeysuckle, marigold, mignonette (little darling), daisy (day's-eye), etc. And many flowers are so lovely, and have associated names otherwise unmeaning so pleasantly with one's 4 A FLOWER FOR YOUR WINDOW memory, that no new ones would sound so well, or seem even to have such proper significations. In pronouncing the words, lilies, roses, pinks, tulips, jonquils, we see the things themselves, and seem to taste all their beauty and sweetness. " Pink," is a harsh petty word in itself, and yet assuredly it does not seem so ; for in the word we have the flower. It would be difficult to persuade our- selves that the word rose is not very beautiful. " Pea " is a poor Chinese-like monosyllable, and "Briar" is rough and fierce, as it ought to be ; but when we think of Sweet- pea and Sweet-briar, the words appear quite worthy of their epithets. The poor monosyllable becomes rich in sweet- ness and appropriation ; the rough dissyllable also ; and the sweeter for its contrast. But what can be said in behalf of liver-wort, blood-wort, dragon's head, devil's bit, and devil in a bush ? There was a charming line in some verses in last week's London Journal, written by a lady. I've marr'd your blisses, Those sweete kisses That the young breeze so loved yesterdaye ! I've seen ye sighing, Now ye're dying ; — Hoiv could I take your prettie lives atvay ? But you could not say this to dragon's head and devil's bit— O dragon's head, devil's bit, blood-wort, — say, How could I take your pretty lives away? This would be like Dryden's version of the pig-squeak- ing in Chaucer — " Poor swine! as if their pretty hearts would break." The names of flowers in general among the polite, are neither pretty in themselves, nor give us information. The country people are apt to do them more justice. Goldy- locks, ladies'-fingers, bright-eye, rose-a-rubie, shepherd's- A FLOWER FOR YOUR WINDOW 5 clock, shepherd' s-purse, sauce-alone, scarlet runners, sops- in-wine, sweet-william, etc., give us some ideas either use- ful or pleasant. But from the peasantry also come many uncongenial names, as bad as those of the botanists. Some of the latter are handsome as well as learned, have mean- ings easily found out by a little reading or scholarship, and are taking their place accordingly in popular nomenclatures : as amaranth, adonis, arbutus, asphodel, etc., but many others are as ugly as they are far-fetched, such as colchicum, tagetes, yucca, ixia, mesembryanthemum ; and as to the Adansonias, Browallias, Koempferias, John Tomkinsias, or whatever the personal names may be that are bestowed at the botanical font by their proud discoverers or godfathers, we have a respect for botanists and their pursuits, and wish them all sorts of " little immortalities " except these : unless they could unite them with something illustrative of the flower as well as themselves. A few, certainly, we should not like to displace, Browallia for one, which was given to a Peruvian flower by Linnasus, in honour of a friend of his of the name of Browall ; but the name should have included some idea of the thing named. The Browallia is remarkable for its brilliancy. " We cannot," says Mr Curtis, " do it justice by any colours we have." ] Now why not have called it Browall's Beauty, or Browall's Inimitable ? The other day we were admiring an enormously beautiful apple, and were told it was called " Kirk's Admirable" after the gardener who raised it. We felt the propriety of this name directly. It was altogether to the purpose. There was use and beauty together — the name of the raiser and the excellence of the fruit raised. It is a pity that all fruits and flowers, and animals too, except those with good names, could not be 1 We learn this from the Flora Domestica, an elegant and poetry- loving book, specially intended for cultivators of flowers at home. 6 A FLOWER FOR YOUR WINDOW passed in review before somebody with a genius for christening, as the creatures did before Adam in Paradise, and so have new names given them, worthy of their creation. Suppose flowers themselves were new ! Suppose they had just come into the world, a sweet reward for some new goodness : and that we had not yet seen them quite developed ; that they were in the act of growing ; had just issued with their green stalks out of the ground, and engaged the attention of the curious. Imagine what we should feel when we saw the first lateral stem bearing off from the main one, or putting forth a leaf. How we should watch the leaf gradually unfolding its little graceful hand ; then another, then another ; then the main stalk rising and producing more ; then one of them giving indications of an astonishing novelty, a bud ! then this mysterious, lovely bud gradually unfolding like the leaf, amazing us, enchanting us, almost alarming us with delight, as if we knew not what enchantment were to ensue : till at length, in all its fairy beauty, and odorous voluptuousness, and mysterious elaboration of tender and living sculpture, shone forth " the bright consummate flower ! " Yet this phenomenon, to a mind of any thought and lovingness, is what may be said to take place every day ; for the commonest objects are only wonders at which habit has made us cease to wonder, and the marvellousness of which we may renew at pleasure, by taking thought. Last spring, walking near some cultivated grounds, and seeing a multi- tude of green stalks peeping forth, we amused ourselves with likening them to the plumes or other headgear of fairies, and wondering what faces might ensue ; and from this exercise of the fancy, we fell to considering how true, and not merely fanciful, those speculations were ; what a A FLOWER FOR YOUR WINDOW 7 perpetual reproduction of the marvellous was carried on by Nature ; how utterly ignorant we were of the causes of the least and most disesteemed of the commonest vegetables ; and what a quantity of life, and beauty, and mystery, and use, and enjoyment, was to be found in them, composed out of all sorts of elements, and shaped as if by the hands of fairies. What workmanship, with no apparent workman ! What consummate elegance, though the result was to be nothing (as we call it) but a radish or an onion, and these were to be consumed, or thrown away by millions ! A rough tree grows up, and at the tips of his rugged and dark fingers he puts forth, — round, smooth, shining, and hanging delicately, — the golden apple, or the cheek-like beauty of the peach. The other day we were in a garden where Indian corn was growing, and some of the cobs were plucked to show us. First one leaf or sheaf was picked off, then another, then another, then a fourth, and so on, as if a fruitseller was unpacking fruit out of papers ; and at last we came, inside, to the grains of the corn, packed up into cucumber-shapes of pale gold, and each of them pressed and flattened against each other, as if some human hand had been doing it in the caverns of the earth. But What Hand ! The same that made the poor yet rich hand (for is it not his workmanship also?) that is tracing these marvelting lines, and which if it does not tremble to write them, it is because Love sustains, and because the heart also is a flower which has a right to be tranquil in the garden of the All- Wise. A. DUSTY DAY Among the " Miseries of Human Life," as a wit pleasantly entitled them, there are few, while the rascal is about it, worse than a Great Cloud of Dust, coming upon you in street or road, you having no means of escape, and the carriages, or flock of sheep, evidently being bent on impart- ing to you a full share of their besetting horror. The road is too narrow to leave you a choice, even if it had two path- ways, which it has not : — the day is hot ; the wind is whisking ; you have come out in stockings instead of boots, not being aware that you were occasionally to have two feet depth of dust to walk in : — now, now the dust is on you, — you are enveloped, — you are blind ; you have to hold your hat on against the wind : the carriages grind by, or the sheep go pattering along, baaing through all the notes of their poor gamut ; perhaps carriages and sheep are to- gether, the latter eschewing the horses' legs, and the shepherd's dog driving against your own, and careering over the woolly backs : — Whew ! What a dusting ! What a blinding ! What a whirl ! The noise decreases ; you A DUSTY DAY 9 stop ; you look about you ; gathering up your hat, coat, and faculties, after apologising to the gentleman against whom you have "lumped," and who does not look a bit the happier for your apology. The dust is in your eyes, in your hair, in your shoes and stockings, in your neck-cloth, in your mouth. You grind your teeth in dismay, and find them gritty. Perhaps another carriage is coming ; and you, finding yourself in the middle of the road, and being resolved to be master of, at least, this inferior horror, turn about towards the wall or paling, and propose to make your way accord- ingly, and have the dust behind your back instead of in front ; when lo ! you begin sneezing, and cannot see. You have taken involuntary snuff. Or you suddenly discern a street, down which you can turn, which you do with rapture, thinking to get out of wind and dust at once ; when, unfortunately, you discover that the wind is veering to all points of the compass, and that, instead of avoiding the dust, there is a ready-made and intense collection of it, then in the act of being swept into your eyes by the attendants on a dust-cart ! The reader knows what sort of a day we speak of. It is all dusty ; — the windows are dusty ; the people are dusty ; the hedges in the roads are horribly dusty, — pitiably, — you think they must feel it ; shoes and boots are like a baker's : men on horseback eat and drink dust ; coachmen sit screwing up their eyes ; the gardener finds his spade slip into the ground, fetching up smooth portions of earth, all made of dust. What is the poor pedestrian to do? To think of something superior to the dust, — whether grave or gay. This is the secret of being master of any ordinary, and of much extraordinary trouble : — bring a better idea upon it, and it is hard if the greater thought does not do something against the less. When we meet with any very unpleasant person, to whose ways we cannot to A DUSTY DAY suddenly reconcile ourselves, we think of some delightful friend, perhaps two hundred miles off, — in Northumber- land, or in Wales. When dust threatens to blind us, we shut our eyes to the disaster, and contrive to philosophise a bit even then. " Oh, but it is not worth while doing that." Good. If so, there is nothing to do but to be as jovial as the dust itself, and take all gaily. Indeed, this is the philosophy we speak of. " And yet the dust is annoying too. ,, Well — take then just as much good sense as you require for the occasion. Think of a jest ; think of a bit of verse ; think of the dog you saw just now, coming out of the pond, and frightening the dandy in his new trousers. But at all events don't let your temper be mastered by such a thing as a cloud of dust. It will show, either that you have a very infirm temper indeed, or no ideas in your head. On all occasions in life, great or small, you may be the worse for them, or the better. You may be made the weaker or the stronger by them ; ay, even by so small a thing as a little dust. When the famous Arbuthnot was getting into his carriage one day, he was beset with dust. What did he do ? Damn the dust or the coachman ? No ; that was not his fashion. He was a wit, and a good-natured man ; so he fell to making an epigram, which he sent to his friends. It was founded on scientific knowledge, and consisted of the fol- lowing pleasant exaggeration : — ON A DUbTY DAY. The dust in smaller particles arose, Than those which fluid bodies do compose. Contraries in extremes do often meet ; It ivas so dry that you might call it ivet. Dust at a distance sometimes takes a burnished or tawny aspect in the sun, almost as handsome as the great yellow A DUSTY DAY n smoke out of breweries ; and you may amuse your fancy with thinking of the clouds that precede armies in the old books of poetry, — the spears gleaming out, — the noise of the throng growing on the ear, — and, at length, horses emerging, and helmets and flags, — the Lion of King Richard, or the Lilies of France. Or you may think of some better and more harmless palm of victory, "not without dust" {paima non sine pufoere) ; dust, such as Horace says the horsemen of antiquity liked to kick up at the Olympic games, or as he more elegantly phrases it, " collect " (collegisse juvat ; — which a punster of our acquaintance translated, " kicking up a dust at college") ; or if you are in a very philosophic vein indeed, you may think of man's derivation from dust, and his return to it, redeeming your thoughts from gloom by the hopes beyond dust, and by the graces which poetry and the affections have shed upon it in this life, like flowers upon graves, — lamenting with the tender Petrarch, that " those eyes of which he spoke so warmly," and that golden hair, and " the lightning of that angel smile," and all those other beauties which made him a lover " marked out from among men" — a being abstracted "from the rest of his species," are now " a little dust, without a feeling "— " Poca polvere son che nulla sente " — or repeating that beautiful lyric of the last of the Shak- spearian men, Shirley, which they say touched even the thoughtless bosom of Charles the Second : — death's final conquest. The glories of our birth and 6tate Are shadows, not substantial things : There is no armour against fate ; Death lays his icy hand on kings ; iz A DUSTY DAY Sceptre and crown Must tumble down, And in the dust be equal made With the poor crooked scythe and spade. Some men with swords may reap the field And plant fresh laurels where they kill : But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still. Early or late They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they ', pale captives, creep to death. The garlands wither on your brow, Then boast no more your mighty deeds ; Upon death's purple altar now See where the victor-victim bleeds : All heads must come To the cold tomb : Only the actions of the just Smell siveet, and blossom in the dust. Most true; but with the leave of the fine poet (which he would gladly have conceded to us), Death's conquest is not " final " ; for Heaven triumphs over him, and Love too, and Poetry ; and thus we can get through the cloud even of his dust, and shake it, in aspiration, from our wings. Besides, we know not, with any exactitude, what or who Death is, or whether there is any such personage, even in his negative sense, except inasmuch as he is a gentle voice, calling upon us to go some journey ; for the very dust that he is supposed to deal in is alive ; is the cradle of other beings and vegetation ; nay, its least particle belongs to a mighty life ; — is planetary, — is part of our star, — is the stuff of which the worlds are made, that roll and rejoice round the sun. Of these or the like reflections, serious or otherwise, are the cogitations of the true pedestrian composed ; — such A DUSTY DAY ! 3 are the weapons with which he triumphs over the most hostile of his clouds, whether material or metaphorical ; and, at the end of his dusty walk, he beholdeth, in beautiful perspective, the towel, and the basin and water, with which he will render his eyes, cheeks and faculties, as cool and fresh, as if no dust had touched them ; nay, more so, for the contrast. Never forget that secret of the reconcilements of this life. To sit down, newly washed and dressed, after a dusty journey, and hear that dinner is to be ready "in ten minutes," is a satisfaction — a crown- ing and measureless content " — which we hope no one will enjoy who does not allow fair play between the harm- less lights and shadows of existence, and treat his dust with respect. We defy him to enjoy it, at any rate, like those who do. His ill-temper, somehow or other, will rise in retribution against him, and find dust on his saddle of mutton. THE EAST-WIND Did anybody ever hear of the East- Wind when he was a boy ? We remember no such thing. We never heard a word about it, all the time we were at school. There was the schoolmaster with his ferula, but there was no East- Wind. Our elders might have talked about it, but such calamities of theirs are inaudible in the ears of the juvenile. A fine day was a fine day, let the wind be in what quarter it might. While writing this article, we hear everybody complaining, that the fine weather is polluted by the presence of the East- Wind. It has lasted so long as to force itself upon people's attention. The ladies confess their exasperation with it, for making free without being agreeable; and as ladies' quarrels are to be taken up, and there is no other way of grappling with this invisible enemy, we have put ourselves in a state of Editorial resentment, and have resolved to write an article against it. The winds are among the most mysterious of the opera- tions of the elements. We know not whence they come, or whither they go,— how they spring up, or how fall,— why they prevail so long, after such and such a fashion, in certain quarters ; nor, above all, why some of them should be at once so lasting and apparently so pernicious. We know some of their uses ; but there is a great deal about them we do not know, and it is difficult to put them to the question. As the sailor said of the ghosts, " we do not understand their tackle." What is very curious is, there seems to be one of them which prevails in some particular quarter, and has a character for malignity. In the South there is the THE EAST-WIND 15 Scirocco, an ugly customer, dark, close, suffocating, making melancholy ; which blots the sky, and dejects the spirits of the most lively. In the Oriental parts of the earth, there is the Tifoon, supposed by some to be the Typhon, or Evil Principle of the ancients ; and in Europe we have the East- Wind, whom the ancients reckoned among the Sons of Typhon. The winds, Mr Keightley tells us, were divided by the Greeks into wholesome and noxious ; the former of which, Boreas (North-Wind), Zephyrus (West- Wind), and Notus (South- Wind), were, according to Hesiod, the children of Astrasus (Starry) and Eos (Da^ our bompcrj- THE EAST-WIND 19 we cannot say. It suffices us to believe, that it is in its nature fugitive ; and that it is the nature of good, when good returns, to outlast it beyond all calculation. If we led the natural lives to which we hope and believe that the advance of knowledge and comfort will bring us round, we should feel the East- Wind as little as the gipsies do : it would be the same refreshment to us that it is to the glowing school- boy, after his exercise ; and as to nipping our fruits and flowers, some living creature makes a dish of them, if we do not. With these considerations, we should be well content to recognise the concordla discors that harmonises the inani- mate creation. If it were not for the East- Wind in this country, we should probably have too much wet. Our winters would not dry up ; our June fields would be im- passable : we should not be able to enjoy the West- Wind itself, the Zephyr with its lap full of flowers. And upon the supposition that there is no peril in the East-Wind that may not ultimately be nullified, we need not trouble our- selves with the question, why the danger of excessive moisture must be counteracted by a wind full of dryness. All the excesses of the elements will one day be pastime, for the healthy arms and discerning faculties of discovering man. And so we finish our vituperations in the way in which such things ought generally to be finished, with a discovery that the fault objected to is in ourselves, and renewed admiration of the abundance of promise in all the works of nature. AUTUMNAL COMMENCEMENT OF FIRES How pleasant it is to have fires again ! We have not time to regret summer, when the cold fogs begin to force us upon the necessity of a new kind of warmth ; — a warmth not so fine as sunshine, but, as manners go, more sociable. The English get together over their fires, as the Italians do in their summer-shade. We do not enjoy our sunshine as we ought ; our climate seems to render us almost un- aware that the weather is fine, when it really becomes so : but for the same reason, we make as much of our winter, as the anti-social habits that have grown upon us from other causes will allow. And for a similar reason, the southern European is unprepared for a cold day. The houses in many parts of Italy are summer-houses, unpre- pared for winter ; so that when a fit of cold weather comes, the dismayed inhabitant, walking and shivering about with AUTUMNAL FIRES 21 a little brazier in his hands, presents an awkward image of insufficiency and perplexity. A few of our fogs, shutting up the sight of everything out of doors, and making the trees and the eaves of the houses drip like rain, would ad- monish him to get warm in good earnest. If " the web of our life" is always to be " of a mingled yarn," a good warm hearth-rug is not the worst part of the manufacture. Here we are then again, with our fire before us, and our books on each side. What shall we do ? Shall we take out a Life of somebody, or a Theocritus, or Petrarch, or Ariosto, or Montaigne, or Marcus Aurelius, or Moliere, or Shakspeare, who includes them all ? Or shall we read an engraving from Poussin or Raphael ? £ Or shall we sit with tilted chairs, planting our wrists upon our knees, and toast- ing the up-turned palms of our hands, while we discourse of manners and of man's heart and hopes, with at least a sincerity, a good intention, and good - nature, that shall warrant what we say with the sincere, the good-intentioned, and the good-natured ? Ah — take care. You see what that old-looking saucer is, with a handle to it ? It is a venerable piece of earthen- ware, which may have been worth, to an Athenian, about twopence ; but to an author, is worth a great deal more than ever he could — deny for it. And yet he would deny it too. It will fetch his imagination more than ever it fetched potter or penny-maker. Its little shallow circle overflows for him with the milk and honey of a thousand pleasant associations. This is one of the uses of having mantel-pieces. You may often see on no very rich mantel- piece a representative body of all the elements physical and intellectual — a shell Tor the sea, a stuffed bird or some feathers for the air, a curious piece of mineral for the earth, a glass of water with some flowers in it for the visible pro- cess of creation, — a cast from sculpture for the mind of man ; — and underneath all, is the bright and ever-springing 11 AUTUMNAL FIRES fire, running up through them heavenwards, like hope through materiality. We like to have any little curiosity of the mantel-piece kind within our reach and inspection. For the same reason, we like a small study, where we are almost in contact with our books. We like to feel them about us ; — to be in the arms of our mistress Philosophy, rather than see her at a distance. To have a huge apart- ment for a study is like lying in the great bed at Ware, or being snug on a mile-stone upon Hounslow Heath. It is space and physical activity, not repose and concentration. It is fit only for grandeur and ostentation — for those who have secretaries, and are to be approached like gods in a temple. The Archbishop of Toledo, no doubt, wrote his homilies in a room ninety feet long. The Marquis Mari- alva must have been approached by Gil Bias through whole ranks of glittering authors, standing at due distance. But Ariosto, whose mind could fly out of its nest over all nature, wrote over the house he built, " parva, sed apta mihi" — small, but suited to me. However, it is to be ob- served, that he could not afford a larger. He was a Duodenarian, in that respect, like ourselves. We do not know how our ideas of a study might expand with our walls. Montaigne, who was Montaigne " of that ilk " and lord of a great chateau, had a study " sixteen paces in diameter, with three noble and free prospects." He con- gratulates himself, at the same time, on its circular figure, evidently from a feeling allied to the one in favour of small- ness. "The figure of my study," says he, " is round, and has no more flat (bare) wall, than what is taken up by my table and my chairs ; so that the remaining parts of the circle present me with a view of all my books at once, set upon five degrees of shelves round about me" (Cotton's Montaigne, bk. III. ch. iii.). A great prospect we hold to be a very disputable advan- tage, upon the same reasoning as before • but we like to AUTUMNAL FIRES 23 have some green boughs about our windows, and to fancy ourselves as much as possible in the country, when we are not there. Milton expressed a wish with regard to his study, extremely suitable to our present purpose. He would have the lamp in it seen ; thus letting others into a share of his enjoyments, by the imagination of them. I And let my lamp at midnight hour Be seen in some high lonely tower, Where I may oft outwatch the Bear With thrice-great Hermes ; or unsphere The Spirit of Plato, to unfold What world or what vast regions hold The immortal mind, that hath forsook Her mansion in this fleshly nook. There is a fine passionate burst of enthusiasm on the sub- ject of a study, in Fletcher's play of the Elder Brother, Act I. Scene ii. : — Sordid and dunghill minds, composed of earth, In that gross element fix all their happiness : But purer spirits, purged and refined, Shake off that clog of human frailty. Give me Leave to enjoy myself. That place, that does Contain my books, the best companions, is To me a glorious court, where hourly I Converse with the old sages and philosophers ; And sometimes for variety 1 confer With kings and emperors, and weigh their counsels ; Calling their victories, if unjustly got, Unto a strict account ; and in my fancy, Deface their ill-placed statues. Can I then Part with such constant pleasures, to embrace Uncertain vanities ? /No, be it your care To augment a heap of wealth : it shall be mine To increase in knowledge.. Lights there, for my study. COUNTRY LITTLE fCNCTWN We have to inform the public of a remarkable discovery, which, though partially disclosed by former travellers, has still remained, for the most part, a strange secret. It is this ; — that there is actually, at this present moment, and in this our own beautiful country of Great Britain, a large tract of territory, which to nine hundred and ninety-nine thousandths of our beloved countrymen is as much an undis- covered land as the other end of New South Wales, or the Pole which they have gone to find out. We have read of places in romance, which were more shut out by magic from people's eyes, though close to them, than if a fifty-foot wall encircled them. It would seem as if some such supernatural prohibition existed with regard to the land in question ; for COUNTRY LITTLE KNOWN 25 the extremities of it reach to within a short distance from the Metropolis, which it surrounds on all sides ; nay, we have heard of persons riding through it, without seeing any- thing but a sign-post or some corn ; and yet it is so beautiful, that it is called emphatically " The Country." It abounds in the finest natural productions. The more majestic parts of it are at a distance ; but the zealous explorer may come upon its gentler beauties in an incredibly short time. Its pastures and cattle are admirable. Deer are to be met with in the course of half a day's journey ; and the traveller is accompanied, wherever he goes, with the music of singing birds. Immediately towards the south is a noble river, which brings you to an upland of the most luxuriant description, looking in the water like a rich-haired beauty in her glass : yet the place is in general solitary. Towards the north, at a less distance, are some other hilly spots of ground, which partake more of the rudely romantic, running however into scenes of the like sylvan elegance ; and yet these are still more solitary. The inhabitants of these lands, called the Country-People, seem, in truth, pretty nearly as blind to their merits as those who never see them ; but their perceptions will doubtless increase, in pro- portion as their polished neighbours set the example. It should be said for them, that some causes, with which we have nothing to do in this place, have rendered them duller to such impressions than they appear to have been a century or two ago ; but we repeat, that they will not live in such scenes to no purpose, if those who know better, take an interest in their improvement. Their children have an instinct that is wiser, till domestic cares do it away. They may be seen in the fields and green lanes, with their curly locks and brown faces, gathering the flowers which abound there, and the names of which are as pretty as the shapes and colours. They are called wild roses, primroses, violets, the rose campion, germander, stellaria, wild anemone, bird's- 26 COUNTRY LITTLE KNOWN eye, daisies and buttercups, lady-smocks, ground-ivy, hare- bells or blue-bells, wake-robin, lilies of the valley, etc., etc. The trees are oaks, elms, birches, ash, poplar, willow, wild cherry, the flowering may bush, etc., etc., all, in short, that we dote upon in pictures, and wish that we had about us when it is hot in Cheapside and Bond Street. It is perfectly transport- ing in fine weather, like the present, for instance, to lounge under the hedgerow elms in one of these sylvan places, and see the light smoke of the cottages fuming up among the green trees, the cattle grazing or lying about with a heavy placidity accordant to the time and scene, " painted jays" glancing about the glens, the gentle hills sloping down into water, the winding embowered lanes, the leafy and flowery banks, the green oaks against the blue sky, their ivied trunks, the silver-bodied and young-haired birches, and the mossy grass treble-carpeted after the vernal rains. Trans- porting is it to see all this, and transporting to hear the linnets, thrushes, and blackbirds, the grave gladness of the bee, and the stock-dove "brooding over her own sweet voice." And more transporting than all is it to be in such places with a friend that feels like ourselves, in whose heart and eyes (especially if they have fair lids), we may see all our own happiness doubled, as the landscape itself is reflected in the waters. FAR COUNTRIES Imagination, though no mean thing, is not a proud one. If it looks down from its wings upon common-places, it only the more perceives the vastness of the region about it. The infinity into which its flight carries it might indeed throw back upon it a too great sense of insignificance, did not beauty or Moral Justice, with its equal eye, look through that blank aspect of power, and reassure it ; showing it that there is a power as much above power itself, as the thought that reaches to all, is to the hand that can touch only thus far. But we do not wish to get into this tempting region of speculation just now. We only intend to show the particular instance, in which imagination instinctively displays its natural humility : we mean, the fondness which imaginative times and people have shown for what is personally remote from them ; for what is opposed to their own individual con- sciousness, even in range of space, in farness of situation. 27 28 FAR COUNTRIES There is no surer mark of a vain people than their treating other nations with contempt, especially those of whom they know least. It is better to verify the proverb, and take everything unknown for magnificent, than pre- determine it to be worthless. The gain is greater. The instinct is more judicious. When we mention the French as an instance, we do not mean to be invidious. Most nations have their good as well as bad features. In Vanity Fair there are many booths. The French, not long ago, praised one of their neigh- bours so highly, that the latter is suspected to have lost as much modesty, as the former gained by it. But they did this as a set-off against their own despots and bigots. When they again became the greatest power in Europe, they had a relapse of their old egotism. The French, though an amiable and intelligent people, are not an imaginative one. The greatest height they go is in a balloon. They get no further than France, let them go where they will. They " run the great circle and are still at home," like the squirrel in his rolling cage. Instead of going to Nature in their poetry, they would make her come to them, and dress herself at their last new toilet. In philosophy and metaphysics, they divest themselves of gross prejudices, and then think they are in as graceful a state of nakedness as Adam and Eve. At the time when the French had this fit upon them of praising the English (which was nevertheless the honester one of the two), they took to praising the Chinese for numberless unknown qualities. This seems a contradiction to the near-sightedness we speak of: but the reason they praised them was, that the Chinese had the merit of religious toleration ; a great and extraordinary one certainly, and not the less so for having been, to all appearance, the work of one man. All the romance of China, such as it was, — anything in which they differed from the French, — FAR COUNTRIES 29 their dress, their porcelain towers, their Great Wall, — was nothing. It was the particular agreement with the philosophers. It happened, curiously enough, that they could not have selected for their panegyric a nation apparently more con- temptuous of others ; or at least more self-satisfied and un- imaginative. The Chinese are cunning and ingenious, and have a great talent at bowing out ambassadors who come to visit them. But it is somewhat inconsistent with what appears to be their general character, that they should pay strangers even this equivocal compliment; for under a pro- digious mask of politeness, they are not slow to evince their contempt of other nations, whenever any comparison is insinuated with the subjects of the Brother of the Sun and Moon. The knowledge they respect in us most is that of gun-making, and of the East- Indian passage. When our countrymen showed them a map of the earth, they inquired for China ; and on finding that it only made a little piece in a corner, could not contain their derision. They thought that it was the main territory in the middle, the apple of the world's eye. On the other hand, the most imaginative nations, in their highest times, have had a respect for remote countries. It is a mistake to suppose that the ancient term barbarian, applied to foreigners, suggested the meaning we are apt to give it. It gathered some such insolence with it in the course of time ; but the more intellectual Greeks venerated the countries from which they brought the elements of their mythology and philosophy. The philosopher travelled into Egypt, like a son to see his father. The merchant heard in Phoenicia the far-brought stories of other realms, which he told to his delighted countrymen. It is sup- posed, that the mortal part of Mentor in the Odyssey was drawn from one of these voyagers. When Anacharsis the Scythian was reproached with his native place by an 3 o FAR COUNTRIES unworthy Greek, he said, «' My country may be a shame to me, but you are a shame to your country." Greece had a lofty notion of the Persians and the Great King, till Xerxes came over to teach it better, and betrayed the soft- ness of their skulls. It was the same with the Arabians, at the time when they had the accomplishments of the world to themselves ; as we see by their delightful tales. Everything shines with them in the distance, like a sunset. What an amiable people are these Persians ! What a wonderful place is the island of Serendib ! You would think nothing could be finer than the Caliph's city of Bagdad, till you hear of " Grand Cairo " ; and how has that epithet and that name towered in the imagination of all those, who have not had the misfortune to see the modern city ? Sindbad was respected, like Ulysses, because he had seen so many adventures and nations. So was Aboulfaouris the Great Voyager, in the Persian Tales. His very name sounds like a wonder. With many a tempest had his beard been shaken. It was one of the workings of the great Alfred's mind, to know about far-distant countries. There is. a translation by him of a book of geography ; and he even employed people to travel : a great stretch of intellectual munificence for those times. About the same period, Haroun al Raschid (whom our manhood is startled to find almost a less real person than we thought him, for his very reality) wrote a letter to the Emperor of the West, Charlemagne. Here is Arabian and Italian romance, shaking hands in person. The Crusades pierced into a new world of remoteness. We do not know whether those were much benefited, who took part in them ; but for the imaginative persons remain- ing at home, the idea of going to Palestine must have been like travelling into a supernatural world. When the cam- FAR COUNTRIES 31 paign itself had a good effect, it must have been of a very fine and highly-tempered description. Chaucer's Knight had been Sometime with the lord of Palatie Agen another hethen in Turkie : And evermore he had a sovereign price ; And though that he was worthy, he was wise, And of his port as meek as is a mayde. How like a return from the moon must have been the re-appearance of such travellers as Sir John Mandevile, Marco Polo, and William de Rubruquis, with their news of Prester John, the Great Mogul, and the great Cham of Tartary ! The long-lost voyager must have been like a person consecrated in all the quarters of heaven. His staff and his beard must have looked like relics of his former self. The Venetians, who were some of the earliest European travellers, have been remarked, among their other amiable qualities, for their great respect for strangers. The peculiarity of their position, and the absence of so many things which are common-places to other countries, such as streets, horses and coaches, add, no doubt, to this feeling. But a foolish or vain people would only feel a contempt for what they did not possess. Milton, in one of those favourite passages of his, in which he turns a nomen- clature into such grand meaning and music, shows us whose old footing he had delighted to follow. How he enjoys the distance ; emphatically Ubing the words far, farthest and utmost / — Embassies from regions far remote, In various habits, on the Appian road, Or on the Emilian ; some from farthest south, Syene, and where the shadow both way falls, Meroe, Nilotick Isle ; and more to west, The realm of Bocchus to the Black-moor sea ; 32 FAR COUNTRIES From the Asian kings, and Parthian among these ; f From India and the golden Chersonese, And utmost Indian isle Taprobane. — Parad. Reg. bk. iv. One of the main helps to our love of remoteness in general, is the associations we connect with it of peace and quietness. Whatever there may be at a distance, people feel as if they should escape from the worry of their local cares. " O that I had wings like a dove ! then would I fly away and be at rest." The word far is often used wil- fully in poetry, to render distance still more distant. An old English song begins — In Irelande farre over the sea There dwelt a bonny king. Thomson, a Scotchman, speaking of the western isles of his own country, has that delicious line, full of a dreary yet lulling pleasure ; — As when a shepherd of the Hebrid isles, Placed far amid the melancholy main. In childhood, the total ignorance of the world, especially when we are brought up in some confined spot, renders everything beyond the bounds of our dwelling a distance and a romance. Mr Lamb, in his Recollections of Christ's Hospital, says that he remembers when some half-dozen of his schoolfellows set off, " without map, card, or com- pass, on a serious expedition to find out Philip Quarll's Island." We once encountered a set of boys as romantic. It was at no greater distance than at the foot of a hill near Hampstead ; yet the spot was so perfectly Cisalpine to them, that two of them came up to us with looks of hushing eagerness, and asked " whether, on the other side of that hill, there were not robbers ; " to which, the minor adventurer of the two added, "and some say serpents." They had all got bows and arrows, and were evidently THE OLD GENTLEMAN 33 hovering about the place, betwixt daring and apprehension, as on the borders of some wild region. We smiled to think which it was that husbanded their suburb wonders to more advantage, they or we ; for while they peopled the place with robbers and serpents, we were peopling it with sylvans and fairies. " So was it when my life began ; So is it now I am a man ; So be it when I shall grow old, Or let me die ! The child is father to the man ; And I could wish my days to be Bound each to each by natural piety." THE OLD GENTLEMAN Our Old Gentleman, in order to be exclusively himself, must be either a widower or a bachelor. Suppose the former. We do not mention his precise age, which would be invidious : — nor whether he wears his own hair or a wig : which would be wanting in universality. If a wig, it is a compromise between the more modern scratch and the departed glory of the toupee. If his own hair, it is white, in spite of his favourite grandson, who used to get on the chair behind him, and pull the silver hairs out, ten years ago. If he is bald at top, the hairdresser, hovering and breathing about him like a second youth, takes care to give the bald place as much powder as the covered, in order that he may convey to the sensorium within a pleasing indistinctness of idea respecting the exact limits of skin and hair. He is very clean and neat ; and, in warm weather, is proud of opening his waistcoat half-way down, and letting so much of his frill be seen, in order to show his c $4 THE OLD GENTLEMAN hardiness as well as taste. His watch and shirt- buttons are of the best ; and he does not care if he has two rings on a finger. If his watch ever failed him at the club or coffee-house, he would take a walk every day to the nearest clock of good character, purely to keep it right. He has a cane at home, but seldom uses it, on finding it out of fashion with his elderly juniors. He has a small cocked hat for gala days, which he lifts higher from his head than the round one, when bowed to. In his pockets are two handkerchiefs (one for the neck at night-time), his spectacles, and his pocket-book. The pocket-book, among other things, contains a receipt for a cough, and some verses cut out of an odd sheet of an old magazine, on the lovely Duchess of A., beginning — When beauteous Mira walks the plain. He intends this for a common-place book which he keeps, consisting of passages in verse and prose, cut out of news- papers and magazines, and pasted in columns ; some of them rather gay. His principal other books are Shake- speare's Plays and Milton's Paradise Lost ; the Spectator, the History of England, the Works of Lady M. W. Montague, Pope and Churchill ; Middle- ton's Geography ; the Gentleman s Magazine ; Sir John Sinclair on Longevity ; several plays with portraits in character ; Account of Elizabeth Canning, Memoirs of George Ann Bellamy, Poetical Amusements at Bath- Easton, Blair's Works, Elegant Extracts ; Junius, as originally published ; a few pamphlets on the American War and Lord George Gordon, &c, and one on the French Revolution. In his sitting-rooms are some engrav- ings from Hogarth and Sir Joshua ; an engraved portrait of the Marquis of Granby ; ditto of M. le Comte de Grasse surrendering to Admiral Rodney ; a humorous piece after Penny ; and a portrait of himself; painted by Sir Joshua. THE OLD GENTLEMAN 35 His wife's portrait is in his chamber, looking upon his bed. She is a little girl, stepping forward with a smile, and a pointed toe, as if going to dance. He lost her when she was sixty. The Old Gentleman is an early riser, because he intends to live at least twenty years longer. He continues to take tea for breakfast, in spite of what is said against its nervous effects ; having been satisfied on that point some years ago by Dr. Johnston's criticism on Hanway, and a great liking for tea previously. His china cups and saucers have been broken since his wife's death, all but one, which is religiously kept for his use. He passes his morning in walking or riding, looking in at auctions, looking after his India bonds or some such money securities, furthering some subscription set on foot by his excellent friend Sir John, or cheapening a new old print for his portfolio. He also hears of the news- papers ; not caring to see them till after dinner at the coffee- house. He may also cheapen a fish or so ; the fishmonger soliciting his doubting eye as he passes, with a profound bow of recognition. He eats a pear before dinner. His dinner at the coffee-house is served up to him at the accustomed hour, in the old accustomed way, and by the accustomed waiter. If William did not bring it, the fish would be sure to be stale, and the flesh new. He eats no tart ; or if he ventures on a little, takes cheese with it. You might as soon attempt to persuade him out of his senses, as that cheese is not good for digestion. He takes port ; and if he has drunk more than usual, and in a more private place, may be induced by some respectful inquiries respect- ing the old style of music, to sing a song composed by Mr. Oswald or Mr. Lampe, such as — Chloe, by that borrowed kiss, or Come, gentle god of soft repose, or his wife's favourite ballad, beginning — 36 THE OLD GENTLEMAN At Upton on the hill, There lived a happy pair. Of course, no such exploit can take place in the coffee- room : but he will canvass the theory of that matter there with you, or discuss the weather, or the markets, or the theatres, or the merits of " my lord North " or " my lord Rockingham ; " for he rarely says simply, lord ; it is generally " my lord," trippingly and genteely off the tongue. If alone after dinner, his great delight is the newspaper ; which he prepares to read by wiping his spec- tacles, carefully adjusting them on his eyes, and drawing the candle close to him, so as to stand sideways betwixt his ocular aim and the small type. He then holds the paper at arm's length, and dropping his eyelids half down and his mouth half open, takes cognisance of the day's information. If he leaves off, it is only when the door is opened by a new-comer, or when he suspects somebody is over- anxious to get the paper out of his hand. On these occasions he gives an important hem ! or so ; and resumes. In the evening, our Oid Gentleman is fond of going to the theatre, or of having a game of cards. If he enjoys the latter at his own house or lodgings, he likes to play with some friends whom he has known for many years ; but an elderly stranger may be introduced, if quiet and scientific ; and the privilege is extended to younger men of letters ; who, if ill players, are good losers. Not that he is a miser, but to win money at cards is like proving his victory by getting the baggage ; and to win off a younger man is a substitute for his not being able to beat him at rackets. He breaks up early, whether at home or abroad. At the theatre, he likes a front row in the pit. He comes early, if he can do so without getting into a squeeze, and sits patiently waiting for the drawing up of the curtain, THE OLD GENTLEMAN 39 with his hands placidly lying one over the other on the top of his stick. He generously admires some of the best per- formers, but thinks them far inferior to Garrick, Woodward, and Clive. During splendid scenes, he is anxious that the little boy should see. He has been induced to look in at Vauxhall again, but likes it still less than he did years back, and cannot bear it in comparison with Ranelagh. He thinks everything looks poor, flaring, and jaded. " Ah ! " says he, with a sort of triumphant sigh, " Ranelagh was a noble place ! Such taste, such elegance, such beauty ! There was the Duchess of A., the finest woman in England, Sir ; and Mrs. L., a mighty fine creature ; and Lady Susan what's her name, that had that unfortunate affair with Sir Charles. Sir, they came swimming by you like the swans." The Old Gentleman is very particular in having his slippers ready for him at the fire, when he comes home. He is also extremely choice in his snuff, and delights to get a fresh box-full in Tavistock Street, in his way to the theatre. His box is a curiosity from India. He calls favourite young ladies by their Christian names, however slightly acquainted with them ; and has a privilege of saluting all brides, mothers, and indeed every species of lady, on the least holiday occasion. If the husband, for instance, has met with a piece of luck, he instantly moves forward, and gravely kisses the wife on the cheek. The wife then says, " My niece, Sir, from the country ; " and he kisses the niece. The niece, seeing her cousin biting her lips at the joke, says, " My cousin Harriet, Sir ; " and he kisses the cousin. He " never recollects such weather," except during the " Great Frost," or when he rode down with "Jack Skrimshire to Newmarket." He grows young again in his little grand-children, especially the one which he thinks most like himself; which is the handsomest. Yet he likes best perhaps the one most resembling his wife ; and 4 o THE OLD GENTLEMAN will sit with him on his lap, holding his hand in silence, for a quarter of an hour together. He plays most tricks with the former, and makes him sneeze. He asks little boys in general who was the father of Zebedee's children. If his grandsons are at school, he often goes to see them ; and makes them blush by telling the master or the upper- scholars, that they are fine boys, and of a precocious genius. He is much struck when an old acquaintance dies, but adds that he lived too fast ; and that poor Bob was a sad dog in his youth ; "a very sad dog, Sir ; mightily set upon a short life and a merry one." When he gets very old indeed, he will sit for whole evenings, and say little or nothing ; but informs you that there is Mrs. Jones (the housekeeper) — "She '11 talk." THE OLD LADY If the Old Lady is a widow and lives alone, the manners of her condition and time of life are so much the more apparent. She generally dresses in plain silks, that make a gentle rustling as she moves about the silence of her room ; and she wears a nice cap with a lace border, that comes under the chin. In a placket at her side is an old enamelled watch, unless it is locked up in a drawer of her toilet, for fear of accidents. Her waist is rather tight and trim than otherwise, as she had a fine one when young ; and she is not sorry if you see a pair of her stockings on a table, that you may be aware of the neatness of her leg and foot. Con- tented with these and other evident indications of a good shape, and letting her young friends understand that she can afford to obscure it a little, she wears pockets, and uses them well too. In the one is her handkerchief, and any heavier 42 THE OLD LADY matter that is not likely to come out with it, such as the change of a sixpence ; in the other is a miscellaneous assort- ment, consisting of a pocket-book, a bunch of keys, a needle-case, a spectacle-case, crumbs of biscuit, a nutmeg and grater, a smelling-bottle, and, according to the season, an orange or apple, which after many days she draws out, warm and glossy, to give to some little child that has well behaved itself. She generally occupies two rooms, in the neatest condition possible. In the chamber is a bed with a white coverlet, built up high and round, to look well, and with curtains of a pastoral pattern, consisting alternately of large plants, and shepherds and shepherdesses. On the mantelpiece are more shepherds and shepherdesses, with dot-eyed sheep at their feet, all in coloured ware : the man, perhaps, in a pink jacket and knots of ribbons at his knees and shoes, holding his crook lightly in one hand, and with the other at his breast, turning his toes out and looking tenderly at the shepherdess : the woman holding a crook also, and modestly returning his look, with a gipsy-hat jerked up behind, a very slender waist, with petticoat and hips to counteract, and the petticoat pulled up through the pocket-holes, in order to show the trimness of her ankles. But these patterns, of course, are various. The toilet is ancient, carved at the edges, and tied about with a snow- white drapery of muslin. Beside it are various boxes, mostly japan ; and the set of drawers are exquisite things for a little girl to rummage, if ever little girl be so bold, — containing ribbons and laces of various kinds ; linen smelling of lavender, of the flowers of which there is always dust in the corners ; a heap of pocket-books for a series of years ; and pieces of dress long gone by, such as head-fronts, stomachers, and flowered satin shoes, with enormous heels. The stock of letters are under especial lock and key. So much for the bed-room. In the sitting-room is rather a spare assortment of shining old mahogany furniture, or THEOLDLADY 43 carved arm-chairs equally old, with chintz draperies down to the ground ; a folding or other screen, with Chinese figures, their round, little-eyed, meek faces perking side- ways ; a stuffed bird, perhaps in a glass case (a living one is too much for her) ; a portrait of her husband over the mantel-piece, in a coat with frog-buttons, and a delicate frilled hand lightly inserted, in the waistcoat ; and opposite him on the wall, is a piece of embroidered literature, framed and glazed, containing some moral distich or maxim, worked in angular capital letters, with two trees or parrots below, in their proper colours ; the whole concluding with an ABC and numerals, and the name of the fair industrious, expressing it to be " her work, Jan. 14, 1762." The rest of the furniture consists of a looking-glass with carved edges, perhaps a settee, a hassock for the feet, a mat for the little dog, and a small set of shelves, in which are the Spectator and Guardian, the Turkish Spy, a Bible and Prayer Book, Young's Night Thoughts with a piece of lace in it to flatten, Mrs. Howe's Devout Exercises of the Heart, Mrs. Glasse's Cookery, and perhaps Sir Charles Grandison, and Clarissa. John Buncle is in the closet among the pickles and preserves. The clock is on the landing-place between the two room doors, where it ticks audibly but quietly ; and the landing-place, as well as the stairs, is carpeted to a nicety. The house is most in character, and properly coeval, if it is in a retired suburb, and strongly built, with wainscot rather than paper inside, and lockers in the win- dows. Before the windows should be some quivering poplars. Here the Old Lady receives a few quiet visitors to tea, and perhaps an early game at cards : or you may see her going out on the same kind of visit herself, with a light umbrella running up into a stick and crooked ivory handle, and her little dog, equally famous for his love to her and captious antipathy to strangers. Her grand- children dislike him on holidays, and the boldest some- 44 THEOLDLADY times ventures to give him a sly kick under the table. When she returns at night, she appears, if the weather happens to be doubtful, in a calash ; and her servant in pattens, follows half behind and half at her side, with a lantern. Her opinions are not many nor new. She thinks the clergyman a nice man. The Duke of Wellington, in her opinion, is a very great man ; but she has a secret preference for the Marquis of Granby. She thinks the young women of the present day too forward, and the men not respectful enough ; but hopes her grand-children will be better ; though she differs with her daughter in several points respecting their management. She sets little value on the new accom- plishments ; is a great though delicate connoisseur in butcher's meat and all sorts of housewifery ; and if you mention waltzes, expatiates on the grace and fine breeding of the minuet. She longs to have seen one danced by Sir Charles Grandison, whom she almost considers as a real person. She likes a walk of a summer's evening, but avoids the new streets, canals, etc., and sometimes goes through the churchyard, where her children and husband lie buried, serious, but not melancholy. She has had three great epochs in her life : her marriage — her having been at coutt, to see the King and Queen and Royal Family — and a compliment on her figure she once received, in passing, from Mr Wilkes, whom she describes as a sad, loose man, but engaging. His plainness she thinks much exaggerated. If anything takes her at a distance from home, it is still the court ; but she seldom stirs, even for that. The last time but one that she went, was to see the Duke of Wirtemberg ; and most probably for the last time of all, to see the Princess Charlotte and Prince Leopold. From this beatific vision she returned with the same admiration as ever for the line comely appearance of the Duke of York and the rest of the family, and great delight at having had a near view of the A WALK FROM DULWICH 45 Princess, whom she speaks of with smiling pomp and lifted mittens, clasping them as passionately as she can together, and calling her, in a transport of mixed loyalty and self- love, a fine royal young creature, and " Daughter of England." A WALK FROM DULWICH TO BROCKHAM IN A LETTER TO A FRIEND With an original Circumstance or two respecting Dr. Johnson Dear Sir, As other calls upon my pilgrimage in this world have interrupted those weekly voyages of discovery into green lanes and rustic houses of entertainment which you and I had so agreeably commenced, I thought I could, not do better than make you partaker of my new journey, as far as pen and paper could do it. You are therefore to look upon yourself as having resolved to take a walk of twenty or thirty miles into Surrey without knowing anything of the matter. You will have set out with us a fortnight ago, and will be kind enough to take your busts for chambermaids, and your music (which is not so easy) for the voices of stage-coachmen. Illness, you know, does not hinder me from walking ; neither does anxiety. On the contrary, the more I walk, the better and stouter I become ; and I believe if everybody were to regard the restlessness which anxiety creates, as a signal from nature to get up and contend with it in that manner, people would find the benefit of it. This is more particularly the case if they are lovers of Nature, as well as pupils of her, and have an eye for the beauties in which her visible world abounds ; and as I may claim the merit of 4 6 A WALK FROM DULWICH loving her heartily, and even of tracing my sufferings (when I have them) to her cause, the latter are never so great but she repays me with some sense of sweetness, and leaves me a certain property in the delight of others, when I have little of my own. " Oh that I had the wings of a dove ! " said the royal poet; "then would I fly away and be at rest." I believe there are few persons, who having felt sorrow, and anticipat- ing a journey not exactly towards it, have not partaken of this sense of the desirability of remoteness. A great deal of what we love in poetry is founded upon it ; nor do any feel it with more passion, than those whose sense of duty to their fellow-creatures will not allow them to regard retire- ment as anything but a refreshment between their tasks, and as a wealth of which all ought to partake. But David sighed for remoteness, and not for solitude. At least, if he did, the cares of the moment must have greatly overbalanced the habits of the poet. Neither doves nor poets can very well do without a companion. Be that as it may, the writer of this epistle, who is a still greater lover of companionship than poetry (and he cannot express his liking more strongly) had not the misfortune, on the present occasion, of being compelled to do without it ; and as to remoteness, though his pilgrimage was to extend little beyond twenty miles, he had not the less sense of it on that account. Remoteness is not how far you go in point of ground, but how far you feel yourself from your common- places. Literal distance is indeed necessary in some degree ; but the quantity of it depends on imagination and the nature of circumstances. The poet who can take to his wings like a dove, and plunge into the wood nearest him, is farther off, millions of miles, in the retreat of his thoughts, than the literalist, who must get to Johnny Groat's in order to convince himself that he is not in Edinburgh. Almost any companion would do, if we could not make A WALK FROM DULWICH 47 our choice, provided it lovepl us and was sincere. A horse is good company, if you have no other ; a dog still better. I have often thought that 1 could take a child by the hand, and walk with it day after day towards the north or the east, a straight road, feeling as if it would lead into another world, "And think 'twould lead to some bright isle of rest." But I should have to go back, to fetch some grown friends. There were three of us on the present occasion, grown and young. We began by taking the Dulwich stage from a house in Fleet Street, where a drunken man came into the tap, and was very pious. He recited hymns ; asked the landlady to shake hands with him ; was for making a sofa of the counter, which she prevented by thrusting his leg off with some indignation ; and being hindered in this piece of jollity, he sank on his knees to pray. He was too good- natured for a Methodist ; so had taken to stiff glasses of brandy-and-water, "To help him to support uneasy steps Over the burning marie." He said he had been "twice through the gates of hell"; and by his drinking, poor fellow, he seemed to be setting out on his third adventure. We called him Sin-bad. By the way, when you were a boy, did you not think that the name of Sindbad was allegorical, and meant a man who had sinned very badly ? Does not every little boy think so r One does not indeed, at that time of life, know very well what to make of the porter Hindbad, who rhymes to him ; and I remember I was not pleased when I came to find out that Hind and Sind were component words, and meant Eastern and Western. The stage took us to the Greyhound at Dulwich, where, though we had come from another village almost as far off from London on the northern side, we felt as if we had newly got into the country, and ate a hearty supper accord- 48 A WALK FROM DULWICH ingly. This was a thing not usual with us ; but then everybody eats " in the country " ; — there is " the air " ; and besides, we had eaten little dinner, and were merrier, and " remote. " On looking out of our chamber window in the morning, we remarked that the situation of the inn was beautiful, even towards the road, the place is so rich with trees ; and returning to the room in which we had supped, we found with pleasure that we had a window there, presenting us with a peep into rich meadows, where the haymakers were at work in their white shirts. A sunny room, quiet, our remote five miles, and a pleasant subject (the Poetry of British Ladies) enabled the editorial part of us to go comfortably to our morning's task ; after which we left the inn to proceed on our journey. We had not seen Dulwich for many years, and were surprised to find it still so full of trees. It continues, at least in the quarter through which we passed, to deserve the recommendation given it by Armstrong, of ''Dulwich, yet unspoil'd by art." He would have added, had he lived, now that art had come, even to make it better. It was with real pain, that two lovers of painting were obliged to coast the walls of the college without seeing the gallery : but we have vowed a pilgrimage very shortly to those remoter places, there to be found ; to wit, the landscapes of Claude and Cuyp, and the houses of Rembrandt ; and we shall make report of it, to save our character. We know not whether it was the sultriness of the day, with occasional heavy clouds, but we thought the air of Dulwich too warm, and pronounced it a place of sleepy luxuriance. So it appeared to us that morning ; beautiful, however, and " remote " ; and the thought of old Allen, Shakspeare's playmate, made it still more so. I remember, in my boyhood, seeing Sir Francis A WALK FROM DULWICH 49 Bourgeois (the bequeather of the Dulwich pictures) in company with Mr. West, in the latter's gallery in Newman Street. He was in buckskins and boots, dandy dress of that time, and appeared a lively, good-natured man, with a pleasing countenance, probably because he said something pleasant of myself; he confirmed it with an oath, which startled, but did not alter this opinion. Ever afterwards I had an inclination to like his pictures, which I believe were not very good ; and unfortunately, with whatever gravity he might paint, his oath and his buckskins would never allow me to consider him a serious person ; so that it somewhat surprised me to hear that M. Desenfans had bequeathed him his gallery out of pure regard ; and still more that Sir Francis, when he died, had ordered his own remains to be gathered to those of his benefactor and Madame Desenfans, and all three buried in the society of the pictures they loved. For the first time, I began to think that his pictures must have contained more than was found in them, and that I had done wrong (as it is customary to do) to the gaiety of his manners. If there was vanity in the bequest, as some have thought, it was at least a vanity accompanied with touching circumstances and an appearance of a very social taste ; and as most people have their vanities, it might be as well for them to think what sort of accompaniments exalt or degrade theirs, or render them purely dull and selfish. As to the Gallery's being "out of the way," especially for students, I am of a different opinion, and for two reasons : first, that no gallery, whether in or out of the way, can ever produce great artists, nature, and perhaps the very want of a gallery, always settling that matter before galleries are thought of; and, second, because in going to see the pictures in a beautiful country village, people get out of their town common-places, and are better prepared for the perception of other beauties, and of the nature that makes them all. P 5 o A WALK FROM DULWICH Besides, there is probably something to pay on a jaunt of this kind, and yet of a different sort from payments at a door. There is no illiberal demand at Dulwich for a liberal pleasure; but then "the inn" is inviting; people eat and drink, and get social ; and the warmth which dinner and a glass diffuses, helps them to rejoice doubly in the warmth of the sunshine and the pictures, and in the fame of the great and generous. Leaving Dulwich for Norwood (where we rejoiced to hear that some of our old friends the Gipsies were still extant), we found the air very refreshing as we ascended towards the church of the latter village. It is one of the dandy modern churches (for they deserve no better name) standing on an open hill, as if to be admired. It is pleasant to see churches instead of Methodist chapels, because any moderate religion has more of real Christianity in it, than contumelious opinions of God and the next world; but there is a want of taste, of every sort, in these new churches. They are not picturesque, like the old ones ; they are not humble ; they are not, what they are so often miscalled, classical. A barn is a more classical building than a church with a fantastic steeple to it. In fact, a barn is of the genuine classical shape, and only wants a stone covering, and pillars about it, to become a temple of Theseus. The classical shape is the shape of simple utility and beauty. Sometimes we see it in the body of the modern church ; but then a steeple must be put on it : the artist must have something of his own ; and having, in fact, nothing of his own, he first puts a bit of a steeple, which he thinks will not be enough, then another bit, and then another ; adds another fantastic ornament here and there to his building, by way of rim or " border, like " ; and so, having put his pepper-box over his pillars, and his pillars over his pepper- box, he pretends he has done a grand thing, while he knows very well that he has only been perplexed, and a bricklayer, A WALK FROM DULWICH 51 For a village, the old picturesque church is the proper thing, with its tower and its trees, as at Hendon and Finchley ; or its spire, as at Beckenham. Classical beauty- is one thing, Gothic or Saxon beauty is another ; quite as genuine in its way, and in this instance more suitable. It has been well observed, that what is called classical architecture, though of older date than the Gothic, really does not look so old — does not so well convey the sentiment of antiquity ; that is to say, the ideal associations of this world, however ancient, are far surpassed in the reach of ages by those of religion, and the patriarchs and another world ; not to mention, that we have been used to identify them with the visible old age of our parents and kindred ; and that Greek and Roman architecture, in its smoothness and polish, has an unfading look of youth. It might be thought that the erection of new churches on the classical principle (taking it for granted that, they remind us more of Greek and Roman temples, than of their own absurdity) would be favourable to the growth of liberality ; that, at least, liberality would not be opposed by it ; whereas the preservation of the old style might tend to keep up old notions. We do not think so, except inasmuch as the old notions would not be unfavourable to the new. New opinions ought to be made to grow as kindly as possible out of old ones, and should preserve all that they contain of the affectionate and truly venerable. We could fancy the most liberal doctrines preached five hundred years hence in churches precisely like those of our ancestors, and their old dust ready to blossom into delight at the arrival of true Christianity. But these new, fine, heartless-looking, showy churches, neither one thing nor the other, have, to our eyes, an appearance of nothing but worldliness and a job. We descended into Streatham by the lane leading to the White Lion ; the which noble beast, regardant, looked at us up the narrow passage, as if intending to dispute rather than 52 A WALK FROM DULWICH invite our approach to the castle of his hospitable proprietor. On going nearer, we found that the grimness of his aspect was purely in our imaginations, the said lordly animal having, in fact, a countenance singularly humane, and very like a gentleman we knew once of the name of Collins. It not being within our plan to accept Collin's invitation, we turned to the left, and proceeded down the village, thinking of Dr. Johnson. Seeing, however, an aged land- lord at the door, we stepped back to ask him if he remembered the Doctor. He knew nothing of him, nor even of Mr. Thrale, having come late, he said, to those parts. Resuming our way, we saw, at the end of the village, a decent-looking old man, with a sharp eye and a hale countenance, who, with an easy, self-satisfied air, as if he had worked enough in his time and was no longer under the necessity of over-troubling himself, sat indolently cracking stones in the road. We asked him if he knew Dr. Johnson ; and he said, with a jerk-up of his eye, " Oh yes; — / knew him well enough." Seating myself on one side of his trench of stones, I proceeded to have that matter out with Master Whatman (for such was the name of my informant). His information did not amount to much, but it contained one or two points which I do not remember to have met with, and every addition to our knowledge of such a man is valuable. Nobody will think it more so than yourself, who will certainly yearn over this part of my letter, and make much of it. The following is the sum total of what was related : — Johnson, he said, wore a silk waistcoat embroidered with silver, and all over snuff. The snuff he carried loose in his waistcoat pocket, and would take a handful of it out with one hand, and help himself to it with the other. He would sometimes have his dinner brought out to him in the park, and set on the ground ; and while he was waiting for it, would lie idly, and cut the grass with a knife. His manners were very A WALK FROM DULWICH 5$ good-natured, and sometimes so childish, that people would have taken him for " an idiot, like." His voice was " low." — " Do you mean low in a gruff sense ? " — " No : it was rather feminine." — " Then perhaps, in one sense of the word, it was high ? " — "Yes, it was." — " And gentle?" — " Yes, very gentle!" — (This, of course, was to people in general, and to the villagers. When he dogmatised, it became what Lord Pembroke called a " bow-wow." The late Mr. Fuseli told us the same thing of Johnson's voice; we mean, that it was "high," in contradistinction to a bass voice.) To proceed with our village historian. Our informant recurred several times to the childish manners of Johnson, saying that he often appeared " quite simple," — "just like a child," — "almost foolish, like." When he walked, he always seemed in a hurry. His walk was "between a run and a shuffle." Master Whatman was here painting a good portrait. I have often suspected that the best likeness of Johnson was a whole-length engraving of him, walking in Scotland, with that joke of his underneath, about the stick that he lost in the isle of Mull. Boswell told him the stick would be returned. " No, sir," replied he ; " consider the value of such a piece of timber here." The manner of his walk in the picture is precisely that described by the villager. Whatman concluded, by giving his opinion of Mrs. Thrale, which he did in exactly the following words: — "She gathered a good deal of knowledge from him, but does not seem to have turned it to much account." Wherever you now go about the country, you recognise the effects of that "Twopenny Trash," which the illiberal affect to hold in such contempt, and are really so afraid of. They have reason ; for people now canvass their pretensions in good set terms, who would have said nothing but " Anan ! " to a question thirty years back. Not that Mr. Whatman dis- cussed politics with us. Let no magnanimous Quarterly 54 A WALK FROM DULWICH Reviewer try to get him turned out of a place on that score. We are speaking of the peasantry at large, and then, not merely of politics, but of questions of all sorts interesting to humanity ; which the very clowns now discuss by the roadside, to an extent at which their former leaders would not dare to discuss them. This is one reason, among others, why knowledge must go on victoriously. A real zeal for the truth can discuss anything ; slavery can only go the length of its chain. In quitting Streatham, we met a lady on horseback, accompanied by three curs and a footman, which a milk- man facetiously termed a footman and *« three outriders." Entering Mitcham by the green where they play at cricket, we noticed a pretty, moderate-sized house, with the largest geraniums growing on each side of the door that we ever beheld in that situation. Mitcham reminded me of its neighbour, Merton, and of the days of my childhood ; but we could not go out of our way to see it. There was the little river Wandle, however, turning a mill, and flowing between flowery meadows. The mill was that of a copper manufactory, at which the people work night as well as day, one half taking the duties alternately. The reason given for this is, that by night the river, not being inter- rupted by other demands upon it, works to better advantage. The epithet of " flowery " applied to the district, is no poetical licence. In the fields about Mitcham they culti- vate herbs for the apothecaries ; so that in the height of the season, you walk as in the Elysian fields, " In yellow meads of asphodel, And amaranthine bowers." Apothecaries' Hall, I understand, is entirely supplied with this poetical part of medicine from some acres of ground belonging to Major Moor. A beautiful bed of poppies, as we entered Morden, glowed in the setting sun, like the A WALK FROM DULWICH 57 dreams of Titian. It looked like a bed for Proserpina — a glow of melancholy beauty, containing a joy perhaps beyond joy. Poppies, with their dark ruby cups and crowned heads, the more than wine colour of their sleepy silk, and the funeral look of their anthers, seem to have a meaning about them beyond other flowers. They look as if they held a mystery at their hearts, like sleeping kings of Lethe. The church of Mitcham has been rebuilt, if I recollect rightly, but in the proper old style. Morden has a good old church, which tempted us to look into the churchyard ; but a rich man who lives near it, and who did not choose his house to be approached on that side, had locked up the gate, so that there was no path through it, except on Sun- days. Can this be a lawful exercise of power ? If people have a right to call any path their own, I should think it must be that which leads to the graves of their fathers and mothers ; and next to their right, such a path is the right of the traveller. The traveller may be in some measure regarded as a representative of wandering humanity. He claims relationship with all whom he finds attached to a place in idea. He and the dead are at once in a place, and apart from it. Setting aside this remoter sentiment, it is surely an inconsiderate thing in any man to shut up a churchyard from the villagers ; and should these pages meet the eye of the person in question, he is recommended to think better of it. Possibly I may not know the whole of the case, and on that account, though not that only, I mention no names ; for the inhabitant with whom I talked on the subject, and who regarded it in the same light, added, with a candour becoming his objections, that "the gentleman was a very good-natured gentleman, too, and kind to the poor." How his act of power squares with his kindness, I do not know. Very good-natured people are sometimes very fond of having their own way ; but this 58 A WALK FROM DULWICH is a mode of indulging it, which a truly generous person, I should think, will, on reflection, be glad to give up. Such a man, I am sure, can afford to concede a point, where others, who do not deserve the character, will try hard to retain every little proof of their importance. On the steps of the George Inn, at Morden, the rustic inn of a hamlet, stood a personage much grimmer than the White Lion of Streatham ; looking, in fact, with his fiery eyes, his beak, and his old mouth and chin, very like the cock, or " grim leoun," of Chaucer. He was tall and thin, with a flapped hat over his eyes, and appeared as sulky and dissatisfied as if he had quarrelled with the whole world, the exciseman in particular. We asked him if he could let us have some tea. He said, " Yes, he believed so ; " and pointed with an indifferent, or rather hostile air, to a room at the side, which we entered. A buxom good-natured girl, with a squint, that was bewitching after the moral deformity of our friend's visage, served us up tea ; and " tea, sir," as Johnson might have said, " inspires placidity." The room was adorned with some engravings after Smirke, the subjects out of Shakspeare, which never look so well, I think, as when thus encountered on a journey. Shakspeare is in the highway of life, with exquisite side-touches of the remoteness of the poet ; and nobody links all kindly together as he does. We afterwards found in conversing with the villager above-mentioned, that our host of the George had got rich, and was preparing to quit for a new house he had built, in which he meant to turn gentleman farmer. Habit made him dislike to go; pride and his wife (who vowed she would go whether he did or not) rendered him unable to stay ; and so between his grudging the new-comer and the old rib, he was in as pretty a state of irritability as any successful non-succeeder need be. People had been galling him all day, I suppose, with showing how many pots of ale A WALK FROM DULWICH 59 would be drunk under the new tenant ; and our arrival crowned the measure of his receipts and his wretchedness by intimating that " gentlefolks " intended to come to tea — Adieu, till next week. We left Morden after tea, and proceeded on our road for Epsom. The landscape continued flat but luxuriant. You are sure, I believe, of trees in Surrey, except on the downs ; and they are surrounded with wood, and often have beautiful clumps of it. The sun began to set a little after we had got beyond the Post-house ; and was the largest I remember to have seen. It looked through hedges of elms and wild roses ; the mowers were going home ; and by degrees the landscape was bathed in a balmy twilight. Patient and placid thought succeeded. It was an hour, and a scene, in which one would suppose that the weariest-laden pilgrim must feel his burden easier. About a mile from Ewell a post-chaise overtook and passed us, the driver of which was seated, and had taken up an eleemosynary girl to sit with him. Postillions run along a road, conscious of a pretty power in that way, and able to select some fair one, to whom they gallantly make a present of a ride. Not having a fare of one sort, they make it up to themselves by taking another. You may be pretty sure on these occasions, that there is nobody " hid in their vacant interlunar " chaise. So taking pity on my com- panions (for after I am once tired, I seem as if I could go on, tired for ever), I started and ran after the charioteer. Some good-natured peasants (they all appear such in this county) aided the shouts which I sent after him. He stopped ; and the gallantry on both sides was rewarded by the addition of two females to his vehicle. We were soon through Ewell, a pretty neat-looking place with a proper old church, and a handsome house opposite, new but in the old style. The church has trees by it, and there was a moon over them. — At Ewell was born the facetious Bishop 6o A WALK FROM DULWICH Ha-d takers up &r\ &lcerr\oj-rna>ry £i'rl to j-ib -wifck Km" Corbet, who, when a bald man was brought before him to be confirmed, said, to his assistant, " Some dust, Lushing- ton : " — (to keep his hand from slipping). The night air struck cold, on passing Ewell ; and for the first time there was an appearance of a bleak and barren country to the left. This was Epsom Downs. They are the same as the Banstead and Leatherhead Downs, the name varying with the neighbourhood. You remember Banstead mutton ? " To Hounslow-heath I point, and Banstead down ; Thence comes your mutton, and these chicks my own." Pope seems to have lifted up his delicate nose at Twicken- ham, and scented his dinner a dozen miles off. At Epsom we supped and slept ; and finding the inn A WALK FROM DULWICH 61 comfortable, and having some work to do, we stopped there a day or two. Do you not like those solid, wainscotted rooms in old houses, with seats in the windows, and no pretension but to comfort ? They please me exceedingly. Their merits are complete, if the houses are wide and low, and situate in a spot at once woody and dry. Wood is not to be expected in a high street ; but the house (the King's Head) was of this description ; and Epsom itself is in a nest of trees. Next morning on looking out of the window, we found ourselves in a proper country town, remarkably neat, the houses not old enough to be ruinous, nor yet to have been exchanged for new ones of a London character. Opposite us was the watch-house with the market-clock, and a pond which is said to contain gold and silver fish. How those delicate little creatures came to inhabit a pond in the middle of a town I cannot say. One fancies they must have been put in by the fantastic hand of some fine lady in the days of Charles the Second ; for this part of the country is eminent in the annals of gaiety. Charles used to come to the races here ; the palace of Nonesuch, which he gave to Lady Castlemain, is a few miles off; and here he visited the gentry in the neighbourhood. At Ashted Park, close by, and still in possession of inheritors of the name of Howard by mar- riage, he visited Sir Robert Howard, the brother-in-law of Dryden, who probably used to come there also. They preserved there till not long ago the table at which the king dined. This Ashted is a lovely spot, — both park and village. The village, or rather hamlet, is on the road to Leather- head ; so indeed is the park ; but the mansion is out of sight ; and near the mansion, and in the very thick of the park and the trees, with the deer running about it, is the village church, small, old, and picturesque, — a little stone tower ; and the churchyard, of proportionate dimensions, is 62 A WALK FROM DULWICH beside it. When I first saw it, looking with its pointed windows through the trees, the surprise was beautiful. The inside disappoints you, not because it is so small, but because the accommodations and the look of them are so homely. The wood of the pews resembles that of an old kitchen dresser in colour ; the lord of the manor's being not a whit better than the rest. This is in good taste, considering the rest; and Col. Howard, who has the reputation of being a liberal man, probably keeps the church just as he found it, without thinking about the matter. At any rate, he does not exalt himself, in a Christian assembly, at the expense of his neighbours. But loving old churches as I do, and looking forward to a time when a Christianity still more worthy of the name shall be preached in them, I could not help wishing that the inside were more worthy of the out. A coat of shining walnut, a painting at one end, and a small organ with its dark wood and its golden-looking pipes at the other, would make, at no great expense to a wealthy man, a jewel of an interior, worthy of the lovely spot in which the church is situate. One cannot help desiring something of this kind the more, on account of what has been done for other village-churches in the neigh- bourhood, which I shall presently notice. Epsom church, I believe, is among them; the outside unquestionably (I have not seen the interior) ; and a spire has 'been added, which makes a pretty addition to the scenery. The only ornaments of Ashted church, besides two or three monu- ments of the Howards, are the family 'scutcheon, and that of His Sacred Majesty Charles the Second; which I suppose was put up at the time of his restoration or his visit, and has remained ever since, the lion still looking lively and threatening. One imagines the court coming to church, and the whole place filled with perukes and courtiers, with love-locks and rustling silks. Sir Robert is in a state of exaltation, Dryden stands near him, A WALK FROM DULWICH 63 observant. Charles composes his face to the sermon, upon which Buckingham and Sedley are cracking almost unbear- able jokes behind their gloves ; and the poor village maidens, gaping alternately at his Majesty's sacred visage and the profane beauty of the Countess of Castlemain, and then losing their eyes among " a power " of cavaliers, " the handsomest men as ever was," are in a way to bring the hearts, thumping in their boddices, to a fine market. I wonder how many descendants there are of earls and mar- quises living this minute at Epsom ! How much noble blood ignobly occupied with dairies and ploughs, and looking gules in the cheeks of bumpkins. Ashted Park has some fine walnut-trees (Surrey is the great garden of walnuts) and one of the noblest limes I ever saw. The park is well kept, has a pretty lodge and gamekeeper's house with roses at the doors ; and a farm cottage, where " gentlefolks " may play at rustics. A lady of quality, in a boddice, gives one somehow a pretty notion ; especially if she has a heart high enough really to sym- pathise with humility. A late Earl of Exeter lived unknown for some time in a village, under the name of Jones (was not that a good name to select ?) and married a country girl, whom he took to Burleigh House, and then for the first time told her she was the mistress of it and a Countess ! This is a romance of real life, which has been deservedly envied. If I, instead of being a shattered student, an old intellectual soldier, " not worth a lady's eye," and forced to compose his frame to abide the biddings of his resolution, were a young fellow in the bloom of life, and equally clever and penniless, I cannot imagine a fortune of which I should be prouder, and which would give me a right to take a manlier aspect in the eyes of love, than to owe everything I had in the world, down to my very shoe-strings, to a woman who should have played over the same story with me, the sexes being reversed ; who should 64 A WALK FROM DULWICH say, " You took me for a cottager, and 1 am a Countess ; and this is the only deception you will ever have to forgive me." What a pleasure to strive after daily excellence, in order to show one's gratitude to such a woman ; to fight for her ; to suffer for her ; to wear her name like a priceless jewel ; to hold her hand in long sickness, and look in her face when it has lost its beauty ; to say, questioning, "You know how I love you ? " and for her to answer with such a face of truth, that nothing but exceeding health could hinder one from being faint with adoring her. Alas ! why are not all hearts that are capable of love, rich in the knowledge how to show it ; which would supersede the necessity of other riches ? Or indeed, are not all hearts which are truly so capable, gifted with the riches by the capacity ? Forgive me this dream under the walnut-trees of Ashted Park ; and let us return to the colder loves of the age of Charles the Second. I thought to give you a good picture of Epsom, by turning to Shadwell's comedy of Epsom Wells ; but it contains nothing of any sort except a sketch of a wittol or two, though Sedley is said to have helped him in it, and though (probably on that account) it was very successful. Pepys, however, will supply us with a scene or two : — " 26th, Lord's Day. — Up and to the Wells, where a great store of citizens, which was the greatest part of the company, though there were some others of better quality. Thence I walked to Mr. Minnes's house, and thence to Durdan's, and walked within the court-yard &c. to the bowling-green, where I have seen so much mirth in my time ; but now no family in it (my Lord Barkeley, whose it is, being with his family at London). Then rode through Epsom, the whole town over, seeing the various companies that were there walking ; which is very pleasant, seeing how they are without knowing what to do, but only in the morning to drink waters, Bui Lord / to see how many A WALK FROM DULWICH 65 I met there of citizens, that I could not have thought to have seen there ; that they had ever had it in their heads or purses to go down there. We went through Nonesuch Park to the house, and there viewed as much as we could of the outside, and looked through the great gates and found a noble court ; and altogether believe it to have been a very noble house, and a delicate parke about it, where just now there was a doe killed for the king, to carry up to court. " — Vol. i. p. 241. If the sign of the King's Head at Epsom is still where it used to be, it appears from another passage, that we had merry ghosts next door to us. " 14th. — To Epsom, by eight o'clock, to the Well, where much company. And to the town, to the King's Head ; and hear that my Lord Buckhurst and Nelly are lodged at the next house, and Sir Charles Sedley with them ; and keep a merry house. Poor girl ! I pity her ; but more the loss of her at the king's house. Here Tom Wilson came to me, and sat and talked an hour ; and I per- ceive he hath been much acquainted with Dr. Fuller (Tom), and Dr. Pierson, and several of the great cavalier persons during the late troubles ; and I was glad to hear him talk of them, which he did very ingenuously, and very much of Dr. Fuller's art of memory, which he did tell me several instances of. By and bye he parted, and I talked with two women that farmed the well at ^12 per annum, of the lord of the manor. Mr. Evelyn, with his lady, and also my Lord George Barkeley's lady, and their fine daughter, that the King of France liked so well, and did dance so rich in jewels before the king, at the ball 1 was at, at our court last winter, and also their son, a knight of the Bath, were at church this morning. I walked upon the Downs, where a flock of sheep was, the most pleasant and innocent sight that ever I saw in my life. We found a shepherd, and his little boy reading, free from any houses or sight of people, E 66 A WALK FROM DULWICH the Bible to him ; and vue took notice of his knit woollen stockings, of two colours mixed." — Vol. ii. p. 92. This place was still in high condition at the beginning of the next century, as appears from Toland's account of it, quoted in the History of Epsom, by an Inhabitant. After a " flowery," as the writer justly calls it, but perhaps not undeserved account of the pleasures of the place, outside as well as in, he says — " The two rival bowling-greens are not to be forgotten, on which all the company, after diverting themselves in the morning, according to their fancies, make a gallant appear- ance every evening, especially on the Saturday and Monday. Here are also raffling-tables, with music playing most of the day ; and the nights are generally crowned with dancing. All newcomers are awakened out of their sleep the first morning, by the same music, which goes to welcome them to Epsom. " You would think yourself in some enchanted camp, to see the peasants ride to every house, with choicest fruits, herbs, and flowers ; with all sorts of tame and wild fowl, the rarest fish and venison ; and with every kind of butcher's meat, among which the Banstead Down mutton is the most relishing dainty. " Thus to see the fresh and artless damsels of the plain, either accompanied by their amorous swains or aged parents, striking their bargains with the nice court and city ladies, who, like queens in a tragedy, display all their finery on benches before their doors (where they hourly censure and are censured) ; and to observe how the handsomest of each degree equally admire, envy, and cozen one another, is to me one of the chief amusements of the place. " The ladies who are too lazy or stately, but especially those who sit up late at cards, have their provisions brought to their bedside, where they conclude the bargain with the A WALK FROM DULWICH 67 higgler ; and then (perhaps after a dish of chocolate) take another nap until what they have thus purchased is prepared for dinner. " Within a mile and a half of Epsom, is the place, and only the place, where the splendid mansion of Nonesuch lately stood. A great part of it, however, stood in my own time, and I have spoken with those who saw it entire. " But not to quit our Downs for any court, the great number of gentlemen and ladies that take the air every morning and evening on horseback, and that range, either singly or in separate companies, over every hill and dale, is a most entertaining object. " But whether you gently wander over my favourite meadows, planted on all sides quite to Woodcote Seat (in whose long grove I oftenest converse with myself) ; or walk further on to Ashted house and park ; or ride still farther to Box-hill, that enchanting temple of Nature ; or whether you lose yourself in the aged yew-groves of Mickleham, or try your patience in angling for trout about Leatherhead ; whether you go to some cricket-match, and other sports of contending villagers, or choose to breathe your,, horse at a race, and to follow a pack of hounds at the proper season ; whether, I say, you delight in any one or every of these, Epsom is the place you must like before all others." Congreve has a letter addressed " to Mrs. Hunt at Epsom." This was Arabella Hunt, the lady to whom he addressed an ode on her singing, and with whom he appears to have been in love. Epsom has still its races ; but the Wells (not far from Ashted Park), though retaining their property, and giving a name to a medicine, have long been out of fashion. Individuals, however, I believe, still resort to them. Their site is occupied by a farm-house, in which lodgings are to 68 A WALK FROM DULWICH be had. Close to Ashted Park is that of Woodcote, formerly the residence of the notorious Lord Baltimore, the last man of quality in England who had a taste for abduc- tion. Of late our aspirants after figure and fortune seem to have been ambitious of restoring the practice from Ireland. It is their mode of conducting the business of life. Abduc- tion, they think, " must be attended to." From Woodc'ote Green, a pretty sequestered spot, be- tween this park and the town, rooks are said to have been first taken to the Temple Gardens by Sir William Northey, secretary to Queen Anne. How heightened is the pleasure given you by the contemplation of a beautiful spot, when you think it has been the means of conferring a good else- where ! I would rather live near a rookery, which had sent out a dozen colonies, than have the solitary idea of them complete. In solitude you crave after human good ; and here a piece of it, however cheap in the eyes of the scornful, has been conferred ; for Sir William's colony flourish, it seems, in the smoke of London. Rooks always appeared to me the clergymen among birds ; grave, black- coated, sententious ; with an eye to a snug sylvan abode, and plenty of tithes. Their clerkly character is now mixed up in my imagination with something of the lawyer. They and the lawyers' " studious bowers," as Spenser calls the Temple, appear to suit one another. Did you ever notice, by the way, what a soft and pleasant sound there is in the voices of the young rooks — a sort of kindly chuckle, like that of an infant being fed ? At Woodcote Green is Durdans, the seat mentioned in Pepys as belonging to Lord Berkeley, now the residence of Sir Gilbert Heathcote, and said to have been built (with several other mansions) of the materials of Nonesuch, when that palace was pulled down. It is one of those solid country houses, wider than tall, and of shining brickwork, that retain at once a look of age and newness ; promise well A WALK FROM DULWICH 69 for domestic comfort ; and suit a good substantial garden. In coming upon it suddenly, and looking at it through the great iron gates and across a round plat of grass and flowers, it seems a personification of the solid country squire him- self, not without elegance, sitting under his trees. When I looked at it, and thought of the times of Charles II., I could not help fancying that it must have belonged to the " Dame Durdan " of the old glee, who had such a loving household. There is a beautiful walk from Woodcote Green to Ashted, through the park, and then (crossing the road) through fields and woody lanes to Leatherhead ; but in going, we went by the road. As we were leaving Epsom, a girl was calling the bees to swarm, with a brass pan. Larks accompanied us all the way. The fields were full of clover ; there was an air on our faces, the days being at once fine and gently clouded ; and in passing through a lovely country, we were conscious of going to a lovelier. At Leatherhead begin the first local evidences of hill and valley, with which the country is now enriched. The modern way of spelling the name of this town renders it a misnomer and a dishonour, and has been justly resented by the antiquarian taste of Mr. Dallaway, the vicar, who makes it a point, they say, to restore the old spelling, Lethered. I believe he supposes it to come anagramatically from the Saxon name Ethelred ; a thing not at all improbable, trans- formations of that sort having been common in old times. (See the annotations on Chaucer and Redi.) An Ethelred perhaps had a seat at this place. Epsom, formerly written Ebsham and Ebbesham (Fuller so writes it), is said to have been named from Ebba, a Saxon princess, who had a palace there. Ebba, I suppose, is the same as Emma, cum gratia Matbenvs. Leatherhead, like all the towns that let lodgings during the races, is kept very neat and nice ; and though not quite 7 o A WALK FROM DULWICH so woody as Epsom, is in a beautiful country, and has to boast of the river Mole. It has also a more venerable church. Mr. Dallaway, like a proper antiquary, has re- freshed the interior, without spoiling it. Over the main pew is preserved, together with his helmet, an inscription in old English letters, to the memory of " frendly Robert Gardner," chief Serjeant of the " Seller ," in the year 1 57 1. This was in the time of Elizabeth. A jovial successor of his is also recorded, to wit, " Richard Dalton, Esq., Serjeant of the Wine Cellar to King Charles II." But it is on the memory of the other sex that Leatherhead church ought to pride itself. Here are buried three sister Beauclercs, daughters of Lord Henry Beauclerc, who appear to have been three quiet, benevolent old maids, who followed one another quietly to the grave, and had lived, doubtless, the admiration rather than the envy of the village damsels. Here also lies Miss Cholmondeley, another old maid, but merry withal, and the delight of all that knew her, who, by one of those frightful accidents that suddenly knock people's souls out, and seem more frightful when they cut short the career of the good-natured, was killed on the spot, at the entrance of this village, by the overturning of the Princess Charlotte's coach, whom she was accompanying on a visit to Norbury Park. A most affectionate epitaph, honourable to all parties, and recording her special attach- ment to her married sister, is inscribed to her memory by her brother-in-law, Sir William Bellingham, I think. But above all, " Here lies all that is mortal " (to use the words of the tombstone) " of Mrs. Elizabeth Rolfe," of Dover, in Kent, who departed this life in the sixty-seventh year of her age, and was " interred by her own desire at the side of her beloved Cousin, Benefactress, and Friend, Lady Catharine Thompson, with whom she buried all worldly happiness. This temporary separation," continues the epitaph, " no engagements, no pursuits, could render less A WALK FROM DULWICH 71 bitter to the disconsolate Mrs. Rolfe, who from the hour she lost her other self knew no pleasures but in the hopes she cherished (on which point her eyes were ever fixed) of joining her friend in the region of unfading Felicity. Blessed with the Power and Will to succour the distressed, she exercised both ; and in these exercises only found a Ray of Happiness. Let the Ridiculers of Female Friend- ship read this honest Inscription, which disdains to flatter." — A record in another part informs us, that Mrs. Rolfe gave the parish the interest of ^400 annually in memory of the above, so long as the parish preserves the marble that announces the gift, and the stone that covers her grave. Talking with the parish-clerk, who was otherwise a right and seemly parish-clerk, elderly and withered, with a proper brown wig, he affected, like a man of this world, to speak in disparagement of the phrase "her other self," which somebody had taught him to consider romantic, and an exaggeration. This was being a little too much of " the earth, earthy." The famous parish-clerk of St Andrews, one of the great professors of humanity in the times of the Deckars and Shakspeares, would have talked in a different strain. There is some more of the epitaph, recommencing in a style somewhat " to seek," and after the meditative Burleigh fashion, in the Critic ; but this does not hinder the rest from being true, or Mrs. Rolfe and my lady Thompson from being two genuine human beings, and among the salt of the earth. There is more friendship and virtue in the world than the world has yet got wisdom enough to know and be proud of; and few things would please me better than to travel all over England, and fetch out the records of it. I must not omit to mention that Elinor Rummyn, illus- trious in the tap-room pages of " Skelton, Laureate," kept a house in this village ; and that Mr. Dallaway has em- blazoned the fact, for the benefit of antiquarian travellers, 72 A WALK FROM DULWICH in the shape of her portrait, with an inscription upon it. The house is the Running Horse, near the bridge. The luxuriance of the country now increases at every step towards Dorking, which is five miles from Leatherhead. You walk through a valley with hills on one side and wood all about ; and on your right hand is the Mole, running through fields and flowery hedges. These hills are the turfy downs of Norbury Park, the gate of which you soon arrive at. It is modern, but in good retrospective taste, and stands out into the road with one of those round over- hanging turrets, which seem held forth by the old hand of hospitality. A little beyond, you arrive at the lovely village of Mickleham, small, sylvan, and embowered, with a little fat church (for the epithet comes involuntarily at the sight of it), as short and plump as the fattest of its vicars may have been, with a disproportionate bit of a spire on the top, as if he had put on an extinguisher instead of a hat. The inside has been renewed in the proper taste as though Mr. Dallaway had had a hand in it ; and there is an organ, which is more than Leatherhead can boast. The organist is the son of the parish clerk ; and when I asked his sister, a modest, agreeable-looking girl, who showed us the church, whether he could not favour us with a voluntary, she told me he was making hay ! What do you say to that ? I think this is a piece of Germanism for you. Her father was a day-labourer, like the son, and had become organist before him, out of a natural love of music. I had fetched the girl from her tea. A decent-looking young man was in the room with her ; the door was open, exhibiting the homely comforts inside ; a cat slept before it, on the cover of the garden well, and there was plenty of herbs and flowers, presenting altogether the appearance of a cottage nest. I will be bound that their musical refinements are a great help to the enjoyment of all this ; and that a general lift in their tastes, instead of serving to dissatisfy the poor, A WALK FROM DULWICH 73 would have a reverse effect, by increasing the sum of their resources. It would, indeed, not help to blind them to whatever they might have reason to ask or to complain of. Why should it ? But it would refine them there also, and enable them to obtain it more happily, through the means of the diffusion of knowledge on all sides. The mansion of Norbury Park, formerly the seat of Mr. Locke, who appears to have had a deserved reputation for taste in the fine arts (his daughter married an Angerstein), is situate on a noble elevation upon the right of the village of Mickleham. Between the grounds and the road, are glorious slopes and meadows, superabundant in wood, and pierced by the river Mole. In coming back we turned up a path into them, to look at a farm that was to be let. It belongs to a gentleman, celebrated in the neighbourhood, and we believe elsewhere, for his powers of " conversation," but this we did not know at the time. He was absent, and had left his farm in the hands of his steward, to be let for a certain time. The house was a cottage, and furnished as becomes a cottage ; but one room we thought would make a delicious study. Probably it is one ; for there were books and an easy-chair in it. The window looked upon a close bit of lawn, shut in with trees, and round the walls hung a set of prints from Raphael. This looked as if the possessor had something to say for himself. We were now in the bosom of the scenery for which this part of the country is celebrated. Between Mickleham and Dorking, on the left is the famous Box Hill, so called from the trees that grow on it. Part of it presents great bald pieces of chalk ; but on the side of Mickleham it has one truly noble aspect, a "verdurous wall," which looks the higher for its being precipitous, and from its having somebody's house at the foot of it — a white little mansion in a world of green. Otherwise, the size of this hill disappointed us. The river Mole runs at the foot of 74 A WALK FROM DULWICH it. This river, so called from taking part of its course under ground, does not plunge into the earth at once, as most people suppose. So at least Dr. Aikin informs us, for I did not look into the matter myself. He says it loses itself in the ground at various points about the neighbour- hood, and rises again on the road to Leatherhead. I pro- test against its being called " sullen," in spite of what the poets have been pleased to call it for hiding itself. It is a good and gentle stream, flowing through luxuriant banks, and clear enough where the soil is gravelly. It hides, just as the nymph might hide ; and Drayton gives it a good character, if I remember. Unfortunately I have him not by me. The town of Dorking disappointed us, especially one of us, who was a good deal there when a child, and who found new London-looking houses started up in the place of old friends. The people also appeared not so pleasant as their countrymen in general, nor so healthy. There are more King's and Duke's Heads in the neighbourhood ; signs, which doubtless came in with the Restoration. The Leg of Mutton is the favourite hieroglyphic about the Downs. Dorking is famous for a breed of fowls with six toes. I do not know whether they have any faculty at counting their grain. We did not see Leith Hill, which is the great station for a prospect hereabouts, and upon which Dennis the critic made a lumbering attempt to be lively. You may see it in the two volumes of letters belonging to N. He u blunders round about a meaning," and en- deavours to act the part of an inspired Cicerone, with oratorical " flashes in the pan." One or two of his attempts to convey a particular impression are very ludicrous. Just as you think you are going to catch an idea, they slide off into hopeless generality. Such at least is my impression from what I remember. I regret that I could not meet at Epsom or Leatherhead with a Dorking A WALK FROM DULWICH 75 Guide, which has been lately published, and which, I be- lieve, is a work of merit. In the town itself I had not time to think of it ; otherwise I might have had some better information to give you regarding spots in the neigh- bourhood, and persons who have added to their interest. One of these, however, I know. Turning off to the left for Brockham, we had to go through Betchworth Park, formerly the seat of Abraham Tucker, one of the most amiable and truth-loving of philosophers. Mr Hazlitt made an abridgment of his principal work : but original and abridgment are both out of print. The latter, I should think, would sell now, when the public begin to be tired of the eternal jangling and insincerity of criticism, and would fain hear what an honest observer has to say. It would only require to be well advertised, not puffed ; for puffing, thank God, besides being a very unfit announcer of truth, has well-nigh cracked its cheeks. Betchworth Castle is now in the possession of Mr. Barclay the brewer, a descendant, if I mistake not, of the famous Barclay of Urie, the Apologist of the Quakers. If this gentleman is the same as the one mentioned in BoswelPs " Life of Johnson," he is by nature, as well as descent, worthy of occupying the abode of a wise man. Or if he is not, why shouldn't he be worthy after his fashion ? You remember the urbane old bookworm, who, conversing with a young gentleman, more remarkable for gentility than beauty, and understanding for the first time that he had sisters, said, in a transport of the gratuitous, "Doubtless very charming young ladies, sir." I will not take it for granted, that all the Barclays are philosophers ; but something of a superiority to the vulgar, either in talents or the love of them, may be more reasonably ex- pected in this kind of hereditary rank than the common one. With Mr. Tucker and his chestnut groves I will con- 76 A WALK FROM DULWICH elude, having, in fact, nothing to say of Brockham, except that it was the boundary of our walk. Yes ; I have one thing, and a pleasant one ; which is, that I met there by chance, with the younger brother of a family whom I had known in my childhood, and who are eminent to this day for a certain mixture of religion and joviality, equally un- common and good-hearted. May old and young continue not to know which shall live the longest. I do not mean religion or joviality ! but both in their shape. Believe me, dear sir, very truly yours. — Mine is not so novel or luxurious a journey as the one you treated us with the other day ; 1 which I mention, because one journey always makes me long for another ; and I hope not many years will pass over your head before you give us a second Ramble, in which I may see Italy once again, and hear with more accomplished ears the sound of her music. 1 See " A Ramble among the Musicians in Germany," a work full of gusto. j i M . SUNDAY IN THE SUBURBS BEING MORE LAST WORDS ON "SUNDAY IN LONDON": WITH A DIGRESSION ON THE NAME OF SMITH. In writing our articles on this subject, we have been so taken up, first with the dull look of the Sunday streets, and afterwards with the lovers who make their walls lively on the hidden side, that we fairly overlooked a feature in our Metropolitan Sabbath, eminently sabbatical ; to wit, the suburbs and their holiday-makers. What a thing to forget ! What a thing to forget, even if it concerned only Smith in his new hat and boots ! Why, he has been thinking of 77 78 SUNDAY IN THE SUBURBS them all the week ; and how could we, who sympathise with all the Smith-ism and boots in existence, forget them ? The hatter did not bring home his hat till last night, the bootmaker his boots till this morning. How did not Smith (and he is a shrewd fellow too, and reads us) pounce upon the hatbox, undo its clinging pasteboard lid, whisk off the silver paper, delicately develop the dear beaver, and put it on before the glass ! The truth must be owned : — he sate in it half supper-time. Never was such a neat fit. All Aldersgate, and the City Road, and the New Road, and Camden and Kentish towns, glided already before him, as he went along in it, — hatted in thought. He could have gone to sleep in it, — if it would not have spoiled his nap, and its own. Then his boots ! — Look at him. — There he goes — up Somers Town. Who would suspect, from the ease and superiority of his countenance, that he had not had his boots above two hours, — that he had been a good fourth part of the time labouring and fetching the blood up in his face with pulling them on with his boot-hooks, — and that at this moment they horribly pinch him ! But he has a small foot — has Jack Smith ; and he would squeeze, jam, and damn it into a thimble, rather than acknowledge it to be a bit larger than it seems. Do not think ill of him, especially you that are pinched a little less. Jack has sympathies ; and as long as the admiration of the community runs towards little feet and well-polished boots, he cannot dispense, in those quarters, with the esteem of his fellow-men. As the sympathies enlarge, Jack's boots will grow wider ; and we venture to prophesy, that at forty he will care little for little feet, and much for his corns and the public good. We are the more bold in this anticipation, from certain reminiscences we have of boots of our own. We shall not enter into details, for fear of compromising the dignity of literature ; but the good- SUNDAY IN THE SUBURBS 79 natured may think of them what they please. Non ignara malt (said Dido), miseris succurrere disco: that is, having known what it was to wear shoes too small herself, she should never measure, for her part, the capabilities of a woman's head, by the pettiness of her slippers. Napoleon was proud of a little foot ; and Caesar, in his youth, was a dandy. So go on, Smith, and bear your tor- tures like a man ; especially towards one o'clock, when it will be hot and dusty. Smith does not carry a cane with a twist at the top of it for a handle. That is for an inferior grade of holiday- maker, who pokes about the suburbs, gaping at the new buildings, or treats his fellow-servant to a trip to White Conduit House, and an orange by the way — always too sour. Smith has a stick or a whanghee ; or, if he rides, a switch. He is not a good rider ; and we must say it is his own fault, for he rides only on Sundays, and will not scrape acquaintance with the ostler on other days of the week. You may know him on horseback by the brisk forlornness of his steed, the inclined plane of his body, the extreme outwardness or inwardness of his toes, and an expression of face betwixt ardour, fear, and indifference. He is the most without a footman of any man in the world : that is to say, he has the most excessive desire to be taken for a man who ought to have one ; and, therefore, the space of road behind him pursues him, as it were, with the reproach of its emptiness. A word, by the way, as to our use of the generic name " Smith." A correspondent wrote to us the other day, intimating that it would be a good-natured thing if we refrained in future from designating classes of men by the name of " Tomkins." We know not whether he was a Tomkins himself, or whether he only felt for some friend of that name, or for the whole body of the Tomkinses ; all we know is, that he has taken the word out of our mouth 8o SUNDAY IN THE SUBURBS for ever. How many paragraphs he may have ruined by it, we cannot say ; but the truth is, he has us on our weak side. We can resist no appeal to our good -nature made by a good-natured man. Besides, we like him for the serious- ness and good faith with which he took the matter to heart, and for the niceness of his sympathy. Adieu, then, name of Tomkins ! Jenkins also, for a like respectful reason, we shall abstain from in future. But let nobody interfere in behalf of Smith, for Smith does not want it. Smith is too universal. Even a John Smith could not regard the use of his name as personal ; for John Smith, as far as his name is concerned, has no personality. He is a class, a huge body ; he has a good bit of the Directory to himself. You may see for pages together (if our memory does not deceive us) John Smith, John Smith, John Smith, or rather, Smith, John, Smith, John, Smith, John, Smith, John, Smith, John, Smith, John, and so on, with everlasting Smith-Johnism, like a set of palisades or iron rails ; almost as if you could make them clink as you go, with drawing something along them. The repetition is dazzling. The monotony bristles with same- ness. It is a chevaux-de- Smith. John Smith in short, is so public and multitudinous a personage, that we do not hesitate to say we know an excellent individual of that name, whose regard we venture thus openly to boast of, without fearing to run any danger of offending his modesty : for nobody will know whom we mean. An Italian poet says he hates the name of John, because if anybody calls him by it in the street, twenty people look out of window. Now let anybody call "John Smith ! " and half Holborn will cry out " Well ? " As to other and famous Smiths, they are too strongly SUNDAY IN THE SUBURBS 81 marked out by their fame, sometimes by their Christian names, and partly, indeed, by the uncommon lustre they attain through their very commonness, to make us at all squeamish in helping ourselves to their generic appellation at ordinary times. Who will ever think of confounding Smith, in the abstract, with Adam Smith, or Sir Sydney Smith, or the Reverend Sydney Smith, or James and Horace Smith, or Dr South wood Smith, or any other concretion of wit, bravery, or philosophy ? By this time, following, as we talk, our friend Jack up the road, we arrive at the first suburb tea-gardens, which he, for his part, passes with disdain ; not our friend, John Smith, be it observed, for his philosophy is as universal as his name, but Jack Smith, our friend of the new hat and boots. And yet he will be a philosopher, too, by and by ; and his boots shall help him to philosophise, but all in good time. Meanwhile, we who are old enough to consult our inclina- tion in preference to our grandeur, turn into the tea-gardens, where there is no tea going forward and not much garden, but worlds of beer, and tobacco-pipes, and alcoves ; and in a corner behind some palings there is (we fear) a sound of skittles. May no unchristian christian hear it, who is twirling his thumbs, or listening to the ring of his wine- glasses. How hot the people look ! how unpinned the goodly old dames ! how tired, yet untired, the children ! and how each alcove opens upon you as you pass, with its talk, smoke, beer, and bad paint ! Then what a feast to their eyes is the grass-plat ! Truly, without well knowing it, do they sit down almost as much to the enjoyment of that green table of Nature's in the midst of them, as to their tobacco and " half-and-half." It is something which they do not see all the rest of the week ; the first bit of grass, of any size, which they come to from home ; and here they stop and are content. For our parts, we wish they would go further, as Smith does, and get fairly out in the 82 SUNDAY IN THE SUBURBS fields ; but they will do that, as they become freer, and wiser, and more comfortable, and learn to know and love what the wild-flowers have to say to them. At present how should they be able to hear those small angelic voices, when their ears are ringing with stocking-frames and crying children, and they are but too happy in their tired -hearted- ness to get to the first bit of holiday ground they can reach ? We come away, and mingle with the crowds returning home, among whom we recognise our friend of the twisted cane, and his lass, who looks the reddest, proudest, and most assured of maid-servants, and sometimes " snubs " him a little, out loud, to show her power ; though she loves every blink of his eye. Yonder is a multitude collected round a Methodist preacher, whom they think far " behind his age," extremely ignorant of yesterday's unstamped, but " well- meaning," a " poor mistaken fellow, sir ; " and they will not have him hustled by the police. Lord X. should hear what they say. It might put an idea in his head. The gas-lights begin to shine ; the tide of the crowd grows thinner ; chapel-windows are lit up ; maid-servants stand in doorways ; married couples carry their children, or dispute about them ; and children, not carried, cry for spite, and jumble their souls out. As for Smith, he is in some friend's room, very comfort- able, with his brandy and water beside him, his coloured handkerchief on his knee, and his boots intermittent. 1 1 Intermit — " To grow mild between the fits or paroxysms."— Johnson. AJDVICE TO THE MELANCHOLY If you are melancholy for the first time, you will find upon a little inquiry, that others have been melancholy many times, and yet are cheerful now. If you have been melancholy many times, recollect that you have got over all those times ; and try if you cannot find out means of getting over them better. Do not imagine that mind alone is concerned in your bad spirits. The body has a great deal to do with these matters. The mind may undoubtedly affect the body ; but the body also affects the mind. There is a reaction between them ; and by lessening it on either side, you diminish the pain on both. If you are melancholy, and know not why, be assured it must arise entirely from some physical weakness ; and do your best to strengthen yourself. The blood of a melan- choly man is thick and slow ; the blood of a lively man is clear and quick. Endeavour therefore to put your blood in 83 84 ADVICE TO THE MELANCHOLY motion. Exercise is the best way to do it ; but you may also help yourself, in moderation, with wine, or other ex- citements. Only you must take care so to proportion the use of any artificial stimulus, that it may not render the blood languid by over-exciting it at first ; and that you may be able to keep up, by the natural stimulus only, the help you have given yourself by the artificial. Regard the bad weather as somebody has advised us to handle the nettle. In proportion as you are delicate with it, it will make you feel ; but " Grasp it like a man of mettle, And the rogue obeys you well." Do not the less, however, on that account, take all reasonable precaution and arms against it — your boots, etc., against wet feet, and your great- coat or umbrella against the rain. It is timidity and flight which are to be deprecated, not proper armour for the battle. The first will lay you open to defeat, on the least attack. A proper use of the latter will only keep you strong for it. Plato had such a high opinion of exercise, that he said it was a cure even for a wounded conscience. Nor is this opinion a dangerous one. For there is no system, even of superstition, however severe or cruel in other matters, that does not allow a wounded conscience to be curable by some means. Nature will work out its rights and its kindness some way or other, through the worst sophistications ; and this is one of the instances in which she seems to raise herself above all con- tingencies. The conscience may have been wounded by artificial or by real guilt ; but then she will tell it in those ex- tremities, that even the real guilt may have been produced by circumstances. It is her kindness alone, which nothing can pull down from its predominance. See fair play between cares and pastimes. Diminish your artificial wants as much as possible, whether you are rich or ADVICE TO THE MELANCHOLY 85 poor ; for the rich man's, increasing by indulgence, are apt to outweigh even the abundance of his means, and the poor man's diminution of them renders his means the greater. On the other hand, increase all your natural and healthy enjoyments. Cultivate your afternoon fireside, the society of your friends, the company of agreeable children, music, theatres, amusing books, an urbane and generous gallantry. He who thinks any innocent pastime foolish, has either to grow wiser or is past the ability to do so. In the one case, his notion of being childish is itself a childish notion. In the other, his importance is of so feeble and hollow a cast, that it dare not move for fear of tumbling to pieces. A friend of ours, who knows as well as any man how to unite industry with enjoyment, has set an excellent example to those who can afford the leisure, by taking two Sabbaths every week instead of one, — not Methodistical Sabbaths, but days of rest which pay true homage to the Supreme Being by enjoying His creation. One of the best pieces of advice for an ailing spirit is to go to no sudden extremes — to adopt no great and extreme changes in diet or other habits. They may make a man look very great and philosophic to his own mind ; but they are not fit for a being, to whom custom has been truly said #0 be a second nature. Dr Cheyne may tell us that a drowning man cannot too quickly get himself out of the water ; but the analogy is not good. If the water has become a second habit he might almost as well say that a fish could not get too quickly out of it. Upon this point, Bacon says that we should discontinue what we think hurtful by little and little. And he quotes with admiration the advice of Celsus, that " a man do vary and interchange contraries, but rather with an inclination to the more benign extreme." " Use fasting," he says, "and full eating, but rather full eating ; watching and sleep, but rather sleep ; sitting and exercise, but rather exercise, and 86 ADVICE TO THE MELANCHOLY the like ; so shall nature be cherished, and yet taught masteries." We cannot do better than conclude with one or two other passages out of the same Essay, full of his usual calm wisdom. " If you fly physic in health altogether, it will be too strange for your body when you need it." (He means that a general state of health should not make us over-con- fident and contemptuous of physic ; but that we should use it moderately if required, that it may not be too strange to us when required most.) "If you make it too familiar, it will have no extraordinary effect when sickness cometh. I commend rather some diet for certain seasons, than frequent use of physic, except it be grown into a custom ; for those diets alter the body more and trouble it less." " As for the passions and studies of the mind," says he, " avoid envy, anxious fears, anger fretting inwards, subtle and knotty inquisitions, joys and exhilarations in excess, sadness not communicated " (for as he says finely, some- where else, they who keep their griefs to themselves, are "cannibals of their own hearts"). "Entertain hopes; mirth rather than joy ; " (that is to say, cheerfulness rather than boisterous merriment) ; "variety of delights rather than surfeit of them ; wonder and admiration, and therefore novelties ; studies that fill the mind with splendid and illustrious objects, as histories, fables, and contemplations of nature." OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS Though we are such lovers of the country, we can admire London in some points of view ; and among others, from the entertainment to be derived from its shops. Their variety and brilliancy can hardly fail of attracting the most sluggish attention : and besides reasons of this kind, we can never look at some of them without thinking of the gallant figure they make in the Arabian Nights, with their bazaars and bezesteins ; where the most beautiful of un- knowns goes shopping in a veil, and the most graceful of drapers is taken blindfold to see her. He goes, too smitten at heart to think of the danger of his head ; and finds her seated among her slaves (exquisite themselves, only very inferior), upon which she encourages him to sit near her, and lutes are played ; upon which he sighs, and cannot help looking tenderly ; upon which she claps her hands, and a charming collation is brought in ; upon which they eat, but 8 7 88 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS not much. A dance ensues, and the ocular sympathy is growing tenderer, when an impossible old woman appears, and says that the Sultan is coming. Alas ! How often have we been waked up, in the person of the young draper or jeweller, by that ancient objection ! How have we re- ceived the lady in the veil, through which we saw nothing but her dark eyes and rosy cheeks ! How have we sat cross-legged on cushions, hearing or handling the lute, whose sounds faded away like our enamoured eyes ! How often have we not lost our hearts and left hands, like one of the Calendars ? Or an eye, like another ? Or a head ; and resumed it at the end of the story? Or slept (no, not slept) in the Sultan's garden at Schiraz with the fair Persian. But to return (as well as such enamoured persons can) to our shops. We prefer the country a million times over for walking in generally, especially if we have the friends in it that enjoy it as well ; but there are seasons when the very streets may vie with it. If you have been solitary, for instance, for a long time, it is pleasant to get among your fellow-creatures again, even to be jostled and elbowed. If you live in town, and the weather is showery, you may get out in the intervals of rain, and then a quickly- dried pavement and a set of brilliant shops are pleasant. Nay, we have known days, even in spring, when a street shall outdo the finest aspects of the country ; but then it is only when the ladies are abroad, and there happens to be a run of agreeable faces that day. For whether it is fancy or not, or whether certain days do not rather bring out certain people, it is a common remark, that one morning you shall meet a succession of good looks, and another encounter none but the reverse. We do not merely speak of handsome faces ; but of those which are charming, or otherwise, whatever be the cause. We suppose, that the money-takers are all abroad one day, and the heart-takers the other. OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS 89 It is to be observed, that we are not speaking of utility in this article, except indeed the great utility of agreeable- ness. A candid leather-cutter therefore will pardon us, if we do not find anything very attractive in his premises. So will his friend the shoemaker, who is bound to like us rural pedestrians. A stationer too, on obvious accounts, will excuse us for thinking his a very dull and bald-headed business. We cannot bear the horribly neat monotony of his shelves, with their load of virgin paper, their slates and slate-pencils that set one's teeth on edge, their pocket- books, and above all, their detestable ruled account-books, which at once remind one of the necessity of writing, and the impossibility of writing anything pleasant on such pages. The only agreeable thing, in a stationer's shop, when it has it, is the ornamental work, the card-racks, hand-screens, etc., which remind us of the fair morning fingers that paste and gild such things, and surprise their aunts with presents of flowery boxes. But we grieve to add, that the prints which the stationers furnish for such elegancies, are not in the very highest taste. They are apt to deviate too scrupulously from the originals. Their well-known heads become too anonymous. Their young ladies have casts in their eyes, a little too much on one side even for the sidelong divinities of Mr Harlowe. In a hatter's shop we can see nothing but the hats ; and the reader is acquainted with our pique against them. The beaver is a curious animal, but the idea of it is not enter- taining enough to convert a window full of those requisite nuisances into an agreeable spectacle. It is true, a hatter, like some other tradesmen, may be pleasanter himself, by reason of the adversity of his situation. We cannot say more for the oW-shop next door, — a name justly pro- vocative of a pun. It is customary, however, to have sign- paintings of Adam" and Eve at these places; which is some relief to the monotony of the windows ; only they remind 9 o OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS us but too well of these cruel necessities to which they brought us. The baker's next ensuing is a very dull shop, much inferior to the gingerbread baker's, whose parliament we used to munch at school. The tailor's makes one as melancholy to look at it, as the sedentary persons within. The hosier's is worse ; particularly if it has a Golden Leg over it; for that precious limb is certainly not symbolical of the weaver's. The windows, half board and half dusty glass, which abound in the City, can scarcely be turned to a purpose of amusement, even by the most attic of dry- salters. We own we have half a longing to break them, and let in the light of nature upon their recesses ; whether they belong to those more piquant gentlemen, or to bankers, or any other high and wholesale personages. A light in one of these windows in the morning is, to us, one of the very dismallest reflections on humanity. We wish we could say something for a tallow-chandler's, because everybody abuses it : but we cannot. It must bear its fate like the man. A good deal might be said in behalf of candle- light ; but in passing from shop to shop, the variety is so great, that the imagination has not time to dwell on any one in particular. The ideas they suggest must be obvious and on the surface. A grocer's and a tea-dealer's is a good thing. It fills the mind instantly with a variety of pleasant tastes, as the ladies in Italy on certain holidays pelt the gentlemen with sweetmeats. An undertaker's is as great a balk to one's spirits, as a loose stone to one's foot. It gives one a deadly jerk. But it is pleasant upon the whole to see the inhabitant looking carelessly out of doors, or hammering while humming a tune ; for why should he die a death at every fresh order for a coffin ? An undertaker walking merrily drunk by the side of a hearse, is a horrid object ; but an undertaker singing and hammering in his shop, is only rapping death himself on the knuckles. The dead are not there ; the altered fellow-creature is not there ; OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS 91 but only the living man, and the abstract idea of death ; and he may defy that as much as he pleases. An apothecary's is the more deadly thing of the two ; for the coffin may be made for a good old age, but the draught and the drug are for the sickly. An apothecary's looks well however at night-time, on account of the coloured glasses. It is curious to see two or three people talking together in the light of one of them, and looking profoundly blue. There are two good things in the Italian warehouse, — its name and its olives ; but it is chiefly built up of gout. Nothing can be got out of a brazier's windows, except by a thief: but we understand that it is a good place to live at for those who cannot procure water-falls. A music-shop with its windows full of title-pages, is provokingly insipid to look at, considering the quantity of slumbering enchantment inside, which only wants waking. A bookseller's is interesting, especially if the books are very old or very new, and have frontispieces. But let no author, with or without money in his pocket, trust himself in the inside, unless, like the book- seller, he has too much at home. An author is like a baker ; it is for him to make the sweets, and others to buy and enjoy them. And yet not so. Let us not blaspheme the " divinity that stirs within us." The old comparison of the bee is better ; for even if his toil at last is his destruction, and he is killed in order to be plundered, he has had the range of nature before he dies. His has been the summer air, and the sunshine, and the flowers ; and gentle ears have listened to him, and gentle eyes have been upon him. Let others eat his honey that please, so that he has had his morsel and his song. A bookstall is better for an author than a regular shop ; for the books are cheaper, the choice often better and more ancient ; and he may look at them, and move on without the horrors of not buying anything ; unless indeed the master or mistress stands looking at him from the shop-door ; which is a vile 92 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS practice. It is necessary, we suppose, to guard against pilferers ; but then ought not a stall-keeper, of any percep- tion, to know one of us real magnanimous spoilers of our gloves from a sordid thief? A tavern and coffee-house is a pleasant sight, from its sociality ; not to mention the illus- trious club memories of the times of Shakspeare and the Tatlers. We confess that the commonest public-house in town is not such an eyesore to us as it is to some. There may be a little too much drinking and roaring going on in the middle of the week ; but what, in the meantime, are pride, and avarice, and all the unsocial vices about ? Before we object to public-houses, and above all, to their Saturday evening recreations, we must alter the systems that make them a necessary comfort to the poor and laborious. Till then, in spite of the vulgar part of the polite, we shall have an esteem for the " Devil and the Bag o' Nails " ; and like to hear, as we go along on Saturday night, the applaud- ing knocks on the table that follow the song of " Lovely Nan," or " Brave Captain Death," or " Tobacco is an Indian Weed," or " Why, Soldiers, why," or " Says Plato, why should man be vain," or that judicious and un- answerable ditty commencing — " Now what can man more desire Nor sitting by a sea-coal fire : And on his knees, etc." We will even refuse to hear anything against a gin-shop, till the various systems of the moralists and economists are dis- cussed, and the virtuous leave off seduction and old port. In the meantime, we give up to anybody's dislike the butcher's and fishmonger's. And yet see how things go by comparison. We remember, in our boyhood, a lady from the West Indies, of a very delicate and high-bred nature, who could find nothing about our streets that more excited her admiration than the butchers' shops. She had no OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS 93 notion, from what she had seen in her own country, that so ugly a business could be carried on with so much neatness, and become actually passable. An open potato shop is a dull bleak-looking place, except in the height of summer. A cheesemonger's is then at its height of annoyance, unless you see a paviour or bricklayer coming out with his three penn'orth on his bread — a better sight than the glutton's waddling away from the fishmonger's. A poulterer's is a dead-bodied business, with its birds and their lax necks. We dislike to see a bird anywhere but in the open air, alive and quick. Of all creatures, restraint and death become its winged vivacity the least. For the same reason we hate aviaries. Dog-shops are tolerable. A cook-shop does not mingle the agreeable with the useful. We hate its panes, with Ham and Beef scratched upon them in white letters. An ivory-turner's is pleasant, with its red and white chessmen, and little big-headed Indians on elephants ; so is a toy-shop, with its endless delights for children. A coach-maker's is not disagreeable, if you can see the painting and panels. An umbrella-shop only reminds one of a rainy day, unless it is a shop for sticks also, which as we have already shown are meritorious articles. The curiosity-shop is sometimes very amusing, with its man- darins, stuffed birds, odd old carved faces, and a variety of things as indescribable as bits of dreams. The greengrocer carries his recommendation in his epithet. The hairdressers are also interesting as far as their hair goes, but not as their heads — we mean the heads in their windows. One of the shops we like least is an angling repository, with its rod for a sign, and a fish dancing in the agonies of death at the end of it. We really cannot see what equanimity there is in"" jerking a lacerated carp out of water by the jaws, merely because it has not the power of making a noise ; for we presume that the most philosophic of anglers would hardly delight in catching shrieking fish. An optician's is not 94 OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS very amusing, unless it has those reflecting-glasses in which you see your face run off on each side into attenuated width, or upwards and downwards in the same manner, in dreary longitude. A saddler's is good, because it reminds one of horses. A Christian swordmaker's or gunmaker's is edifying. A glass-shop is a beautiful spectacle ; it reminds one of the splendours of a fairy palace. We like a blacksmith's for the sturdy looks and thumpings of the men, the swarthy colour, the fiery sparkles and the thunder- breathing throat of the furnace. Of other houses of traffic, not common in the streets, there is something striking to us in the large, well-conditioned horses of the brewers, and the rich smoke rolling from out their chimneys. We also greatly admire a wharf, with its boats, barrels, and packages, and the fresh air from the water, not to mention the smell of pitch. It carries us at once a hundred miles over the water. For similar reasons the crabbedest old lane has its merits in our eyes, if there is a sail-maker's in it or a boat- builder's and water at the end. How used old Roberts of Lambeth to gratify the aspiring modesty of our school- coats, when he welcomed us down to his wherries and cap- tains on a holiday, and said, " Blue against Black at any time," meaning the Westminster boys ! And the colleges will ratify his praise, taking into consideration the difference of the numbers that go there from either cloisters. But of all shops in the streets a print-seller's pleases us the most. We would rather pay a shilling to Mr Colnaghi, Mr Molteno, or Messieurs Moon and Boys, to look at their windows on one of their best-furnished days, than we would for many on exhibition. We can see fine engravings there, translations from Raphael and Titian, which are newer than hundreds of originals. We do not despise a pastry-cook's, though we would rather not eat tarts and puffs before the half-averted face of the prettiest of accountants, especially with a beggar watching and praying all the while at the OF THE SIGHT OF SHOPS 95 door. We need not expatiate on the beauties of a florist's, where you see unwithering leaves, and roses made immortal. A dress warehouse is sometimes really worth stopping at, for its flowered draperies and richly-coloured shawls. But one's pleasure is apt to be disturbed (ye powers of gallantry ! bear witness to the unwilling pen that writes it) by the fair faces that come forth, and the half-polite, half-execrating expression of the tradesman that bows them out ; for here takes place the chief enjoyment of the mystery yclept shop- ping ; and here, while some ladies give the smallest trouble unwillingly, others have an infinity of things turned over, for the mere purpose of wasting their own time and the shopman's. We have read of a choice of a wife by cheese. It is difficult to speak of preference in such matters, and all such single modes of trial must be something equivocal ; but we must say, that of all modes of the kind, we should desire no better way of seeing what ladies we admired most, and whom least, than by witnessing this trial of them at a linen-draper's counter. V^l^USr- A NEARER VIEW OF SOME OF THE SHOPS In the general glance that we have taken at shops, we found ourselves unwillingly compelled to pass some of them too quickly. It is the object therefore of the present article to enter into those more attractive thresholds, and look a little about us. We imagine a fine day ; time, about noon ; scene, any good brilliant street. The ladies are abroad in white and green ; the beaux lounging, conscious of their waists and neckcloths ; the busy pushing onward, conscious of their bills ; the dogs and coaches — but we must reserve this out-of-door view of the streets for a separate article. To begin then, where our shopping experience began, with the toy-shop — " Visions of glory, spare our aching sight ! Ye just-breeched ages, crowd not on our soul ! " We still seem to have a lively sense of the smell of that gorgeous red paint, which was on the handle of our first wooden sword ! The pewter guard also — how beautifully fretted and like silver did it look ! How did we hang it round our shoulder by the proud belt of an old ribbon ; — then feel it well suspended ; then draw it out of the sheath, eager to cut down four savage men for ill-using ditto of damsels ! An old muff made an excellent grenadier's cap ; or one's hat and feather, with the assistance of three surreptitious large pins, became fiercely modern and military. There it is, in that corner of the window the same identi- cal sword, to all appearance, which kept us awake the first 9 6 NEARER VIEW OF THE SHOPS 97 night behind our pillow. We still feel ourselves little boys, while standing in this shop ; and for that matter, so we do on other occasions. A field has as much merit in our eyes, and gingerbread almost as much in our mouths, as at that daisy-plucking and cake-eating period of life. There is the trigger-rattling gun, fine of its kind, but not so complete a thing as the sword. Its memories are not so ancient : for Alexander or St George did not fight with a musket. Neither is it so true a thing ; it is not " like life." The trigger is too much like that of a cross- bow ; and the pea which it shoots, however hard, produces even to the imaginative faculties of boyhood a humiliating flash of the mock-heroic. It is difficult to fancy a dragon killed with a pea ; but the shape and appurtenances of the sword being genuine, the whole sentiment of massacre is as much in its wooden blade, as if it were steel of Damascus. The drum is still more real, though not so heroic. In the corner opposite are battle-doors and shuttle-cocks, which have their maturer beauties ; balls, which possess the addi- tional zest of the danger of breaking people's windows ; ropes, good for swinging and skipping, especially the long ones which others turn for you, while you run in a masterly manner up and down, or skip in one spot with an easy and endless exactitude of toe, looking alternately at their conscious faces ; blood-allies, with which the possessor of a crisp finger and thumb-knuckle causes the smitten marbles to vanish out of the ring ; kites, which must appear to more vital birds a ghastly kind of fowl, with their grim long white faces, no bodies, and endless tails ; — cricket bats, manly to handle ; — trap bats, a genteel inferiority ; — swimming corks, despicable ; — horses on wheels, an imposition on the infant public ; — rocking-horses, too much like Pegasus, ardent, yet never getting on ; — Dutch toys, so like life that they ought to be better ; — Jacob's ladders, flapping down one over another their tintinnabulary shutters ; — dissected G 98 NEARER VIEW OF THE SHOPS aunt maps, from which the infant statesmen may learn how to dovetail provinces and kingdoms ; — paper posture-makers, who hitch up their knees against their shoulder-blades, and dangle their legs like an opera dancer; — Lilliputian plates, dishes, and other household utensils, in which a grand dinner is served up out of half an apple ; — boxes of paints, to colour engravings with, always beyond the outline ; — ditto of bricks, a very sensible and lasting toy, which we except from a grudge we have against the gravity of infant geometricks ; — whips, very useful for cutting people's eyes unawares ; — hoops, one of the most ancient as well as excellent of toys ; — sheets of pictures, from A apple-pie up to farming, military, and zoological exhibitions, always taking care that the Fly is as large as the Elephant, and the letter X exclusively appropriated to Xerxes ; — musical NEARER VIEW OF THE SHOPS 99 deal-boxes, rather complaining than sweet, and more like a peal of bodkins than bells ; — penny trumpets, awful at Bartlemy-tide ; — Jew's harps, that thrill and breathe between the lips like a metal tongue ; — carts — carriages — hobby- horses, upon which the infant equestrian prances about proudly on his own feet ; — in short, not to go through the whole representative body of existence — dolls, which are so dear to the maternal instincts of little girls. We protest, however, against that abuse of them, which makes them full-dressed young ladies in body, while they remain infant in face ; especially when they are of frail wax. It is cultivating finery instead of affection. We prefer good honest plump limbs of cotton and sawdust, dressed in baby- linen, or even our ancient young friends, with their staring dotted eyes ; red varnished faces, triangular noses, and Rosinante wooden limbs — not, it must be confessed, ex- cessively shapely or feminine, but the reverse of fragile beauty, and prepared against all disasters. The next step is to the Pastry-cook's, where the plain bun is still the pleasantest thing in our eyes, from its respectability in those of childhood. The pastry, less patronised by judicious mothers, is only so much elegant in- digestion : yet it is not easy to forget the pleasure of nibbling away the crust all round a raspberry or currant tart, in order to enjoy the three or four delicious semi-circular bites at the fruity plenitude remaining. There is a custard with a wall of paste round it, which provokes a siege of this kind ; and the cheese-cake has its amenities of approach. The acid flavour is a relief to the mawkishness of the biffin or pressed baked apple, and an addition to the glib and quivering lightness of the jelly. Twelfth Cake, which when cut looks like the side of a rich pit of earth covered with snow, is pleasant from warmer associations. Confec- tionary does not seem in the same request as of old ; its paint has hurt its reputation. Yet the school-boy has still L.ofC. ioo NEARER VIEW OF THE SHOPS much to say for its humbler suavities. Kisses are very amiable and allegorical. Eight or ten of them, judiciously wrapped up in pieces of letter-paper, have saved many a loving heart the trouble of a less eloquent billet-doux. Candid citron we look upon to be the very acme and atticism of confectionary grace. Preserves are too much of a good thing, with the exception of the jams that retain their fruit-skins. " Jam satis." They qualify the cloying. Yet marmalade must not be passed over in these times, when it has been raised to the dignity of the peerage. The other day there was a Duke of Marmalade in Hayti and a Count of Lemonade — so called, from places in which those eminent relishes are manufactured. After all, we must own that there is but one thing for which we care much at a pastry- cook's, except our old acquaintance the bun ; especially as we can take up that, and go on. It is an ice. Fancy a very hot day ; the blinds down, the loungers unusually languid ; the pavement burning one's feet ; the sun, with a strong outline in the street, baking one whole side of it like a brick-kiln ; so that everybody is crowding on the other, except a man going to intercept a creditor bound for the Continent. Then think of a heaped-up ice, brought upon a salver with a spoon. What statesman, of any warmth of imagination, would not pardon the Neapolitans in summer, for an insurrection on account of the want of ice ? Think of the first sidelong dip of the spoon in it, bringing away a well-sliced lump ; then of the sweet wintry refreshment, that goes lengthening down one's throat ; and lastly, of the sense of power and satisfaction resulting from having bad the ice. " Not heaven itself can do away that slice; But what has been, has been ; and I have had my ice." We unaccountably omitted two excellent shops last week, — the fruiterer's and the sculptor's. There is great beauty as well as agreeableness in a well-disposed fruiterer's window. NEARER VIEW OF THE SHOPS 101 Here are the round piled-up oranges, deepening almost into red, and heavy with juice ; the apple with its brown-red cheek, as if it had slept in the sun ; the pear, swelling downwards ; thronging grapes, like so many tight little bags of wine ; the peach, whose handsome leathern coat strips off so finely ; the pearly or ruby -like currants, heaped in light long baskets ; the red little mouthful of strawberries ; the larger purple ones of plums ; cherries, whose old com- parison with lips is better than anything new ; mulberries, dark and rich with juice, fit to grow over what Homer calls the deep black-watered fountains ; the swelling pomp of melons ; the rough inexorable-looking cocoa-nut, milky at heart ; the elaborate elegance of walnuts ; the quaint cashoo-nut ; almonds, figs, raisins, tamarinds, green leaves, — in short, "Whatever Earth, all-bearing mother, yields In India East or West, or middle shore In Pontus or the Punick coast, or where Alcinous reigned, fruit of all kinds, in coat Rough, or smooth rind, or bearded husk, or shell." Milton. There is something of more refined service in waiting upon a lady in a fruit-shop, than in a pastry-cook's. The eating of tarts, as Sir Walter Scott handsomely saith in his "Life of Dryden " (who used to enjoy them, it seems, in company with "Madam Reeves"), is "no inelegant pleasure ; " but there is something still more graceful and suitable in the choosing of the natural fruit, with its rosy lips and red cheeks. A white hand looks better on a basket of plums than in the doubtful touching of syrupy and sophisticated pastry. There is less of the kitchen about the fair visitor. She is more Pomona-like, native, and to the purpose. We help her, as we would a local deity. " Here be grapes whose lusty blood Is the learned poets good, io2 NEARER VIEW OF THE SHOPS Sweeter yet did never crown The head of Bacchus ; — nuts more brown Than the squirrels' teeth that crack them ; Deign, O fairest fair, to take them. For these black ey'd Driope Hath often times commanded me, With my clasped knee to climb ; See how well the lusty time Hath deckt their rising cheeks in red, Such as on your lips is spread. Here be berries for a Queen, Some be red, some be green ; These are of that luscious meat, The great God Pan himself doth eat. All these, and what the woods can yield, The hanging mountain or the field, 1 freely offer, and ere long Will bring you more, more sweet and strong, Till when humbly leave I take, Lest the great Pan do awake, That sleeping lies in a deep glade, Under a broad beech's shade." Fletcher's Faithful Shepherdess. How the poets double every delight for us, with their imagination and their music ! In the windows of some of the sculptors' shops artificial fruit may be seen. It is a better thing to put upon a mantel- piece than many articles of greater fashion ; but it gives an abominable sensation to one's imaginary teeth. The in- cautious epicure who plunges his teeth into " a painted snow- ball " in Italy (see Brydone's Tour in Sicily and Malta), can hardly receive so jarring a balk to his gums, as the bare apprehension of a bite at a stone peach ; but the farther you go in a sculptor's shop the better. Many persons are not aware that there are show-rooms in these places, which are well worth getting a sight of by some small purchase. For the best plaster casts the Italian shops, such as Papera's in Marylebone Street, Golden Square, and Sarti's in Greek NEARER VIEW OF THE SHOPS 103 Street, are the best. Of all the shop-pleasures that are " not inelegant," an hour or two passed in a place of this kind is surely one of the most polite. Here are the gods and heroes of old, and the more beneficent philosophers, ancient and modern. You are looked upon, as you walk among them, by the paternal majesty of Jupiter, the force and decision of Minerva, the still more arresting gentleness of Venus, the budding compactness of Hebe, the breathing inspiration of Apollo. Here the Celestial Venus, naked in heart and body, ties up her locks, her drapery hanging upon her lower limbs. Here the Belvidere Apollo, breathing forth his triumphant disdain, follows with an earnest eye the shaft that has killed the serpent. Here the Graces, linked in an affectionate group, meet you in the naked sincerity of their innocence and generosity, their hands "open as day," and two advancing for one receding. Here Hercules, like the building of a man, looks down from his propping club, as if half-disdaining even that repose. There Mercury, with his light limbs, seems just to touch the ground, ready to give a start with his foot and be off again. Bacchus, with his riper cheek and his thicker hanging locks, appears to be eyeing one of his nymphs. The Vatican Apollo near him, leans upon the stump of a tree, the hand which hangs upon it holding a bit of his lyre, the other arm thrown up over his head, as if he felt the air upon his body, and heard it singing through the strings. In a corner on another side, is the Crouching Venus of John of Bologna, shrink- ing just before she steps into the bath. The Dancing Faun is not far off, with his animal spirits, and the Piping Faun, sedater because he possesses an art more accom- plished. Among the other divinities, we look up with veneration to old Homer's head, resembling an earthly Jupiter. Plato beholds us with a bland dignity — a beauty unimpairable by years. How different from the brute impulse of Mars, the bloated self-will of Nero, or the dull io 4 NEARER VIEW OF THE SHOPS and literal effeminacy of some of the other emperors ! There is a sort of presence in sculpture more than in any other representations of art. It is curious to see how instinctively people will fall into this sentiment when they come into a place with busts and statues in it, however common. They hush, as if the images could hear them. In our boyhood, some of our most delightful holidays were spent in the gallery of the late Mr West, in Newman Street. It runs a good way back from the street, crossing a small garden, and opening into loftier rooms on the other side of it. We remember how the world used to seem shut out from us the moment the street door was closed, and we began stepping down those long-carpeted aisles of pictures, with statues in the angles where they turned. We had observed everybody walk down them in this way, like the mild possessor of the mansion, and we went so likewise. We have walked down with him at night to his painting- room, as he went in his white flannel gown, with a lamp in his hand, which shot a lustrous twilight upon the pictured walls in passing ; and everything looked so quiet and grace- ful, that we should have thought it sacrilege to hear a sound beyond the light tread of his footsteps. But it was the statues that impressed us still more than the pictures. It seemed as if Venus and Apollo waited our turning at the corners ; and there they were, always the same, placid and intuitive, more human and bodily than the paintings, yet too divine to be over real. It is to that house with the gallery in question, and the little green plot of ground, surrounded with an arcade and busts, that we owe the greatest part of our love for what is Italian and belongs to the fine arts. And if this is a piece of private history, with which the readers have little to do, they will excuse it for the sake of the greatest of all excuse, which is Love. yiCQFZyse -nouses Smoking has had its vicissitudes, as well as other fashions. In Elizabeth's day, when it first came up, it was a high accomplishment: James (who liked it none the better for its being of Raleigh's invention) indignantly refused it the light of his countenance : in Charles's time it was dashed out by the cannon ; lips had no leisure for it under Charles the Second : the clubs and the Dutch brought it back again with King William : it prevailed more or less during the reign of the first two Georges ; grew thin, and died away under George the Third ; and has lately reappeared, with a flourish of Turkish pipes, and through the milder medium of the cigar, under the auspices of his successor. The last smoker I recollect among those of the old school, was a clergyman. He had seen the best society, and was a man of the most polished behaviour. This did not hinder him from taking his pipe every evening before he went to bed. He sat in his armchair, his back gently bending, his knees a little apart, his eyes placidly inclined towards the fire : and delighted, in the intervals of puff, to recount anecdotes of the Marquis of Rockingham and " my Lord North." The end of his recreation was announced to those who had gone to bed, by the tapping of the bowl of his pipe upon the hob, for the purpose of emptying it of 106 COFFEE-HOUSES & SMOKING its ashes. Ashes to ashes ; head to bed. It is a pity that the long day of life cannot always terminate as pleasantly. Bacon said that the art of making deathbeds easy was among the desiderata of knowledge. Perhaps, for the most part, they are easier than the great chancellor im- agined ; but, no doubt, the most conscientious ones might often be bettered. A virtuous man shall not always take his departure as comfortably as a sinner with a livelier state of diaphragm. Frenchmen have died, sitting in their chairs, full-dressed and powdered. I have a better taste in mor- tality than that; but 1 think I could drop off with a decent compromise between thought and forgetfulness, sitting with my pipe by a fireside, in an old elbow-chair. I delight to think of the times when smoking was an ornament of literature, a refreshment and repose to the studious head ; when Hobbes meditated, and Cowley built his castles in those warmer clouds, and Dr Aldrich his quadrangles. In smoking, you may think or not think, as you please. If the mind is actively employed, the pipe keeps it in a state of satisfaction, supplies it with a side luxury, a soft ground to work upon. If you wish to be idle, the successive puffs take the place of thinking. There is a negative activity in it, that fills up the place of real. Intruding notions are met with a puff in their teeth, and puffed into nothing. Studious men are subject to a work- ing and fermenting of thought, when their meditations would fain be over : they cannot always cease meditating. Bacon was accustomed to take a draught of March beer towards bedtime, to settle this asstuary of his mind. I wonder he did not take a pipe, as a gentler carrier off of that uneasiness. Being a link between thought and no thought, one would imagine it would have been a more advisable compromise with his state of excitement than the dashing Gf one stream upon another in that violent manner, and forcing his nerves to behave themselves- COFFEE-HOUSES & SMOKING 107 There are delicate heads, I am aware, that cannot bear even a cigar. Smoking, of any sort, makes too sudden an appeal to the connection between their sensitive nerves and the stomach ; produces what the doctors call predi- gestion, and is rebuked with a punishment of the weaker part, to wit, the brain. Bacon's might have been such in his old age, after all the service it had seen ; but I wonder, on that account, that he resorted to the jolly and fox-hunting succedaneum of beer. A walk would have been better. " After study walk a mile." The object is to restore the blood gradually to motion, arrested as it has been with many thoughts, and confused when they let it go. Now a pipe is a more gradual restorative than a draught. As it is a shadowing off between thinking and no thinking, so it is a preparer for sleep, and a reconciler with want of company. But the genius of smoking, being truly philosophical, has its love of society too : and then it resorts to a cup. Among Mr Stothard's agreeable designs for the Spectator, there is one of the club over a table, with their pipes and their wine. Captain Sentry is going to light his pipe at the candle ; Sir Roger is sitting with his knees apart, like the old gentleman I have been describing, in the act of preparing his, — perhaps thinking what a pretty tobacco- stopper the widow's finger would have made. One longs to be among them. As I never pass Covent Garden (and I pass it very often) without thinking of all the old coffee-houses and the wits, so I can never reflect, with- out impatience, that there are no such meetings nowadays, and no coffee-room that looks as if it would suit them. People confine themselves too much to their pews and boxes. In former times there was a more humane open- ness of intercourse. Different parties had indeed their respective places of resort ; a natural consequence of poli- tics, perhaps of letters ; but this prevented ungraceful io8 COFFEE-HOUSES & SMOKING quarrels. Hostility might get in, but was obliged to behave itself. Dryden, who was the object of attack to an increasing horde of scribblers, was never insulted in his coffee-house. Even the bravos of Lord Rochester, or whoever it was that had him waylaid in Rose Alley, did not venture to disturb the peace of his symposium. The room in which he sat is described as open to all comers, and he occupied a prominent part in it. In winter a place was sacred for him at the fireside. I confess, if I were a wit, I would rather have a room to myself and friends. I should like to be public only in my books. But this is a taste originating in the times. Dryden was a modest man in his intercourse ; and was never charged, I believe, among all the accusations of vanity brought against him, of being the vainer for frequent- ing a coffee-room. Being a lover of wits, I should like to see the times alter in this respect, and the great men of all parties become visible. But where could they be so? Where could the pleasant fellows among our existing Whigs and Tories take up one of their respective taber- nacles, and make a religion of our going to hear them, and aspiring to a pinch out of their snuff-boxes ? I was thinking of this, as I passed through Convent Garden the other evening. Above all, said I, where could we have the whole warmth of the intercourse revived, the Spectator's tobacco-pipe and all, especially when it is no longer the fashion to drink wine ? It would take a great deal to fetch Englishmen again out of their boxes. They do not allow smoking in the best coffee-houses ; and where they do, so many other things are allowed, that no gentleman would remain. Where shall I place my imaginary coterie, and fancy myself listening to the Drydens and Addisons of the day ? It is the fashion now for your wilder writers in magazines to patronise, or pretend to patronise, some house of call, or vociferation, the mediocrity of which shall give COFFEE-HOUSES & SMOKING 109 them an air of vigour and defiance in the patronage, and prove them men of originality. There is something pleasant in this where it is not an affectation of superiority to prejudice, arising out of an absolute sense to the con- trary, and betraying itself by a tone of bullying. But real or not, and with all my regard for those honest houses, where the only sophisticate thing is the presence of some of their panegyrists, they will not do for the purpose before us. Due is my consideration for the " Dog and the Coal- hole ; " pungent my sense of the " Cheshire Cheese : " the "Hole in the Wall" has a snug appellation; and as for Dolly's " Beef-Steak House," great would be my in- gratitude, did I forget its hot pewter-plate, new bread, floury potatoes, foaming pot of porter, and perfect beef- steak. The man that cannot enjoy a beefsteak there, c;in enjoy a stomach nowhere. But it is not what I was seek- ing the other night. Neither is the " Hummums," nor the " Bedford," nor the " Piazza," nor the " Southampton," nor the " Salopian." During these meditations, I approach my friend Gliddon's snuff and tobacco-shop, in King Street. Ay, here, said I, is wherewithal to fill the boxes of the Steeles and Congreves, and the pipes of the Aldriches and Sir Roger de Coverleys. But where is the room in which we can fancy them ? Where is the coffee-house to match ? Where the union of a certain domestic comfort with publicity, — journals of literature as well as news, — a fire visible to all, — cups without inebriety, — smoking without vulgarity ? On a sudden, I find carriages stopping at the door ; I recognise an acquaintance of mine, a member of Parliament, who does not easily come out of his way to fill a snuff-box : I hear a gentleman inquiring about the coffee- room, and " whether Prince Esterhazy is to be turned away again by a stress of company." I enter, and ask my old acquaintance what miracle he has been about. He no COFFEE-HOUSES & SMOKING points to a board in his shop, and then takes me through a door in the wall into the very room that I was looking for. It was rather two rooms thrown into one, and with a fire in each ; a divan of ample dimensions runs round it ; lamps of ground glass diffuse a soft, yet sufficing light ; the floor is carpeted ; two cheerful fires offer double facility of approach, a twofold provocation to poke and be self- possessed ; around are small mahogany tables, with chairs, in addition to the divan ; and in the midst of all, stands a large one, profusely covered with the periodical works of the day, newspapers, magazines and publications that come out in numbers. I sit down, and am initiated with the hospitality due to an old friend, in all the amenities of the place. A cigar and an excellent cup of coffee are served. " But will you have as good coffee at the end of the year ? " — " Can you ask me that question, Mr Honeycomb — you, who have known me long ? " — " Well, if anybody that ever kept a shop can do it, it is you : and I tell you what ; — if you do, depend upon it, no success will be like yours. Good fortune produces abuse of it ; but the abuse is always as impolitic, compared with a genuine policy, as cunning is inferior to wisdom. If there were any one shop in London, in which the customer for a series of years were sure to find one undeviating goodness of article, the phenomenon would attract and retain all eyes. And these cigars : the boy tells me they are excellent also. Is this true? " — " I can tell you one thing they say of them, by which you may judge for yourself; they say they are smuggled."— " O, ho! " " And snatch a grace beyond the reach of law." " You know how the law picked my pocket once. Before that time, I was so tender of conscience, that when I was at Hastings I would not purchase a toy or a pair of gloves that was contraband ; whereas now — I will not ask you to COFFEE-HOUSES & SMOKING 113 make me certain whether the articles are smuggled or not — say no more — rest your insinuating fame on that. But a prettier-tasted cigar — a leaf with a finer tip of flavour in it, — pray, how many cigars might a man smoke of an evening ? I have a great mind to try. But I must look at your publications. By the way, you have no pipes, I see ; and I observe no bottles. Have you neither pipes nor wine ? " — " No, we are exclusively cigar ; we have coffee, sherbet, lemonade — all reasonable Oriental drinks to har- monise with our divan, but nothing to disturb the peace of it. Thus we secure a certain domestic elegance in-doors, and can prevent drunkards from coming in to get drunker. A gentleman may come from his dining or drawing-room, and still find himself in a manner at home. Besides, a cigar is the mildest as well as most fashionable form of tobacco-taking ; and as it is no longer the mode to drink wine, wine is not sought after." — "That is all very good for you ; but for me, who have been casting a wistful eye, as I came along, at the old haunts of Sir Roger and his friends, I confess it is a drawback on a certain fancy I had, when I first came in. However, we must consider what Steele and Addison would have liked had they lived now, and witnessed the effect of the Spectators of other men. It is they that have helped to ruin their own pipes and wine, and given us a greater taste for literature and domes- ticity ; and I comfort myself with concluding that they would have come here, at least after their bottle, to take their coffee and look over your papers and magazines. There he sits, over the way, — Steele, I mean, — the man with the short face ; for I perceive there is wit at that table. Opposite him is Addison, in black, looking some- thing like a master in chancery. The handsome man, always on the giggle, must be Rowe ; and the other one, an officer, is Colonel Brett. But who is this tall formal personage coming up ? Look at him, — the very man, H 1 1 4 COFFEE-HOUSES & SMOKING Ambrose Phillips. Who would think that his muse was a little dancer in octosyllables, — a dandier of young ladies of quality? " Mine host left me alone to complete my initiation. Another cup of coffee was brought me, and five several publications ; to wit, a newspaper, a twopenny sheet, a number to be continued, a magazine, and a review ; for I am fond of having too many books at once. I looked over these, and then, contented with the power to read them further, continued giving bland puffs to my cigar, and speculating around me. The conversations were maintained in very quiet and gentlemanly tones : now and then was heard the sound of a leaf turning over ; sometimes a hem, consequential or otherwise ; my own puffs were always distinguishable to myself; and at intervals I could discern those of others, and hear the social crackling of the fire. No noisy altercation here ; no sanded floors or cold feet ; no impatient waiting for the newspaper ; while the person in possession keeps it the longer because you wait : all is warm, easy, quiet, abundant, satisfactory. I conclude the principal visitors of the divan to be theatre-goers, officers who have learnt to love a cigar on service, men of letters, and men of fortune who have a taste for letters, and can whirl themselves from their own firesides to these. If you are in the City, on business, go for a steak to Dolly's ; if midway between City and West End, go to the first clean-looking larder you come to ; if a man of fashion, and you must dine in your altitudes, go to the "Clarendon"; but after any of these, man of fashion or not, go if you can, and get your cigar and your cup of coffee at Gliddon's. It is finishing with a grace and a repose. By the way, I spent a pretty afternoon the other day. It was a complete thing, one thing excepted : but — she's at Paris. I dined, I will not say how early; but took only a COFFEE-HOUSES & SMOKING 115 couple glasses of wine, which will retrieve my character on that point. I then made tour of the book-stalls, at Covent-Garden ; bought some comedies and a Catullus ; went to the theatre, and saw Der Freyschutz and Charles the Second ; re-issued from among the perukes, with a gallant sense about my head and shoulders, as if I carried one myself; went and settled my faculties over a cup of the New Monthly at Gliddon's ; got home by eleven (for I would not go to a party where she was not) ; and fell to sleep at the words " Lulling hope," in a song I am writing. Writers, we think, might oftener indulge themselves in direct picture-making, that is to say, in detached sketches of men and things, which should be to manners, what those of Theophrastus are to character. Painters do not always think it necessary to paint epics, or to fill a room with a series of pictures on one subject. They deal sometimes in single figures and groups ; and often exhibit a profounder feeling in these little concen- trations of their art, than in subjects of a more numerous 116 ON WASHERWOMEN 117 description. Their gusto, perhaps, is less likely to be lost, on that very account. They are no longer Sultans in a seraglio, but lovers with a favourite mistress, retired and absorbed. A Madonna of Correggio's, the Bath of Michael Angelo, the Standard of Leonardo da Vinci, Titian's Mistress, and other single subjects or groups of the great masters, are acknowledged to be among their greatest per- formances, some of them their greatest of all. It is the same with music. Overtures, which are sup- posed to make allusion to the whole progress of the story they precede, are not always the best productions of the master ; still less are choruses, and quintetts, and other pieces involving a multiplicity of actors. The overture to Mozart's Magic Flute (Zauberflote) is worthy of the title of the piece ; it is truly enchanting ; but what are so in- tense, in their way, as the duet of the two lovers, Ah Per- dona, — or the laughing trio in Cosi Fan Tutte, — or that passionate serenade in Don Giovanni, Deh inen'i alia jinestra, which breathes the very soul of refined sensuality ! The gallant is before you, with his mandolin and his cap and feather, taking place of the nightingale for that amorous hour ; and you feel that the sounds must inevitably draw his mistress to the window. Their intenseness even renders them pathetic ; and his heart seems in earnest, because his senses are. We do not mean to say, that, in proportion as the work is large and the subject numerous, the merit may not be the greater if all is good. Raphael's Sacrament is a greater work than his Adam and Eve ; but his Transfiguration would still have been the finest picture in the world, had the second group in the foreground been away ; nay\, the latter is supposed, and, we think, with justice, to injure its effect. We only say that there are times when the numerousness may scatter the individual gusto ; — that the greatest possible feeling may be proved without it ; — and, above all, returning to our [more immediate subject, that u8 ON WASHERWOMEN writers, like painters, may sometimes have leisure for ex- cellent detached pieces, when they want it for larger pro- ductions. Here, then, is an opportunity for them. Let them, in their intervals of history, or, if they want time for it, give us portraits of humanity. People lament that Sappho did not write more : but, at any rate, her two odes are worth twenty epics like Tryphiodorus. But, in portraits of this kind, writing will also have a great advantage ; and may avoid what seems to be an in- evitable stumbling-block in paintings of a similar description. Between the matter-of-fact works of the Dutch artists, and the subtle compositions of Hogarth, there seems to be a medium reserved only for the pen. The writer only can tell you all he means, — can let you into his whole mind and intention. The moral insinuations of the painter are, on the one hand, apt to be lost for want of distinctness ; or tempted, on the other, by their visible nature, to put on too gross a shape. If he leaves his meanings to be imagined, he may unfortunately speak to unimaginative spectators, and generally does ; if he wishes to explain himself so as not to be mis- taken, he will paint a set of comments upon his own incidents and characters, rather than let them tell for themselves. Hogarth himself, for instance, who never does anything without a sentiment or a moral, is too apt to perk them both in your face, and to be over-redundant in his combinations. His persons, in many instances, seem too much taken away from their proper indifference to effect, and to be made too much of conscious agents and joint contributors. He " o'er-informs his tenements.'' His very goods and chat- tels are didactic. He makes a capital remark of a cow's horn, and brings up a piece of cannon in aid of a satire on vanity. 1 It is the writer only who, without hurting the 1 See the cannon going off in the turbulent portrait of a General Officer, and the cow's head coming just over that of the citizen who is walking with his wife. ON WASHERWOMEN 119 most delicate propriety of the representation, can leave no doubt of all his intentions, — who can insinuate his object, in two or three words, to the dullest conception ; and, in con- versing with the most foreign minds, take away all the awkwardness of interpretation. What painting gains in universality to the eye, it loses by an infinite proportion in power of suggestion to the understanding. There is something of the sort of sketches we are re- commending in Sterne : but Sterne had a general connected object before him, of which the parts apparently detached were still connecting links : and while he also is apt to overdo his subject like Hogarth, is infinitely less various and powerful. The greatest master of detached portrait is Steele : but his pictures too form a sort of link in a chain. Perhaps the completest specimen of what we mean in the English language is Shenstone's " School-Mistress," by far his best production, and a most natural, quiet, and touching old dame. — But what ? Are we leaving out Chaucer ? Alas, we thought to be doing something a little original, and find it all existing already, and in unrivalled perfec- tion, in his portraits of the Canterbury Pilgrims ! We can only dilate, and vary upon his principle. But we are making a very important preface to what may turn out a very trifling subject, and must request the reader not to be startled at the homely specimen we are about to give him, after all this gravity of recommendation. Not that we would apologise for homeliness, as homeliness. The beauty of this unlimited power of suggestion in writing is, that you may take up the driest and most commonplace of all possible subjects, and strike a light out of it to warm your intellect and your heart by. The fastidious habits of polished life generally incline us to reject, as incapable of interesting us, whatever does not present itself in a grace- ful shape of its own, and a ready-made suit of ornaments. But some of the plainest weeds become beautiful under the 120 ON WASHERWOMEN microscope. It is the benevolent provision of nature, that in proportion as you feel the necessity of extracting interest from common things, you are enabled to do so ; — and the very least that this familiarity with homeliness will do for us is to render our artificial delicacy less liable to annoy- ance, and to teach us how to grasp the nettles till they obey us. The reader sees that we are Wordsworthians enough not to confine our tastes to the received elegancies of society ; and, in one respect, we go farther than Mr Wordsworth, for, though as fond, perhaps, of the country as he, we can manage to please ourselves in the very thick of cities, and even find there as much reason to do justice to Providence, as he does in the haunts of sportsmen, and anglers, and all- devouring insects. To think, for instance, of that laborious and inelegant class of the community — Washerwomen, and of all the hot. disagreeable dabbling, smoking, splashing, kitcheny, cold- dining, anti-company-receiving associations, to which they give rise. What can be more annoying to any tasteful lady or gentleman, at their first waking in the morning, than when that dreadful thump at the door comes, announcing the tub- tumbling viragoes, with their brawny arms and brawling voices ? We must confess, for our own parts, that our taste, in the abstract, is not for washerwomen ; we prefer Dryads and Naiads, and the figures that resemble them ; — Fair forms, that glance amid the green of woods, Or from the waters give their sidelong shapes Half swelling. Yet we have lain awake sometimes in a street in town, after this first confounded rap, and pleased ourselves with imagin- ing how equally the pains and enjoyments of this world are dealt out, and what a pleasure there is in the mere contem- plation of any set of one's fellow- creatures and their ON WASHERWOMEN 121 humours, when our knowledge has acquired humility enough to look at them steadily. The reader knows the knock which we mean. It comes like a lump of lead and instantly wakes the maid, whose business it is to get up, though she pretends not to hear it. Another knock is inevitable, and it comes, and then another ; but still Betty does not stir, or stirs only to put herself in a still snugger posture, knowing very well that they must knock again. " Now, 'drat that Betty," says one of the washerwomen ; " she hears as well as we do, but the deuce a bit will she move till we give her another " ; and at the word another, down goes the knocker again. " It's very odd," says the master of the house, mumbling from under the bed-clothes, " that Betty does not get up to let the people in ; I've heard that knocker three times." " Oh," returns the mistress, " she's as lazy as she's high," — and off goes the chamber-bell ; — by which time Molly, who begins to lose her sympathy with her fellow-servant in impatience of what is going on, gives her one or two conclusive digs in the side ; when the other gets up, and rubbing her eyes, and mumbling, and hastening and shrugging herself downstairs, opens the door with — " Lard, Mrs Watson, I hope you haven't been standing here long ? " — " Standing here long, Mrs Betty ! Oh, don't tell me ; people might stand starving their legs off, before you'd put a finger out of bed." — " Oh, don't say so, Mrs Watson ; I'm sure I always rises at the first knock ; and there — you'll find everything comfortable below, with a nice hock of ham, which I made John leave for you." At this the washerwomen leave their grumbling, and shufHe downstairs, hoping to see Mrs Betty early at breakfast. Here, after warming themselves at the copper, taking a mutual pinch of snuff, and getting things ready for the wash, they take a snack at the pro- mised hock ; for people of this profession have always their appetite at hand, and every interval of labour is invariably 122 ON WASHERWOMEN cheered by the prospect of having something at the end of it. " Well," says Mrs Watson, finishing the last cut, " some people thinks themselves mighty generous for leaving one what little they can't eat ; but, howsomever, it's better than nothing." " Ah," says Mrs Jones, who is a minor genius, " one must take what one can get now-a-days ; but Squire Hervey's for my money." " Squire Hervey ! rejoins Mrs Watson, " what's that the great what's-his- name as lives yonder ? " " Ay," returns Mrs Jones, "him as has a niece and nevvy, as they say eats him out of house and land " ; and here commences the history of all the last week of the whole neighbourhood round, which continues amidst the dipping of splashing fists, the rumbling of suds, and the creaking of wringings-out, till an hour or two are elapsed ; and then for another snack and a pinch of snuff, till the resumption of another hour's labour or so brings round the time for first breakfast. Then, having had nothing to signify since five, they sit down at half-past six in the wash-house, to take their own meal before the servants meet at the general one. This is the chief moment of enjoyment. They have just laboured enough to make the tea and bread and butter welcome, are at an interesting point of the conversation, (for there they contrive to leave off on purpose), and so down they sit, fatigued and happy, with their red elbows and white corrugated fingers, to a tub turned upside down, and a dish of good Christian souchong, fit for a body to drink. We could dwell a good deal upon this point of time, but shall only admonish the fastidious reader, who thinks he has all the taste and means of enjoyment to himself, how he looks with scorn upon two persons, who are perhaps at this moment the happiest couple of human beings in the street, — who have discharged their duty, have earned their enjoy- ment, and have health and spirits to relish it to the full. A washerwoman's cup of tea may vie with the first drawn ON WASHERWOMEN 123 cork at a bon-vivant's table, and the complacent opening of her snuff-box with that of the most triumphant politician over a scheme of partition. We say nothing of the con- tinuation of their labours, of the scandal they resume, or the complaints they pour forth, when they first set off again in the indolence of a satisfied appetite, at the quantity of work which the mistress of the house, above all other mistresses, is sure to heap upon them. Scandal and complaint, in these instances, do not hurt the complacency of our reflections ; they are in their proper sphere ; and are nothing but a part, as it were, of the day's work, and are so much vent to the animal spirits. Even the unpleasant day which the work causes upstairs in some houses, — the visitors which it ex- cludes, and the leg of mutton which it hinders from roast- ing, are only so much enjoyment kept back and contrasted, in order to be made keener the rest of the week. Beauty itself is indebted to it, and draws from that steaming out- house and splashing tub the well-fitting robe that gives out its figure, and the snowy cap that contrasts its curls and its complexion. In short, whenever we hear a washerwoman at her foaming work, or see her plodding towards us with her jolly warm face, her mob cap, her black stockings, clattering pattens, and tub at arm's length resting on her hip- joint, we look upon her as a living lesson to us to make the most both of time and comfort, and as a sort of allegorical compound of pain and pleasure, a little too much, perhaps, in the style of Rubens. THE BUTCHER. Butchers and Juries — Butler's Defence of the English Drama, etc. It was observed by us the other day in a journal that " butchers are wisely forbidden to be upon juries ; not because they are not as good as other men by nature, and often as truly kind ; but because the habit of taking away the lives of sheep and oxen inures them to the sight of blood, and violence, and mortal pangs." The Times, in noticing this passage, corrected our error. There neither is, nor ever was, it seems, a law for- bidding butchers to be upon juries ; though the reverse opinion has so prevailed among all classes, that Locke takes it for granted in his Treatise on Education, and our own 124 THE BUTCHER 125 authority was the author of Hudibras, a man of very exact and universal knowledge. The passage that was in our mind is in his Posthumous Works, and is worth quoting on other accounts. He is speaking of those pedantic and would-be classical critics who judge the poets of one nation by those of another. Butler's resistance of their pretensions is the more honourable to him, inasmuch as the prejudices of his own education, and even the pro- pensity of his genuis, lay on the learned and anti-impulsive side. But his judgment was thorough-going and candid. — The style is of the off-hand careless order, after the fashion of the old satires and epistles, though not so rough : — " An English poet should be tried by his peers, And not by pedants and philosophers, Incompetent to judge poetic fury, As butchers are forbid to be of a jury , Besides the most intolerable wrong To try their masters in a foreign tongue, By foreign jurymen like Sophocles, Or tales 1 falser than Euripides, When not an English native dares appear To be a witness for the prisoner, — When all the laws they use to arraign and try The innocent, and wrong'd delinquent by, Were made by a foreign lawyer and his pupils, To put an end to all poetic scruples ; And by the advice of virtuosi Tuscans, Determined all the doubts of socks and buskins, — 1 Tales (Latin) persons chosen to supply the place of men im- pannelled upon a jury or inquest, and not appearing when called. [We copy this from a very useful and pregnant volume, called the Treasury of Knowledge, full ot such heaps of information as are looked for in lists and vocabularies, and occupying the very margins with proverbs. Mr Disraeli, sen., objects to this last overflow of contents, but not, we think, with his usual good sense and gratitude, as a lover of books. These proverbial say- ings, which are the most universal things in the world, appear to us to have a particularly good effect in thus coming in to refresh one among the technicalities of knowledge.] 126 THE BUTCHER Gave judgment on all past and future plays, As is apparent by Speroni's case, 1 Which Lope Vega first began to steal. And after him the French flou 2 Corneille ; And since, our English plagiaries nim And steal their far-fetch'd criticisms from him, And by an action, falsely laid of trover* The lumber for their proper goods recover, Enough to furnish all the lewd impeachers Of witty Beaumont's poetry and Fletcher's, Who for a few misprisions of wit, Are charged by those who ten times worse commit, And for misjudging some unhappy scenes, Are censured for it with more unlucky sense: (How happily said ! ) When all their worst miscarriages delight And please more than the best that pedants write." Having been guilty of this involuntary scandal against the butchers, we would fain make them amends by saying nothing but good of them and their trade ; and truly if we find the latter part of the proposition a little difficult, they themselves are for the most part a jovial, good-humoured race, and can afford the trade to be handled as sharply as their beef on the block. There is cut and come again in them. Your butcher breathes an atmosphere of good living. The beef mingles kindly with his animal nature. He grows fat with the best of it, perhaps with inhaling its very essence ; and has no time to grow spare, theoretical, and hypochon- driacal, like those whose more thinking stomachs drive them 1 Speroni, a celebrated critic in the days of Tasso. 2 Filou — pickpocket ! This irreverent epithet must have startled many of Butler's readers and brother-loyalists of the court of Charles the Second. But he suffered nothing to stand in the way of what seemed to him a just opinion. 3 Trover — an action for goods found and not delivered on demand. — Treasury of Knowledge. Butler's wit dragged every species of information into his net. THE BUTCHER 127 upon the apparently more innocent but less easy and analogous intercommunications of fruit and vegetables. For our parts, like all persons who think at all, — nay, like the butcher himself, when he catches himself in a strange fit of meditation, after some doctor perhaps has " kept him low,"— we confess to an abstract dislike of eating the sheep and lamb that we see in the meadow ; albeit our concrete regard for mutton is considerable, particularly Welsh mutton. But Nature has a beautiful way of recon- ciling all necessities that are unmalignant ; and as butchers at present must exist, and sheep and lambs would not exist at all in civilised countries, and crop the sweet grass so long, but for the brief pang at the end of it, he is as comfortable a fellow as can be, — one of the liveliest ministers of her mortal necessities, — of the deaths by which she gives and diversifies life ; and has no more notion of doing any harm in his vocation, than the lamb that swallows the lady-bird on the thyme. A very pretty insect is she, and has had a pretty time of it ; a very calm, clear feeling, healthy, and, therefore, happy little woollen giant, compared with her, is the lamb, — her butcher ; and an equally innocent and festive personage is the butcher himself, notwithstanding the popular fallacy about juries, and the salutary misgiving his beholders feel when they see him going to take the lamb out of the meadow, or entering the more tragical doors of the slaughter- house. His thoughts, while knocking down the ox, are of skill and strength, and not of cruelty. And the death, though it may not be the very best of deaths, is, assuredly, none of the worst. Animals, that grow old in an artificial state, would have a hard time of it in a lingering decay. Their mode of life would not have prepared them for it. Their blood would not run lively enough to the last. We doubt even whether the John Bull of the herd, when about to be killed, would change places with a very gouty, irritable old gentleman, or be willing to endure a grievous being of 128 THE BUTCHER his own sort, with legs answering to the gout ; much less if Cow were to grow old with him, and plague him with end- less lowings, occasioned by the loss of her beauty, and the increasing insipidity of the hay. A human being who can survive those ulterior vaccinations must indeed possess some great reliefs of his own, and deserve them, and life may reasonably be a wonderfully precious thing in his eyes ; nor shall excuse be wanting to the vaccinators, and what made them such, especially if they will but grow a little more quiet and ruminating. But who would have the death of some old, groaning, aching, effeminate, frightened, lingerer in life, such as Maecenas for example, compared with a good, jolly knock-down blow, at a reasonable period, whether of hatchet or of apoplexy, — whether the bull's death or the butcher's ? Our own preference, it is true, is for neither. We are for an excellent, healthy, happy life, of the very best sort ; and a death to match it, going out calmly as a summer's evening. Our taste is not particular. But we are for the knock-down blow rather than the death- in-life. The butcher, when young, is famous for his health, strength, and vivacity, and for his riding any kind of horse down any sort of hill, with a tray before him, the reins for a whip, and no hat on his head. It was a gallant of this sort that Robin Hood imitated, when he beguiled the poor Sheriff into the forest, and showed him his own deer to sell. The old ballads apostrophise him well as the " butcher so bold," or better — with the accent on the last syllable — "thou bold butcher." No syllable of his was to be trifled with. The butcher keeps up his health in middle life, not only with the food that seems so congenial to flesh, but with rising early in the morning, and going to market with his own or his master's cart. When more sedentary, and very jovial and good-humoured, he is apt to expand into a most analogous state of fat and smoothness, with silken THE BUTCHER 129 tones and a short breath, — harbingers, we fear, of asthma and gout ; or the kindly apoplexy comes, and treats him as he treated the ox. When rising in the world, he is indefatigable on Saturday nights, walking about in the front of those white-clothed and joint-abounding open shops, while the meat is being half-cooked beforehand with the gas-lights. The rapidity of his " What-d'ye-buy ? " on these occasions is famous ; and both he and the good housewives, distracted with the choice before them, pronounce the legs of veal " beautiful — exceed ingly." How he endures the meat against his head, as he carries it about on a tray, or how we endure that he should do it, or how he can handle the joints as he does with that habitual indifference, or with what floods of hot water he contrives to purify himself of the exoterical part of his philosophy on going to bed, we cannot say ; but take him all in all, he is a fine specimen of the triumph of the general over the particular. The only poet that was the son of a butcher (and the trade may be proud of him) is Akenside, who naturally resorted to the " Pleasures of Imagination." As to Wolsey, we can never quite picture him to ourselves apart from the shop. He had the cardinal butcher's-virtue of a love of good eating, as his picture shows ; and he was fore- man all his life to the butcher Henry the Eighth. We beg pardon of the trade for this application of their name : and exhort them to cut the cardinal, and stick to the poet. i 3 o THE MAID-SERVANT THE MAID-SERVANT 1 Must be considered as young, or else she has married the butcher, the butler, or her cousin, or has otherwise settled into a character distinct from her original one, so as to be- come what is properly called the domestic. The Maid- Servant, in her apparel, is either slovenly and fine by turns, and dirty always ; or she is at all times neat and tight, and dressed according to her station. In the latter case, her ordinary dress is black stockings, a stuff gown, a cap, and a neck-handkerchief pinned cornerwise behind. If you want a pin, she feels about her, and has always one to give you. On Sundays and holidays, and perhaps of afternoons, she changes her black stockings for white, puts on a gown of a better texture and fine pattern, sets her cap and her curls jauntily, and lays aside the neck-handkerchief for a high-body, which, by the way, is not half so pretty. The general furniture of her ordinary room, the kitchen, is not so much her own as her master's and mistress's, and need not be described : but in a drawer of the dresser or the table, in company with a duster and a pair of snuffers, may be found some of her property, such as a brass thimble, a pair of scissors, a thread-case, a piece of wax candle much wrinkled with the thread, an odd volume of Pamela, and perhaps a sixpenny play, such as George Barnwell or Southerne's Oroonoko. There is a piece of looking-glass in the window. The rest of her furniture is in the garret, where you may find a good looking-glass on the table ; and in the window a Bible, a comb and a piece of soap. Here stands also, under stout lock and key, the mighty mystery, — the box,^containing, among other things, her clothes, two or three song-books, consisting of nineteen for the penny ; sundry tragedies at a halfpenny the sheet ; the Whole Nature 1 In some respects, particularly of costume, this portrait must be understood of originals existing twenty or thirty years ago. THE MAID-SERVANT 131 of Dreams Laid Open, together with the Fortune-teller and the Account of the Ghost of Mrs Veal ; the Story of the Beautiful Zoa " who was cast away on a desert island, showing how,' , &c. ; some half-crowns in a purse, includ- ing pieces of country-money ; a silver penny wrapped up in cotton by itself; a crooked sixpence, given her before she came to town, and the giver of which has either for- gotten or been forgotten by her, she is not sure which ; — two little enamel boxes, with looking-glass in the lids, one of them a fairing, the other " a Trifle from Margate " ; and lastly, various letters, square and ragged, and directed in all sorts of spellings, chiefly with little letters for capitals. One of them, written by a girl who went to a day-school, is directed " Miss." In her manners, the Maid-servant sometimes imitates her young mistress ; she puts her hair in papers, cultivates a shape, and occasionally contrives to be out of spirits. But her own character and condition overcome all sophistica- tions of this sort ; her shape, fortified by the mop and scrubbing-brush, will make its way ; and exercise keeps her healthy and cheerful. From the same cause her temper is good ; though she gets into little heats when a stranger is over saucy, or when she is told not to go so heavily down stairs, or when some unthinking person goes up her wet stairs with dirty shoes, — or when she is called away often from dinner ; neither does she much like to be seen scrub- bing the street-door steps of a morning ; and sometimes she catches herself saying, " Drat that butcher," but immediately adds, " God forgive me." The tradesmen indeed, with their compliments and arch looks, seldom give her cause to complain. The milkman bespeaks her good-humour for the day with "Come, pretty maids": — then follow the butcher, the baker, the oilman, &c, all with their several smirks and little loiterings ; and when she goes to the shops herself, it is for her the grocer pulls down his string from i 3 2 THE MAID-SERVANT its roller with more than ordinary whirl, and tosses his parcel into a tie. Thus pass the mornings between working, and singing, and giggling, and grumbling, and being flattered. If she takes any pleasure unconnected with her office before the afternoon, it is when she runs up the area-steps or to the door to hear and purchase a new song, or to see a troop of soldiers go by ; or when she happens to thrust her head out of a chamber window at the same time with a servant at the next house, when a dialogue infallibly ensues, stimulated by the imaginary obstacles between. If the Maid-servant is wise, the best part of her work is done by dinner-time ; and nothing else is necessary to give perfect zest to the meal. She tells us what she thinks of it, when she calls it " a bit o' dinner." There is the same sort of eloquence in her other phrase, " a cup o' tea V ; but the old ones, and the washerwomen, beat her at that. After tea in great houses, she goes with the other servants to hot cockles, or What- are-my-thoughts-like, and tells Mr John to " have done then " ; or if there is a ball given that night, they throw open the doors, and make use of the music up stairs to dance by. In smaller houses, she receives the visits of her afore- said cousin ; and sits down alone, or with a fellow maid- servant, to work ; talks of her young master or mistress and Mr Ivins (Evans) ; or else she calls to mind her own friends in the country ; where she thinks the cows and "all that" beautiful, now she is away. Meanwhile, if she is lazy, she snuffs the candle with her scissors ; or if she has eaten more heartily than usual, she sighs double the usual number of times, and thinks that tender hearts were born to be unhappy. Such being the Maid-servant's life in-doors, she scorns, when abroad, to be anything but a creature of sheer enjoy- ment. The Maid-servant, the sailor, and the school-boy, are the three beings that enjoy a holiday beyond all the rest of the world ; — and all for the same reason, — because their V V\ J ""W»lk.r tKrougk a>r\ cj^«3U^y routed, ©Ct-\ov«," THE MAID-SERVANT 135 inexperience, peculiarity of life, and habit of being with persons of circumstances or thoughts above them, give them all, in their way, a cast of the romantic. The most active of the money-getters is a vegetable compared with them. The Maid-servant when she first goes to Vauxhall, thinks she is in heaven. A theatre is all pleasure to her, whatever is going forward, whether the play or the music, or the waiting which makes others impatient, or the munching of apples and gingerbread, which she and her party commence almost as soon as they have seated themselves. She prefers tragedy to comedy, because it is grander, and less like what she meets with in general ; and because she thinks it more in earnest also, especially in the love-scenes. Her favourite play is Alexander the Great, or the Rival Queens. Another great delight is in going a shopping. She loves to look at the patterns in the windows, and the fine things labelled with those corpulent numerals of " only 7s. " — " only 6s. 6d." She has also, unless born and bred in London, been to see my Lord Mayor, the fine people coming out of Court, and the " beasties " in the Tower ; and at all events she has been to Astley's and the Circus, from which she comes away, equally smitten with the rider, and sore with laughing at the clown. But it is difficult to say what pleasure she enjoys most. One of the completest of all is the fair, where she walks through an endless round of noise, and toys, and gallant apprentices, and wonders. Here she is invited in by courteous and well-dressed people, as if she were the mistress. Here also is the conjuror's booth, where the operator himself, a most stately and genteel person all in white, calls her Ma'am ; and says to John by her side, in spite of his laced hat, •' Be good enough, sir, to hand the card to the lady." Ah ! may her " cousin " turn out as true as he says he is ; or may she get home soon enough and smiling enough to be as happy again next time. FINE DAY5 IN JANUARY AND FEBRUARY We speak of those days, unexpected, sunshiny, cheerful, even vernal, which come towards the end of January, and are too apt to come alone. They are often set in the midst of a series of rainy ones, like a patch of blue in the sky. Fine weather is much at any time, after or before the end of the year ; but, in the latter case, the days are still winter days ; whereas, in the former, the year being turned, and March and April before us, we seem to feel the coming of spring. In the streets and squares, the ladies are abroad with their colours and glowing cheeks. If you can hear anything but noise, you hear the sparrows. People anticipate at breakfast the pleasure they shall have in "getting out." The solitary poplar in a corner looks green against the sky ; and the brick wall has a warmth in it. Then in the noisier streets, what a multitude and a new life ! What horseback ! 136 FINE DAYS 137 What promenading ! What shopping and giving good day ! Bonnets encounter bonnets ; all the Miss Williamses meet all the Miss Joneses ; and everybody wonders, particu- larly at nothing. The shop-windows, putting forward their best, may be said to be in blossom. The yellow carriages flash in the sunshine ; footmen rejoice in their white calves, not dabbed, as usual, with rain ; the gossips look out of their three-pairs-of-stairs windows ; other windows are thrown open ; fruiterers' shops look well, swelling with full baskets ; pavements are found to be dry ; lap-dogs frisk under their asthmas ; and old gentlemen issue forth, peering up at the region of the north-east. Then in the country, how emerald the green, how open- looking the prospect ! Honeysuckles (a name alone with a garden in it) are detected in blossom ; the hazel follows ; the snowdrop hangs its white perfection, exquisite with green ; we fancy the trees are already thicker ; voices of winter birds are taken for new ones ; and in February the new ones come — the thrush, the chaffinch, and the wood- lark. Then rooks begin to pair ; and the wagtail dances in the lane. As we write this article, the sun is on our paper, and chanticleer (the same, we trust, that we heard the other day) seems to crow in a very different style, lord of the ascendant, and as willing to be with his wives abroad as at home. We think we see him, as in Chaucer's homestead : He looketh, as it were, a grim leoun ; And on his toes he roameth up and down ; Him deigneth not to set his foot to ground ; He clucketh when he hath a corn yfound, And to him runnen then his wives all. Will the reader have the rest of the picture, as Chaucer gave it? It is as bright and strong as the day itself, and as suited to it as a falcon to a knight's fist. Hear how the old poet throws forth his strenuous music ; as fine, con- 138 FINE DAYS sidered as mere music and versification, as the description is pleasant and noble. His comb was redder than the fine corall, Embattled as it were a castle wall ; His bill was black, and as the jet it shone ; Like azure was his legges and his tone ; His nailes whiter than the lilly flower, And like the burned gold was his colour. Hardly one pause like the other throughout, and yet all flowing and sweet. The pause on the third syllable in the last line but one, and that on the sixth in the last, together with the deep variety of vowels, make a beautiful conclud- ing couplet ; and indeed the whole is a study for versifica- tion. So little were those old poets unaware of their task, as some are apt to suppose them ; and so little have others dreamt, that they surpassed them in their own pre- tensions. The accent, it is to be observed, in those concluding words, as coral and colour, is to be thrown on the last syllable, as it is in Italian. Color, colore, and Chaucer's old Anglo-Gallican word, is a much nobler one than our modern one colour. We have injured many such words, by throwing back the accent. We should beg pardon for this digression, if it had not been part of our understood agreement with the reader to be as desultory as we please, and as befits Companions. Our very enjoyment of the day we are describing would not let us be otherwise. It is also an old fancy of ours to associate the ideas of Chaucer with that of any early and vigorous manifestation of light and pleasure. He is not only the " morning star" of our poetry, as Denham called him, but the morning itself, and a good bit of the noon ; and we could as soon help quoting him at the beginning of the year, as we could help wishing to hear the cry of primroses, and thinking of the sweet faces that buy them. BAD ^^E^VTHER After longing these two months for some " real winter weather," the public have had a good sharp specimen, a little too real. We mean to take our revenge by writing an article upon it after a good breakfast, with our feet at a good fire, and in a room quiet enough to let us hear the fire as well as feel it. Outside the casement (for we are writ- ing this in a cottage) the east- wind is heard, cutting away like a knife ; snow is on the ground ; there is frost and sleet at once ; and the melancholy crow of poor chanticleer at a distance seems complaining that nobody will cherish him. One imagines that his toes must be cold ; and that he is drawing comparisons between the present feeling of his sides, and the warmth they enjoy next his plump wife on a perch. But in the country there is always something to enjoy. There is the silence, if nothing else ; you feel that the air is 139 i 4 o BAD WEATHER healthy ; and you can see to write. Think of a street in London, at once narrow, foggy, and noisy ; the snow thawing, not because the frost has not returned, but because the union of mud and smoke prevails against it ; and then the unnatural cold sound of the clank of milk-pails (if you are up early enough) ; or, if you are not, the chill, damp, strawy, rickety hackney-coaches going by, with fellows inside of them with cold feet, and the coachman a mere bundle of rags, blue nose, and jolting. (He'll quarrel with every fare, and the passenger knows it, and will resist. So they will stand with their feet in" the mud, haggling. The old gentleman saw an extra charge of a shilling in his face. ) To complete the misery, the pedestrians kick, as they go, those detestable flakes of united snow and mud, — at least they ought to do so, to complete our picture ; and at night- time, people coming home hardly know whether or not they have chins. But is there no comfort then in a London street in such weather ? Infinite, if people will but have it, and families are good-tempered. We trust we shall be read by hundreds of such this morning. Of some we are certain ; and do hereby, agreeably to our ubiquitous privileges, take several breakfasts at once. How pleasant is this rug ! How bright and generous the fire ! How charming the fair makers of the tea ! And how happy that they have not to make it themselves, the drinkers of it ! Even the hackney-coachman means to get double as much as usual to-day, either by cheating or being pathetic ; and the old gentleman is resolved to make amends for the necessity of his morning drive, by another pint of wine at dinner, and crumpets with his tea. It is not by grumbling against the elements, that evil is to be done away ; but by keeping one's-self in good heart with one's fellow-creatures, and remembering that they are all capable of partaking our pleasures. The contemplation of pain, acting upon a BAD WEATHER 141 splenetic temperament, produces a stirring reformer here and there, who does good rather out of spite against wrong, than sympathy with pleasure, and becomes a sort of dis- agreeable angel. Far be it from us, in the present state of society, to wish that no such existed ! But they will pardon us for labouring in the vocation, to which a livelier nature calls us, and drawing a distinction between the dis- satisfaction that ends in good, and the mere common-place grumbling that in a thousand instances to one ends in noth- ing but plaguing everybody as well as the grumbler. In almost all cases, those who are in a state of pain themselves, are in the fairest way for giving it ; whereas, pleasure is in its nature social. The very abuses of it (terrible as they sometimes are) cannot do as much harm as the violations of the common sense of good-humour ; simply because it is its nature to go with, and not counter to humanity. The only point to take care of is, that as many innocent sources of pleasure are kept open as possible, and affection and imagination brought in to show us what they are, and how surely all may partake of them. We are not likely to forget that a human being is of importance, when v/e can discern the merits of so small a thing as a leaf, or a honey- bee, or the beauty of a flake of snow, or the fanciful scenery made by the glowing coals in a fire-place. Professors of sciences may do this. Writers of the most enthusiastic in a good cause, may sometimes lose sight of their duties, by reason of the very absorption in their enthusiasm. Imagina- tion itself cannot always be abroad and at home at the same time. But the many are not likely to think too deeply of anything ; and the more pleasures that are taught them by dint of an agreeable exercise of their reflection, the more they will learn to reflect on all round them, and to endeavour that their reflections may have a right to be agreeable. Any increase of the sum of our enjoyments almost invariably produces a wish to communicate them. An over-indulged 1 42 BAD WEATHER human being is ruined by being taught to think of nobody but himself; but a human being, at once gratified and made to think of others, learns to add to his very pleasures in the act of diminishing them. But how, it may be said, are we to enjoy ourselves with reflection, when our very reflection will teach us the quantity of suffering that exists ? How are we to be happy with breakfasting and warming our hands, when so many of our fellow-creatures are, at that instant, cold and hungry ? — It is no paradox to answer, that the fact of our remembering them, gives us a right to forget them : — we mean, that "there is a time for all things," and that having done our duty at other times in sympathising with pain, we have not only a right, but it becomes our duty, to show the happy privileges of virtue by sympathising with pleasure. The best person in a holiday-making party is bound to have the liveliest face ; or if not that, a face too happy even to be lively. Suppose, in order to complete the beauty of it, that the face is a lady's. She is bound, if any uneasy reflection crosses her mind, to say to herself, " To this happiness I have contributed ; — pain I have helped to diminish ; I am sincere, and wish well to everybody ; and I think everybody would be as good as I am, perhaps better, if society were wise. Now society, I trust, is get- ting wiser ; perhaps will beat all our wisdom a hundred years hence : and meanwhile, I must not show that good- ness is of no use, but let it realise all it can, and be as merry as the youngest." So saying, she gives her hand to a friend for a new dance, and really forgets what she has been thinking of, in the blithe spinning of her blood. A good-hearted woman, in the rosy beauty of her joy, is the loveliest object in . But everybody knows that. Adam Smith, in his Theory of Moral Sentiment s f has rebuked Thomson for his famous apostrophe in Winter to BAD WEATHER 143 the "gay, licentious proud;" where he says, that amidst their dances and festivities they little think of the misery that is going on in the world : — because, observes the philosopher, upon this principle there never could be any enjoyment in the world, unless every corner of it were happy ; which would be preposterous. We need not say how entirely we agree with the philosopher in the abstract : and certainly the poet would deserve the rebuke, had he addressed himself only to the " gay ; " but then his gay are also "licentious/' and not only licentious but "proud." Now we confess we would not be too squeamish even about the thoughtlessness of these gentry, for is not their very thoughtlessness their excuse? And are they not brought up in it, just as a boy in St Giles's is brought up in thievery, or a girl to callousness and prostitution ? It is not the thoughtless in high life from whom we are to expect any good, lecture them as we may : and observe — Thomson himself does not say how cruel they are ; or what a set of rascals to dance and be merry in spite of their better knowledge. He says, " Ah little think the gay, licentious proud " — and so they do. And so they will, till the diffusion of thought, among all classes, flows, of necessity, into their gay rooms and startled elevations ; and forces them to look out upon the world, that they may not be lost by being under the level. We had intended a very merry paper this week, to be- speak the favour of our new readers : — " ' A very merry, dancing, drinking, Laughing, quaffing, and unthinking' paper" — as Dryden has it. But the Christmas holidays are past ; and it is their termination, we suppose, that has made us 1 44 BAD WEATHER serious. Sitting up at night also is a great inducer of your moral remark ; and if we are not so pleasant as we intended to be, it is because some friends of ours, the other night, were the pleasantest people in the world till five in the morning. RAINYD^VY POETRY . Dicessit ab astris Humor, et ima petit. — Lucan. Humour sets the welkin free, And condescends with you and me. Critics lament over a number of idle rhymes in the works of Swift, that may come under the above title ; and wish, at least, that they had never been published. They designate them as the sweepings of his study, his private weaknesses, unworthy of so great a genius, and exclaim against his friends for collecting them. I really cannot see the humiliation. If he had written nothing else, there might be some colour of accusation against him ; though I do not see why a dean is bound to be a dull private gentleman. But if he had written nothing else, I think it may be pretty 146 RAINY-DAY POETRY safely pronounced that he would not have written these trifles. They bear the mark of a great hand, trifling as they are. Their extravagance is that of power, not of weakness ; and the wilder Irish waggery of Dr Sheridan, slatternly and muddled, stands rebuked before them. What should we have done had we lost Mary the Cook-maid's Letter, and the Grand Question about the Barracks ? These, to be sure, are excepted by everybody ; but 1 like, for my part, to hear all that such an exquisite wag has to say. I except the coarseness of two or three pieces, which I never read. I wish the critics could say as much. I have such a disgust of this kind of writing that there are poems, even in Chaucer, which I never look at. But this does not hinder me from loving all the rest. Perhaps I carry my dislike of what I allude to too far. It is possible that it may not be without its use in certain stages of society. But so it is, and I mention it, that I may not be thought to be confounding or recommending two different things. It is our own fault if we take this Rainy-Day Poetry for more than the author intended it. It is our loss if we do not take it for as much. I give it this title, because we may suppose it written to while away the tedium of rainy days, or of the feelings that resemble it. There is also Rainy- Day Prose, of a great deal of which my own writings are composed, though I was hardly aware of it at the time. I relish all that Swift has favoured us with, of either kind. The only approach that we minor humorists can make to such men, is to show that we understand them in all their moods, — that nothing is lost on us. The greatest fit of laughter I ever remember to have had, was in reading the Commination piece against William Wood, in which all his enemies are introduced execrating him in puns. The zest was heightened by the presence of a deaf old lady, who had desired a friend of mine and myself to take a book, while waiting to see a kinsman of hers. Her imperturbable face, RAINY-DAY POETRY 147 the shocking things we said before her, and even the dread of being thought rude, produced a sort of double drama in our minds, extreme and irresistible. A periodical writer derives the same privileges from necessity which other men do from wit. The rainy days here in Italy are very rare compared with those of England ; but the damps which the latter produce within us sometimes make their appearance when we are away ; and a . . . In short, it is not necessary to inform the reader that periodical writers produce a great deal of rainy-day poetry, voluntary or involuntary. If he excuses it, all is well. I shall, therefore, whenever I am inclined, make use of this title to pass off rhymes that I have more pleasure in writing than in publishing. The other day I was moved to vent my pluviose indignation on the subject of Ferdinand, King of Spain, a personage who has had the extraordinary fortune (even for a prince) to become the spectacle of the whole world, precisely because he is destitute of every quality which deserves their notice. That my poem might be as small as my subject, I wrote it in Lilliputian lines and miniature cantos ; but in consequence of the variety of feel- ings that pressed upon me as I proceeded, three out of the four became neither one thing nor t'other, and are not worth indulgence. The exordium I lay before the reader, because it contains an anecdote of his majesty's first appearance on the stage, with which he may not be acquainted. I had it from a Spanish gentleman now in England. I sing the least of things, — To wit, the least of kings. Imprimis, when the nation First raised him to his station, And blest him as he rid In triumph to Madrid, A gentleman who saw him (And hugely longed to claw him) 148 RAINY-DAY POETRY Said, that he never showed One feeling on the road, But sat in stupid pride, Staring on either side, Letting his hand be kissed (I think I see the fist). As if, where'er they took it, They meant to pick his pocket ; And goggling like an owl, — The hideous beaky fool ! The last line is emphatic ! I had not patience to con- tinue in a proper style of burlesque. Ferdinand has astonished even those who were never astonished at kings before. And yet what was to be expected from this por- tentious specimen of royalty, — royalty, naked, instinctive, unmitigated, unadorned ? W-hat examples he had before him ! What an education ! What contempt of decencies, public and private ! What a mother, what a minister, what a father ! The same gentleman who related to me the above anecdote told me that he had seen the old king dining in public, and that the spectacle was disgusting beyond description. Such brutal feeding, such pawing and grind- ing, such absorption in the immediate appetite and will, and contempt of everything else in the world, could only be exhibited by one who was accustomed to set up the mere consciousness of royalty as superior to every other considera- tion. This is Ferdinand's principle. He has no other, nor ever had, even when he petitioned to be made a member of Bonaparte's family. Bonaparte dazzled him, like some- thing supernatural, and was an emperor to boot ; but if he had not been one, it would have made no difference. The royal will, the immediate security, interest, or even whim, sanctions everything ; and royalty is to come out clear from the furnace upon the strength of its divine right, let it have gone through what it may. How much right have we to complain of it, flattering it as we do, even in RAINY-DAY POETRY 149 the best regulated monarchies ? The frog in the fable swelled herself to bursting, as it was ; but if she had, besides, had all frogland for spectators and applauders, if she had been puffed up with huzzas ! and vivas ! and been made a worshipped spectacle wherever she carried herself, who would have wondered at all her children's bursting them- selves, one after the other, in spite of her example ? I pity, for my part (next to suffering nations), every king in exist- ence, except Ferdinand ; and will pity him too when he is put out of a condition to slaughter those who would have made him an honest man. Pleasant C. R. ! let me recall my happier rhymes and rainy days by thinking of thee. C. R. is one of those happy persons whom goodness, imagination, and a tranquil art conspire to keep in a perpetual youth. He and his brother once called upon a man whom I knew, who told me he had seen " the young gentlemen," and yet this man was not old, and C. R. was seven-and-thirty if he was a day. C. R. has a quaint manner with him, which some take for simplicity. It is, but not of the sort which they take it for. I could hear it talk for an hour together, and have heard it, delighting all the while at the interest he can take in a trifle, and the entertainment he can raise out of it. His simplicity is anything but foolishness, though it is full of bonhomie. He is a nice observer. At the same time he is as romantic as a sequestered schoolmaster, and will make as grave Latin quotations. He produces a history out of a whistle. He will describe to you a steam-engine or a water-mill, with all the machinery and the noise to boot, till you die at once with laughter and real interest at the gravity of his enthusiasm. He makes them appear living things, as the fulling-mills did to Don Quixote. One day he gave us all an account of a man he had seen in the Strand, who was standing with a pole in his hand, at the top of which was a bladder, and Underneath the bladder a i 5 o RAINY-DAY POETRY bill. He told us what a mystery this excited in the minds of the spectators, and how they looked, first at "the man," then at " the bill," and then " at the bladder ; " — and again, said he, they looked at the bladder, then at the bill, and so on, ringing the changes on these words till we saw nothing before us in life but a man holding these two phenomena. We begged him to change the word " man " into " body," that charm of alliteration might be added ; and he complied with a passing laugh, and the greatest good nature conceivable, entering into the joke, and yet feeling a real gravity in commenting upon the people's astonishment. This combination of "bill, body, and bladder " was, after all, nothing but a man standing with an advertisement of blacking, or an eating-house, or some such thing. We have been thankful ever since that " such things are." I once rode with C. R. from Gainsborough to Doncaster, making rhymes with him all the way on the word philo- sopher. We made a hundred and fifty, and were only stopped by arriving at our journey's end. Readers un- initiated in doggerel may be startled at this ; but nothing is more true. The words were all different, and legitimate doggerel rhymes ; though, undoubtedly, the rhymes them- selves must often have been repeated, that is to say the same consonants must have begun them. The following is a rainy-day production on the same subject, exhausting, we believe, the real alphabetical quantum of rhymes, with their combinations. But it is submitted with deference to the learned. We dedicate it to our pleasant friend, heartily wishing we could have such another ride with him to- morrow. You talk of rhyming to the word Philosopher. — That jade the Muse ! It's doubtless very cross f her To stint one even in rhymes, which are the dross of her ; I can't but think that it's extremely gross of her: RAINY-DAY POETRY 151 I told her once how very wrong it was of her: If I could help, I'd not ask one, that's poz, of her: I would not quote procumbit humis bos of her; Nor earn a single lettuce yclept Cos of her ; I would not speak to Valcnaer or to Voss of her : Nor Dryden's self, although the Great High Joss of her: I would not care for the di-vinum os of her. No, though she rhymed me the whole mos,flos. ros, of her : Walking in woods I wouldn't brush the moss off her : Nor in the newest green grown take the gloss of her : In winter-time I wouldn't keep the snows off her: And yet I don't think either I could go so far : Thy anger, certainly, I couldn't show so far : I didn't think the hatchet I could throw so far. Good heavens ! now I reflect, I love the nose of her : 1 could cut off my hair to tie the hose of her : The brightest eyes are nothing to the doze of her : Love in my heart the smallest keepsake stows of her : O, for as many kisses as I chose of her ! Since I had one there's no sweet air but blows of her : There's not a stream but murmurs as it flows of her; I could exalt to heav'n the very clothes of her. I wonder how a man can speak in prose of her : Yet some have e'en said ill (while my blood froze) of her : Never again shall any be that crows offer To do her harm, or with his quid pro quos huff her. With pleasure I could every earthly woe suffer Rather than see the charmer's little toe suffer : 'Tis only gouty Muses that should so suffer. SJ\[CjJL£SH JhsMALSS ^p^i THEIR COSTUMES AND BEARING The writer of the following letter is very unmerciful on the ribands, plumes, and other enormities of the present mode of dress, and having torn these to pieces, proceeds to rend away veils and gowns, and fall plumb down upon the pretty feet of the wearers, and their mode of walking ; but when our fair readers see what he says of their faces, and call to mind how Momus found fault with the steps of Venus her- self, we trust they will forgive his fury for the sake of his love, and consider whether so fond an indignation does not contain something worth their reflection. French Ladies versus English. To the Editor. Sir, — It is Mrs Gore, I think, in one of her late novels, who says, that ninety-nine English women out of a hundred, dress infinitely worse than as many French ; but that the hun- dredth dresses with a neatness, elegance, and propriety 152 ENGLISH & FRENCH FEMALES 153 which is not to be paralleled on the other side of the channel. On my relating this to a fair relation of mine, she replied, " Very true, — only I never saw that hundredth." Nor has any one else. Without exception, the English women wear the prettiest faces and the ugliest dresses of any in the known world. A Hottentot hangs her sheepskin caross on her shoulders with more effect, — and it is from what I see every day of my life that I come to this conclusion. I was the other day at a large shop at the west end of the town, where, if anywhere, we may expect to meet with favourable specimens of our countrywomen. Not a bit of it. There were a couple of French ladies there dressed smartly and tidily, one in blue and the other in rose-coloured silk, with snug little scutty bonnets guiltless of tawdry rib- bons or dingy plumes ; and great was their astonishment at beholding the nondescript figures which ever and anon passed by. First came gliding out of her carriage, with a languishing air, a young Miss all ringlets down to the knees — feathers drooping on one side of her bonnet, flowers on the other, and an immense Brussels veil (or some such trash) hanging behind ; her gown pinned to her back like rags on a Guy Fawkes ; a large warming-pan of a watch, secured round her neck by as many chains, gold, silver, and pinchbeck, as an Italian brigand ; — with divers other articles, as handkerchiefs, boas, &c, which however costly and beautiful individually, formed altogether an unbecoming and cook-maidish whole. Then came the two old ladies — but I give them up, as too far gone in their evil ways of dressing to hope for amelioration. Ditto for the widows in their hideous black bonnets, with a foot and a half of black crape tacked to each side like wings to a paper kite — the horned caps of Edward the Confessor are nothing to them. The French damsels alluded to above, eyed one or two of these machines (they can go by no other name) with considerable attention, as if doubting the sanity of the wearer. 154 ENGLISH & FRENCH FEMALES " One would not, sure, be frightful when one's dead," says Pope's Narcissa. I might address a similar question to English widows — " One would not, sure, be frightful when one mourns.''* I looked from one end to the other of the crowded shop, in hopes of finding some happy lady to retrieve the honour of her country — but in vain. All wore the same ugly garment more akin to a night-shift than a gown ; the same warming- pan watch and chains ; the same fly-flapping bonnet with bunches of ugly ribands. Altogether they formed an awkward contrast to the " tight, reg'lar-built French craft," as Mathews's Tom Piper calls them. This time, however, it was the English who were "rigged so rum." And then their walk ! Oh quondam Indicator ! quondam Tatler ! quondam and present lover of all that is good and graceful ! could you not " indicate " to our English ladies the way to walk ? In what absurd book was it that I read the other day that French women walk ill, because, from the want of trottoirs in France, they get a habit of " pick- ing" with one foot, which gave a jerking air to the gait. The aristocratic noodle ! whose female relations shuffle about on smooth pavements, till they forget how to walk at all ! I would not have them cross my grass-plat for the world. They would decapitate the very daisies. How infinitely superior is the Frenchwoman's brisk springy step (albeit caused by a most plebeian and un-English want of causeways), to the languid sauntering gait of most English dames ! Nature teaches the one — the drill-sergeant can do nothing with the other. I wonder how they walked in the days of Charles II. Surely Nell Gwynne and my Lady Castlemaine walked well — and if they did, they walked differently from what they do now . I hope that some good creature like the London Journalist, who believes in the unprovability of all things, ENGLISH & FRENCH FEMALES 155 will take up this subject. A word from him would set English ladies upon trying, at least, to improve both in dressing and walking. There are models enough — look at the French, the Spanish, the Italians. They have not better opportunities for dressing well than we, and yet they beat us hollow. Why can't we have a basquina or mantilla, as well as any one else ? Let us endeavour. Above all, let no one suppose that the Writer of these desultory remarks is in the least deficient in love and duty to his fair countrywomen. If he offends any of them, they must imagine that it has been caused by excess of zeal for their interests. Bless their bonnie faces ! if we could screw English heads on French figures, what women there would be — sure/y / An Old Crony. July JtA, 1834. To enter properly into this subject, however trifling it may appear (as indeed is the case with almost every subject so called), would be to open a wide field of investigation into morals, laws, climates, &c. Perhaps climate alone, by reason of the variety of habits it generates in consequence of its various heats, colds, and other influences, will ever prevent an entire similarity of manners, whatever may be the approximation of opinion ; but taking for granted, as is not unreasonable, that the progress of knowledge and inter- course will not be without its effect in bringing the customs of civilised countries nearer to one another, and that each will be for availing itself of what is best and pleasantest amongst its neighbours, it becomes worth anybody's while to consider, in what respect it is advisable or otherwise to modify the behaviour or manners accordingly. We can say little, from personal experience, how the case may be in the present instance with regard to French manners. We have a great opinion of Mrs Gore, both as a general observer, and one that particularly understands what is 156 ENGLISH & FRENCH FEMALES charming in her own sex. On the other hand, from books, and from a readiness to be pleased with those who wish to please, and even from merely having passed through France in our way from another country, we have got a strong impression that the " hundredth " Frenchwoman, as well as the hundredth Englishwoman, nay, the hundredth Italian, that is to say, the one that carries the requisite graces, the beau ideal, of any country to its height, is likely to be so charming a person, in dress and everything else, to her own countrymen, that what Mrs Gore says of the perfectly dressing Englishwoman, is precisely the same thing that would be said of the perfectly dressing Frenchwoman by the French, and of her Italian counterpart by the Italians. It is impossible, unless we are half-foreigners, or unless our own nation is altogether of an inferior grade (and then per- haps our prejudices and irritation would render it equally so) to get rid of some one point of national preference in forming judgments of this kind. Our friend the old Crony, we see, for all his connoisseurship and crony-ism, his regard for a certain piquancy of perfection in the French dress and walk, and his wish that his fair countrywomen would " take steps " after their fashion, cannot get rid of the preference in which he was brought up for the beauty of the English countenance. We have a similar feeling in favour even of a certain subjected manner, a bending gentleness, (how shall we term it ?) in the bearing of the sweetest of our country- women, not exactly connected with decision of step, nor perhaps with variety of harmony : for all pleasures run into one another, if they are of a right sort and the ground of them true. Look at the paintings of the French, and you will find, in like manner, that their ideal of a face, let them try to universalise it as they can, is a French one ; and so it is with the Spanish and Italian paintings, and with the Greek statues. The merry African girls shriek with horror when they first look upon a white traveller. Their notion of a ENGLISH & FRENCH FEMALES 157 beautiful complexion is a skin shining like Warren's blacking. It is proper to understand, in any question, great or small, the premises from which we set out, the point which is required. In the dress and walk of females, as in all other matters in which they are concerned, the point of perfection, we conceive, is that which shall give us the best possible idea of perfect womanhood. We are not to con- sider the dress by itself, nor the walk by itself, but as the dress and the walk of the best and pleasantest woman, and how far therefore it does her justice. This produces the consideration of what we look upon as a perfect female ; people will vary in their opinions on this head ; and hence even so easy a looking question as the one before us, becomes invested with difficulties. The opinion will depend greatly on the temperament as well as the under- standing of the judge. Our correspondent, for instance, is evidently a lively fellow, old or young, and given a good deal rather to the material than to the spiritual ; and hence his notion of perfection tends towards a union of the trim and the lively, the impulsive, and yet withal to the self- possessed. He is one, we conceive, who would, "have no nonsense," as the phrase is, in his opinion of the possible or desirable ; and who is in no danger of the perils, either of sentimentality or sentiment ; either of an affected re- finement of feeling or any very serious demand of any sort. He is not for bringing into the walks of publicity, male or female, the notions of sequestered imaginations, nor to have women glancing and bashful like fawns. He is for having all things tight and convenient as a dressing-case ; " neat as imported " ; polished, piquant, well packed, and with no more flowers upon it than serve to give a hint of the smart pungency within, like a bottle of attar of roses, or fleur-d'epine. We do not quarrel with him. Chacun a son gout. Every man to his taste. Nay, his taste is our 158 ENGLISH & FRENCH FEMALES own, as far as concerns the improvement of female manners in ordinary. We do think that the general style of female English dressing and walking would be benefited by an inoculation of that which we conceive him to recommend. We have no predilection in favour of shuffling, and shouldering, and lounging, of a mere moving onwards of the feet, and an absence of all grace and self-possession. We can easily believe, that the French women surpass the English in this respect, because their climate is livelier, and themselves better taught and respected. People may start at that last word, but there is no doubt that the general run of French females are better taught, and therefore more respected, than the same number of English. They read more, they converse more, they are on more equal terms with the other sex (as they ought to be), and hence the other sex have more value for their opinions, ay, and for their persons ; for the more sensible a woman is, supposing her not to be masculine, the more attractive she is, in her proportionate power to entertain. But whether it is that we are English, or fonder of poetry in its higher sense than of vers de socle te or the poetry of polite life, we cannot help feeling a prejudice in favour of Mrs Gore's notion about the " hundredth " Englishwoman ; though perhaps the " hundredth " Frenchwoman, if we could see her, or the hundredth Italian or Spanish woman, would surpass all others, by dint of combining the sort of private manner which we have in our eye, with some exquisite implication of a fitness for general intercourse, which we have never yet met with. Meantime, we repeat, that we give up to our corre- spondent's vituperations the gait of English females in general, and their dress also ; though it is a little hard in him to praise the smallness of the French bonnet at the expense of the largeness of the English, when it is recollected that the latter are copied from France, and that ENGLISH & FRENCH FEMALES 159 our fair countrywomen were ridiculed on their first visit there after the war, for the very reverse appearance. But it is to the spirit of our mode of dressing and walking that we object ; and both are unfit either for the private or public " walk " of life, because both are alike untaught and unpleasing, — alike indicative of minds not properly culti- vated, and of habitual feelings that do not care to be agreeable. The walk is a saunter or shuffle, and the dress a lump. Or if not a lump throughout, it is a lump at both ends, with a horrible pinch in the middle. A tight- laced Englishwoman is thus, from head to foot, a most painful sight ; her best notion of being charming is con- fined to three inches of ill-used ribs and liver ; while her head is either grossly ignorant of the harm she is doing herself, or her heart more deplorably careless of the conse- quences to her offspring. Are we of opinion then, that the dress and walk of Englishwomen would be bettered, generally speaking, by taking the advice of our correspondent ? Most certainly we are ; and for this reason ; that there is some sense of grace, at all events, in the attire and bearing of the females of the Continent ; some evidence of mind, and some testi- mony to the proper claims of the person ; whereas, the only idea in the heads of the majority with us is that of being in fashion merely because it is the fashion, or of dressing in a manner to show how much they can afford. This is partly owing, no doubt, to our being a commercial people, and also to the struggles which everybody has been making for the last forty years to seem richer than they are, some for the sake or concealing how they have decreased in means, and others to show how they have risen ; but a nation may be commercial, and yet have a true taste. The Florentines had it, when they were at once the leaders of trade and of the fine arts, in the time of Lorenzo de Medici. It is to our fine arts and our increasing knowledge t6o ENGLISH & FRENCH FEMALES that we ourselves must look to improvement even in dress, in default of being impelled to it by greater liveliness of spirit, or a more convenient climate. We shall then learn to oppose even the climate better, and to furnish it with the grace and colour which it wants. In France, the better temperature of the atmosphere, as well as intellectual and moral causes, impels people to a livelier and happier way of walking. They have no reason to look as if they were uncomfortable. In the south of Europe, where every- thing respires animal sensibility, and love and music divide the time with business, the most unaffected people acquire an apparent consciousness and spring in the gait, which in England would be thought ostentatious. It gave no such idea to the severe and simple Dante, when (in the poetical spirit of the image, and not of course in the letter,) he praised his mistress for moving along like '* a peacock," and a " crane. " Soave a guisa va di un bel pavone, Diritta sopra se come una grue. Sweetly she goes, like the bright peacock ; strait Above herself, like to the lady crane. Petrarch, speaking of Laura, does not venture upon these primeval images ; but still he shows how much he thought of the beauty of a woman's steps ! Laura too was a Frenchwoman, not an Italian, and probably had a differ- ent kind of walk. Petrarch expresses the moral graces of it. Non era l'andar suo cosa mortale, Ma d'angelica forma. Her walk was like no mortal thing, but shaped After an angel's. In English poetry the lover speaks with the usual enthu- siasm of his mistress's eyes and lips, etc., but he scarcely ever mentions her walk. The fact is remarkable, and the ENGLISH & FRENCH FEMALES 161 reason too obvious. The walk is not worth mention. Italian and (we believe) Spanish poetry abound with the reverse. Milton, deeply imbued with the Italian, as well as with his own perceptions of beauty as a great poet, did not forget, in his description of Eve, to say that " Grace ivas in all her steps, Heaven in her eye, /// every gesture dignity and love." This moving and gesticulating beauty was not English ; at least she is not the Englishwoman of our days. Mrs Hutchinson perhaps might have been such a woman ; or the ladies of the Bridgewater family, for whom he wrote his Comus. In Virgil, JEneas is not aware that his mother Venus has been speaking with him in the guise of a wood- nymph, till she begins to move away : the "divinity " then became apparent. " Et vera incessu patuit dea," " And by her walk the Queen of Love is known." Dry den. The women of Spain and Spanish America are cele- brated throughout the world for the elegance of their walking, and for the way in which they carry their veil or mantilla, as alluded to by our correspondent. Knowing it only from books, we cannot say precisely in what the beauty of their walk consists ; but we take it to be something between stateliness and vivacity — between a consciousness of being admired, and that grace which is natural to any human being who is well made, till art or diffidence spoils it. It is the perfection, we doubt not, of animal elegance. We have an English doubt, whether we should not require an addition or modification of something, not indeed diffident, but perhaps not quite so confident,— something which to the perfection of animal elegance, should add that of intellectual and moral refinement, and a security from the chances of 162 THE ITALIAN GIRL coarseness and violence. But all these are matters of breeding and bringing up, — ay, of " birth, parentage, and education," and we should be grateful when we can get any one of them. Better have even a good walk than nothing, for there is some refinement in it, and moral refinement too, though we may not always think the epithet very applicable to the possessor. Good walking and good dressing, truly so called, are alike valuable, only inasmuch as they afford some external evidence, however slight, of a disposition to orderliness and harmony in the mind within, — of shapeliness and grace in the habitual movements of the soul. THE ITALIAN GIRL The sun was shining beautifully one summer evening, as if he bade sparkling farewell to a world which he had made happy. It seemed also, by his looks, as if he promised to make his appearance again to-morrow ; but there was at times a deep breathing western wind, and dark purple clouds came up here and there, like gorgeous waiters at a funeral. The children in a village not far from the metropolis were playing however on the green, content with the brightness of the moment, when they saw a female approaching, who gathered them about her by the singularity of her dress. It was not a very remarkable dress ; but any difference from the usual apparel of their country-women appeared so to them ; and crying out, " A French girl ! A French girl ! " they ran up to her, and stood looking and talking. The stranger seated herself upon a bench that was fixed between two elms, and for a moment leaned her head against one of them, as if faint with walking. But she raised it speedily, and smiled with complacency on the rude urchins. She had a boddice and petticoat on of different TKey r>>r\ up to Ke>* • &r*i j-tood looking *r.A b»lkir\g* THE ITALIAN GIRL 165 colours, and a handkerchief tied neatly about her head with the point behind. On her hands were gloves without fingers ; and she wore about her neck a guitar, upon the strings of which one of her hands rested. The children thought her very handsome. Anybody else would also have thought her very ill ; but they saw nothing before them but a good-natured looking foreigner and a guitar, and they asked her to play. "0 che bel ragazzi/" said she, in a soft and almost inaudible voice ; — " Che visl lieti!" Y and she began to play. She tried to sing too, but her voice failed her, and she shook her head smilingly, saying "Statical stanca / " 2 "Sing — do sing," said the children ; and nodding her head, she was trying to do so, when a set of boys came up and joined in the request. " No, no," said one of the elder boys, " she is not well. You are ill, a'nt you, — Miss ? " added he, laying his hand upon hers as if to hinder it. He drew out the last word somewhat doubtfully, for her appearance perplexed him ; he scarcely knew whether to take her for a strolling musician or a lady strayed from a sick bed. "GrazieS" said she, understanding his look : — " troppo stanca : troppo." 3 By this time the usher came up, and addressed her in French ; but she only understood a word here and there. He then spoke Latin, and she repeated one or two of his words, as if they were familiar to her. " She is an Italian ! " said he, looking round with a good-natured importance ; "for the Italian is but a bastard of the Latin." The children looked with the more wonder, thinking he was speaking of the fair musician. " Non dubito" continued the usher, " qu'in tu lectltas poetam ilium celtberrimum Tassonem ; 4 Taxum, I should say 1 O what fine boys ! What happy faces ! 2 Weary ! Weary! a Thanks :— too weary ! too weary ! 4 Doubtless you read that celebrated poet Tasso. 1 66 THE ITALIAN GIRL properly, but the departure from the Italian name is con- siderable." The stranger did not understand a word. "I speak of Tasso," said the usher, — "of Tasso." il Tasso! Tasso!" repeated the fair minstrel; u oh — conosco — il Tas-so ; " 1 and she hung with an accent of beautiful languor upon the first syllable. "Yes," returned the worthy scholar, "doubtless your accent may be better. Then of course you know those classical lines — Intanto Erminia infra l'ombros^ pianty D'antica selva dal cavallo — ivhat is it?" The stranger repeated the words in a tone of fondness, like those of an old friend : — Intanto Erminia infra l'omhrose piante D'antica selva dal cavallo e scorta ; Ne piu governo il fren la man tremante, E mezza quasi par, tra viva e morta. 2 Our usher's common-place book had supplied him with a fortunate passage, for it was a favourite one of her country- women. It also singularly applied to her situation. There was a sort of exquisite mixture of clearness in her utterance of these verses, which gave some of the children a better idea of French than they had had; for they could not get it out of their heads that she must be a French girl ; — " Italian-French perhaps," said one of them. But her voice trembled as she went on, like the hand she spoke of. " I have heard my poor cousin Montague sing those very lines," said the boy who prevented her from playing. "Montague," repeated the stranger very plainly, but turning paler and fainter. She put one of her hands in i O — I know — Tasso. - Meantime in the old wood, the palfrey bore Erminia deeper into shade and shade ; Her trembling hands could hold him in no more, And she appeared betwixt alive and dead. THE ITALIAN GIRL 167 turn upon the boy's affectionately, and pointed towards the spot where the church was. " Yes, yes," cried the boy ; — " why, she knew my cousin : — she must have known him in Florence." " I told you," said the usher, "she was an Italian." " Help her to my aunt's," continued the youth, " she'll understand her : — lean upon me, Miss ; " and he repeated the last word without his former hesitation. Only a few boys followed her to the door, the rest having been awed away by the usher. As soon as the stranger entered the house and saw an elderly lady, who received her kindly, she exclaimed " La Signora Madre," and fell in a swoon at her feet. She was taken to bed, and attended with the utmost care by her hostess, who would not suffer her to talk till she had had a sleep. She merely heard enough to find out, that the stranger had known her son in Italy ; and she was thrown into a painful state of suspicion by the poor girl's eyes, which followed her about the room till the lady fairly came up and closed them. " Obedient! obedient!" said the patient : " obedient in everything : only the Signora will let me kiss her hand ; " and taking it with her own trembling one, she laid her cheek upon it, and it staid there till she had dropt asleep for weariness. ". . . Silken rest Tie all thy cares up ! " thought her kind watcher, who was doubly thrown upon a recollection of that beautiful passage in Beaumont and Fletcher, by the suspicion she had of the cause of the girl's visit. "And yet," thought she, turning her eyes with a thin tear in them towards the church spire, " he was an excellent boy, — the boy of my heart." When the stranger woke, the secret was explained : and if the mind of her hostess was relieved, it was only the 168 THE ITALIAN GIRL more touched with pity, and indeed moved with respect and admiration. The dying girl (for she evidently was dying, and happy at the thought of it) was the niece of an humble tradesman in Florence, at whose house young Montague, who was a gentleman of small fortune, had lodged and fallen sick during his travels. She was a lively, good- natured girl, whom he used to hear coquetting and playing the guitar with her neighbours ; and it was greatly on this account, that her considerate and hushing gravity struck him whenever she entered his room. One day he heard no more coquetting, nor even the guitar. He asked the reason, when she came to give him some drink ; and she said she had heard him mention some noise that disturbed him. " But you do not call your voice and your music a noise," said he, " do you, Rosaura ? I hope not, for I had expected it would give me strength to get rid of this fever and reach home." Rosaura turned pale, and let the patient into a secret ; but what surprised and delighted him was, that she played her guitar nearly as often as before, and sang too, only less sprightly airs. "You get better and better, Signor," said she, "every day, and your mother will see you and be happy. I hope you will tell her what a good doctor you had." " The best in the world," cried he ; and as he sat up in bed, he put his arm round her waist and kissed her. " Pardon me, Signora," said the poor girl to her hostess ; " but I felt that arm round my waist for a week after : ay, almost as much as if it had been there." " And Charles felt that you did," thought his mother ; "for he never told me the story." " He begged my pardon," continued she, " as I was hastening out of the room, and hoped I should not construe his warmth into impertinence. And to hear him talk so to THE ITALIAN GIRL 169 me, who used to fear what he might think of myself; it made me stand in the passage, and lean my head against the wall, and weep such bitter, and yet such sweet tears ! — But he did not hear them. No, Madam, he did not know, indeed, how much I — how much I " " Loved him, child," interrupted Mrs Montague ; " you have a right to say so, and I wish he had been alive to say as much to you himself." " Oh, good God ! " said the dying girl, her tears flow- ing away, "this is too great a happiness for me, to hear his own mother talking so." And again she lays her weak head upon the lady's hand. The latter would have persuaded her to sleep again ; but she said she could not for joy : " for I'll tell you, Madam," continued she, " I do not believe you will think it foolish, for something very grave at my heart tells me it is not so ; but I have had a long thought," (and her voice and look grew more exalted as she spoke,) "which has supported me through much toil and many disagreeable things to this country and this place ; and I will tell you what it is, and how it came into my mind. I received this letter from your son." Here she drew out a paper which, though carefully wrapped up in several others, was much worn at the sides. It was dated from the village, and ran thus :— "'This comes from the Englishman whom Rosaura nursed so kindly at Florence. She will be sorry to hear that her kindness was in vain, for he is dying ; and he sometimes fears that her sorrow will be greater than he could wish it to be. But marry one of your kind country- men, my good girl ; for all must love Rosaura who know her. If it shall be my lot ever to meet her in heaven, I will thank her as a blessed tongue only can.' " As soon as I read this letter, Madam," continues Rosaura, "and what he said about heaven, it flashed into i7o THE ITALIAN GIRL my head, that though I did not deserve him on earth, I might, perhaps, by trying and patience, deserve to be joined with him in heaven, where there is no distinction of persons. My uncle was pleased to see me become a religious pilgrim ; but he knew as little of the world as I, and I found that I could earn my way to England better, and quite as religiously, by playing my guitar, which was also more independent ; and I had often heard your son talk of independence and freedom, and commend me for doing what he was pleased to call so much kindness to others. So I played my guitar from Florence all the way to England, and all that I earned by it I gave away to the poor, keeping enough to procure me lodging. I lived on bread and water, and used to weep happy tears over it, because I looked up to heaven and thought he might see me. I have sometimes, though not often, met with small insults ; but if ever they threatened to grow greater, I begged the people to desist in the kindest way I could, even smiling, and saying I would please them if I had the heart ; which might be wrong, but it seemed as if deep thoughts told me to say so ; and they used to look astonished, and left off; which made me the more hope that St Philip and the Holy Virgin did not think ill of my endeavours. So playing, and giving alms in this manner, I arrived in the neighbourhood of your beloved village, where I fell sick for a while, and was very kindly treated in an out-house ; though the people, I thought, seemed to look strange and afraid on this crucifix — (though your son never did), — though he taught me to think kindly of everybody, and hope the best, and leave everything, except our own endeavours, to Heaven. I fell sick, Madam, because I found for certain that the Signor Montague was dead, albeit I had no hope that he was alive. " She stopped awhile for breath, for she was growing weaker and weaker, and her hostess would fain have had THE ITALIAN GIRL 171 her keep silence ; but she pressed her hand as well as she might, and prayed with such a patient panting of voice to be allowed to go on, that she was. She smiled thankfully and resumed : — " So when — so when I got my strength a little again, I walked on and came to the beloved village, and I saw the beautiful white church spire in the trees ; and then I knew where his body slept, and I thought some kind person would help me to die, with my face looking towards the church as it now does ; and death is upon me, even now : but lift me a little higher on the pillows, dear lady, that I may see the green ground of the hill." She was raised up as she wished, and after looking awhile with a placid feebleness at the hill, said in a very low voice, '* Say one prayer for me, dear lady ; and if it be not too proud in me, call me in it your daughter." The mother of her beloved summoned up a grave and earnest voice, as well as she might, and knelt and said, " O Heavenly Father of us all, who in the midst of thy manifold and merciful bounties bringest us into strong passes of anguish, which nevertheless thou enablest us to go through, look down, we beseech thee, upon this thy young and innocent servant, the daughter — that might have been — of my heart, and enable her spirit to pass through the struggling bonds of mortality, and be gathered into thy rest with those we love. Do, dear and great God, of thy infinite mercy, for we are poor weak creatures, both young and old " here her voice melted away into a breathing tearfulness ; and after remaining on her knees a moment longer, she rose and looked upon the bed, and saw that the weary smiling one was no more. POETS' houses A paper in Mr Disraeli's " Curiosities of Literature " upon " Literary Residences," is very amusing and curious ; but it begins with a mistake in saying that " men of genius have usually been condemned to compose their finest works, which are usually their earliest ones, under the roof of a garret ; " and the author seems to think, that few have realized the sort of house they wished to live in. The combination of " genius and a garret " is an old joke, but little more. Genius has been often poor enough, but seldom so much so as to want what are looked upon as the decencies of life. In point of abode, in particular, we take it to have been generally lucky as to the fact, and not at all so grand in the desire as Mr Disraeli seems to imagine. Ariosto, who raised such fine structures in his poetry, was asked indeed how he came to have no greater one when he built a house for himself; and he answered, that "palaces POETS' HOUSES 173 are easier built with words than stones." It was a pleasant answer, and fit for the interrogator ; but Ariosto valued himself much upon the snug little abode which he did build, as may be seen by the inscription still remaining upon it at Ferrara l ; and we will venture to say for the cordial, tranquillity-loving poet, that he would rather live in such a house as that, and amuse himself with building palaces in his poetry, than have undergone the fatigue, and drawn upon himself the publicity, of erecting a princely mansion, full of gold and marble. No mansion which he could have built would have equalled what he could fancy ; and poets love nests from which they can take their flights — not worlds of wood and stone to strut in, and give them a sensation. If so, they would have set their wits to get rich, and live accordingly ; which none of them ever did yet, — at any rate, not the greatest. Ariosto notoriously neglected his " fortunes" — in that sense of the word. Shakspeare had the felicity of building a house for himself, and settling in his native town ; but though the best in it, it was nothing equal to the "seats" outside of it (where the richer men of the district lived) ; and it appears to have been a " modest mansion," not bigger, for instance, than a good-sized house in Red Lion Street, or some other old quarter in the metropolis. Suppose he had set Ms great wits to rise in the state and accumulate money, like Lionel Cranfield, for example, or Thomas Cromwell, the black- smith's son. We know that any man who chooses to be- gin systematically with a penny, under circumstances at all favourable, may end with thousands. Suppose Shakspeare had done it; he might have built a house like a mountain. But he did not, — it will be said, — because he was a poet, and poets are not getters of money. Well ; and for the 1 See an engraving of the house itself, with its inscription, in the " Gallery of Portraits," No. XXVIII., Article— " Ariosto." But it wants the garden-ground which belonged to it, i 7 4 POETS' HOUSES same reason, poets do not care for the mightiest things which money can get. It cannot get them health, and freedom, and a life in the green fields, and mansions in fairy-land ; and they prefer those, and a modest visible lodging. Chaucer had a great large house to live in, — a castle, — because he was connected with royalty ; but he does not delight to talk of such places : he is all for the garden, and the daisied fields, and a bower like a " pretty parlour." His mind was too big for a great house ; which challenges measurement with its inmates, and is generally equal to them. He felt elbow-room, and heart-room, only out in God's air, or in the heart itself, or in the bowers built by Nature, and reminding him of the greatness of her love. Spenser lived at one time in a castle, — in Ireland, — a piece of forfeited property, given him for political services ; and he lived to repent it : for it was burnt in civil warfare, and his poor child burnt with it ; and the poet was driven back to England, broken-hearted. But look at the houses he describes in his poems, — even he who was bred in a court, and loved pomp, after his fashion. He bestows the great ones upon princes and allegorical personages, who live in state and have many servants, (for the largest houses, after all, are but collections of small ones, and of unfitting neighbourhoods too) ; but his nests, his poetic bowers, his delicia and amanitates, he keeps for his hermits and his favourite nymphs, and his flowers of courtesy ; and observe how he delights to repeat the word "little," when de- scribing them. His travellers come to " little valleys," in which, through the tree-tops, comes reeking up a " little smoke," (a " chearefull signe," quoth the poet,) and " To little cots in which the shepherds lie ; " and though all his little cots are not happy, yet he is ever happiest when describing them, should they be so, and POETS' HOUSES 175 showing in what sort of contentment his mind delighted finally to rest. " A little lowly heritage it was Down in a dale, hard by a forest's side, Far from resort of people, that did pass In travel to and fro. A little wide There was an holy chappell edifyde, Wherein the hermit dewly wont to say His holy things each morn and eventide ; Thereby a crystall streame did gently play, Which from a sacred fountain welled forth alway. Arrived there, the little house they fill, Nor look for entertainment where none was ; Rest is their feast, and all things at their will ; The noblest mind the best contentment has." Milton, who built the Pandemonium, and filled it with " A thousand demi-gods on golden seats," was content if he could but get a u garden-house " to live in, as it was called in his time ; that is to say, a small house in the suburbs, with a bit of garden to it. He required nothing but a tree or two about him, to give him " airs of Paradise." His biographer shows us, that he made a point of having a residence of this kind. He lived as near as he could to the wood-side and the fields, like his fellow- patriot, M. Beranger, who would have been the Andrew Marvell of those times, and adorned his great friend as the other did, or like his Mirth {J Allegro) visiting his Melancholy. And hear beloved Cowley, quiet and pleasant as the sound in his trees : — " I never had any other desire so strong, and so like to covetousness, as that one which I have had always, — that I might be master at last of a small house and large garden, with very moderate con- veniences joined to them, and there dedicate the remainder 176 POETS' HOUSES of my life only to the culture of them, and study of nature ; and there, with no design beyond my wall, ' whole and entire to lie, In no unactive ease, and no unglorious poverty.'" The Garden. "I confess,'' says he, in another essay (on Greatness), " I love littleness almost in all things, — a little convenient estate, a little cheerful house, a little company, and a very little feast ; and if ever I were to fall in love again (which is a great passion, and therefore I hope I have done with it), it would be, I think, with prettiness, rather than with majestical beauty." (What charming writing ! — how charming as writing, as well as thinking ! and charming in both respects, because it possesses the only real perfection of either, — truth of feeling ) . Cowley, to be sure, got such a house as he wanted " at last," and was not so happy in it as he expected to be ; but then it was because he did only get it "at last" when he was growing old, and was in bad health. Neither might he have ever been so happy in such a place as he supposed (blest are the poets, surely, in enjoying happiness even in imagination ! ) yet he would have been less comfortable in a house less to his taste. Dryden lived in a house in Gerrard Street (then almost a suburb), looking, at the back, into the gardens of Leicester House, the mansion of the Sidneys. Pope had a nest at Twickenham, much smaller than the fine house since built upon the site ; and Thomson another at Rich- mond, consisting only of the ground-floor of the present house. Everybody knows what a rural house Cowper lived in. Shenstone's was but a farm adorned, and his bad health unfortunately hindered him from enjoying it. He married a house and grounds, poor man ! instead of a POETS' HOUSES 177 wife ; which was being very " one-sided " in his poetry — and he found them more expensive than Miss Dolman would have been. He had better have taken poor Maria first, and got a few domestic cares of a handsome sort, to keep him alive and moving. Most of the living poets are dwellers in cottages, except Mr Rogers, who is rich, and has a mansion, looking on one of the parks ; but there it does look — upon grass and trees. He will have as much nature with his art as he can get. Next to a cottage of the most comfortable order, we should prefer, for our parts, if we must have servants and a household, one of those good old mansions of the Tudor age, or some such place, which looks like a sort of cottage-palace, and is full of old corners, old seats in the windows, and old memories. The servants, in such a case, would probably have grown old in one's family, and become friends ; and this makes a great difference in the possible comfort of a great house. It gives it old family warmth. ON RECEIVING A SPRIC OF LAUREL FROM VAUCLUSE And this piece of laurel is from Vaucluse ! Perhaps Petrarch, perhaps Laura sat under it ! This is a true present. What an exquisite, dry, old, vital, young-looking, everlasting twig it is ! It has been plucked nine months, and yet looks as hale and as crisp as if it would last ninety years. It shall last, at any rate, as long as its owner, and longer, if care and love can preserve it. How beautifully it is turned ! It was a happy pull from the tree. Its shape is the very line of beauty ; it has berries upon it, as if resolved to show us in what fine condition the trees are ; while the leaves issue from it, and swerve upwards with their elegant points, as though they had come from adorning the poet's head. Be thou among the best of one's keepsakes, thou gentle stem, in deliciis nostris ; and may the very maid- servant, who wonders to see thy withered beauty in its 178 RECEIVING SPRIG OF LAUREL 179 fame, miss her lover the next five weeks, for not having the instinct to know that thou must have something to do with love! Perhaps Petrarch has felt the old ancestral boughs of this branch stretching over his head, and whispering to him of the name of Laura, of his love, and of their future glory ; for all these ideas used to be entwined in one. (Sestina 2, canzone 17, sonetti 162, 163, 164, 207, 224, &c.) Perhaps it is of the very stock of that bough, which he describes as supplying his mistress with a leaning-stock, when she sat in her favourite bower. Giovane donna sotto un verde lauro Vidi piu bianca e piu fredda che neve Non percossa dal sol molti e molt' anni ; E '1 suo parlar, e '1 bel viso, e le chiome, Mi piacquer si, ch' i' l'ho a gli occhi miei, Ed avro sempre, ov' io sia in poggio o'n riva. Part i. sestina 2. A youthful lady under a green laurel I saw, more fair and colder than white snows Veil'd from the sun for many and many a year : And her sweet face, and hair, and way of speaking, So pleased me, that I have her now before me, And shall have ever, whether on hill or lea. The laurel seems more appropriate to Petrarch than to any other poet. He delighted to sit under its leaves ; he loved it both for itself and for the resemblance of its name to that of his mistress ; he wrote of it continually, and he was called from out of its shade to be crowned with it in the capitol. It is a remarkable instance of the fondness with which he cherished the united idea of Laura and the laurel, that he confesses this fancy to have been one of the greatest delights he experienced in receiving the crown upon his head. It was out of Vaucluse that he was called. Vaucluse, Valchiusa, the Shut Valley (from which the French, in the 180 RECEIVING SPRIG OF LAUREL modern enthusiasm for intellect, gave the name to the de- partment in which it lies), is a remarkable spot in the old poetical region of Provence, consisting of a little deep glen of green meadows, surrounded with rocks, and containing the fountain of the river Sorgue. Petrarch, when a boy of eight or nine years of age, had been struck with its beauty, and exclaimed that it was the place of all others he should like to live in, better than the most splendid cities. He resided there afterwards for several years, and composed in it the greater part of his poems. Indeed, he says in his account of himself, that he either wrote or conceived, in that valley, almost every work he produced. He lived in a little cottage, with a small homestead, on the banks of the river. Here he thought to forget his passion for Laura, and here he found it stronger than ever. We do not well see how it could have been otherwise ; for Laura lived no great way off, at Chabrieres, and he appears to have seen her often in the very place. He paced along the river ; he sat under the trees ; he climbed the mountains ; but Love, he says, was ever by his side, Ragionando con meco, ed io con lui. He holding talk with me, and 1 with him. We are supposing that all our readers are acquainted with Petrarch. Many of them doubtless know him intimately. Should any of them want an introduction to him, how should we speak of him in the gross ? We should say, that he was one of the finest gentlemen and greatest scholars that ever lived ; that he was a writer who flourished in Italy in the fourteenth century, at the time when Chaucer was young, during the reigns of our Edwards ; that he was the greatest light of his age ; that although so fine a writer himself, and the author of a multitude of works, or rather because he was both, he took the greatest pains to revive the knowledge of the ancient learning, recommending it RHYME AND REASON 181 everywhere, and copying out large manuscripts with his own hand ; that two great cities, Paris and Rome, con- tended which should have the honour of crowning him ; that he was crowned publicly, in the Metropolis of the World, with laurel and with myrtle ; that he was the friend of Boccaccio, the Father of Italian Prose ; and lastly, that his greatest renown nevertheless, as well as the predominant feelings of his existence, arose from the long love he bore for a lady of Avignon, the far-famed Laura, whom he fell in love with on the 6th of April 1327, on a Good Friday ; whom he rendered illustrious in a multitude of sonnets, which have left a sweet sound and sentiment in the ear of all after lovers ; and who died, still passionately beloved, in the year 1348, on the same day and hour on which he first beheld her. Who she was, or why their connexion was not closer, remains a mystery. But that she was a real person, and that in spite of her staid manners she did not show an altogether insensible countenance to his passion, is clear from his long-haunted imagination, from his own repeated accounts — from all that he wrote, uttered, and thought. One love, and one poet, sufficed to give the whole civilised world a sense of delicacy in desire, of the abundant riches to be found in one single idea, and of the going out of a man's self to dwell in the soul and happiness of another, which has served to refine the passion for all modern times ; and perhaps will do so, as long as love renews the world. RHYME AND REASON: OR A NEW PROPOSAL TO THE PUBLIC RESPECTING POETRY IN ORDINARY A friend of ours the other day, taking up the miscellaneous poems of Tasso, read the title-page into English as i82 RHYME AND REASON follows: — "The Rhymes of the Lord Twisted Yew, Amorous, Bosky, and Maritime." l The Italians exhibit a modesty worthy of imitation in calling their Miscellaneous Poems, Rhymes. Twisted Yew himself, with all his genius, has put forth an abundance of these terminating blossoms, without any fruit behind them : and his country- men of the present day do not scruple to confess, that their living poetry consists of little else. The French have a game at verses, called Rhymed Ends (Bouts Rimes) which they practise a great deal more than they are aware ; and the English, though they are a more poetical people, and lay claim to the character of a less vain one, practise the same game to a very uncandid extent, without so much as allowing that the title is applicable to any part of it. Yet how many " Poems " are there among all these nations, of which we require no more than the Rhymes, to be acquainted with the whole of them ? You know what the rogues have done, by the ends they come to. For instance, what more is necessary to inform us of all which the following gentleman has for sale, than the bell which he tinkles at the end of his cry ? We are as sure of him, as of the muffin man. A Love Song. Grove, Heart. Kiss Night, Prove, Blest Rove, Impart, Bliss Delight. Love. Rest. Was there ever peroration more eloquent? Ever a series of catastrophes more explanatory of their previous history ? Did any Chinese gentleman ever show the amount of his breeding and accomplishments more completely, by the nails which he carries at his fingers' ends ? 1 Rime del Signor Torquato Tasso, Amorose, Boschereccie, Marittime, &c. RHYME AND REASON 183 The Italian Rimatori are equally comprehensive. We no sooner see the majority of their rhymes, than we long to save the modesty of their general pretensions so much trouble in making out their case. Their cores and amores are not to be disputed. Cursed is he that does not put implicit reliance upon their fedelta ! — that makes inquisition why the possessor piu superbo va. They may take the oaths and their seat at once. For example — Ben mio Fuggito Oh Dio Repito Per te. Da me, And again — Amata Sdegnata Turbata Irata Furore Dolore Non so. With — O cielo Dal gielo Tradire Languire Mori re SofFrire Non pu6. Where is the dull and inordinate persons that would require these rhymes to be filled up ? If they are brief as the love of which they complain, are they not pregnant in conclusions, full of a world of things that have passed, infinitely retro- spective, embracing, and enough? If not " vast," are they not " voluminous ? " It is doubtless an instinct of this kind that has made so many modern Italian poets intersperse their lyrics with those frequent single words, which are at once line and rhyme, i«4 RHYME AND REASON and which some of our countrymen have in vain endeavoured to naturalise in the English opera. Not that they want the same pregnancy in our language, but because they are neither so abundant nor so musical ; and besides, there is something in the rest of our verses, however common-place, which seems to be laughing at the incursion of these vivacious strangers, as if it were a hop suddenly got up, and unseason- ably. We do not naturally take to anything so abrupt and saltatory. This objection, however, does not apply to the proposal we are about to make. Our rhymers must rhyme ; and as there is a great difference between single words thus mingled with longer verses, and the same rhymes in their proper places, it has struck us, that a world of time and paper might be saved to the ingenious rimatore, whether Italian or English, by foregoing at once all the superfluous part of his verses ; that is to say, all the rest of them ; and confining himself, entirely, to these very sufficing terminations. We subjoin some specimens in the various kinds of poetry ; and inform the intelligent bookseller, that we are willing to treat with him for any quantity at a penny a hundred. A Pastors >L. Dawn Each Fair Me Ray Plains Spoke Mine Too Heat Lawn Beech Hair Free Play Swains. Yoke Divine. Woo. Sweet. Tune Fields Shades Adieu Farewell Lays Bowers Darts Flocks Cows Moon Yields Maids Renew Dell Gaze. Flowers. Hearts. Rocks. Boughs. Here, without any more ado, we have the whole history of a couple of successful rural lovers comparing notes. They issue forth in the morning ; fall into the proper place and dialogue ; record the charms and kindness of their respective mistresses ; do justice at the same time to the fields and -J RHYME AND REASON .87 shades ; and conclude by telling their flocks to wait as usual while they renew their addresses under the boughs. How easily is all this gathered from the rhymes ! and how worse than useless would it be in two persons, who have such interesting avocations, to waste their precious time and the reader's in a heap of prefatory remarks, falsely called verses ! Of Love-songs we have already had specimens ; and, by the bye, we did not think it necessary to give any French examples of our involuntary predecessors in this species of writing. The yeux and dangereux, mot andyb/, charmes and larmes, are too well-known as well as too numerous to mention. We proceed to lay before the reader a Prologue ; which, if spoken by a pretty actress, with a due sprinkling of nods and becks, and a judicious management of the pauses, would have an effect equally novel and triumphant. The reader is aware that a Prologue is generally made up of some observations on the drama in general, followed by an appeal in favour of the new one, some compliments to the nation, and a regular climax in honour of the persons appealed to. We scarcely need observe, that the rhymes should be read slowly, in order to give effect to the truly understood remarks in the intervals. Prologue. Age Fashion Applause Stage British Nation. Virtue's Cause Mind Trust Mankind Young Just Face Tongue Fear Trace Bard Here Sigh Reward Stands Tragedy Hiss Hands Scene Miss True Spleen Dare You. Pit British Fair Wit 188 RHYME AND REASON Here we have some respectable observations on the advantages of the drama in every age, on the wideness of its survey, the different natures of tragedy and comedy, the vicissitudes of fashion, and the permanent greatness of the British empire. Then the young bard, new to the dramatic art, is introduced. He disclaims all hope of reward for any merit of his own, except that which is founded on a proper sense of the delicacy and beauty of his fair auditors, and his zeal in the cause of virtue. To this, at all events, he is sure his critics will be just ; and though he cannot help feeling a certain timidity, standing where he does, yet upon the whole, as becomes an Englishman, he is perfectly willing to abide by the decision of his countrymen's hands, hoping that he shall be found "... to sense, if not to genius true, And trusts his cause to virtue, and — to You." Should the reader, before he comes to this explication of the Prologue, have had any other ideas suggested by it, we will undertake to say, that they will at all events be found to have a wonderful general similitude ; and it is to be observed, that this very flexibility of adaptation is one of the happiest and most useful results of our pro- posed system of poetry. It comprehends all the possible common-places in vogue ; and it also leaves to the ingenious reader something to fill up ; which is a com- pliment that has always been held due to him by the best authorities. The next specimen is what, in a more superfluous condition of metre, would have been entitled Lines on Time. It is much in that genteel didactic taste, which is at once thinking and non-thinking, and has a certain neat and elderly dislike of innovation in it, greatly to the comfort of the seniors who adorn the circles. RHYME AND REASON 89 On Time, Time Child Race Hold Sublime Beguiled Trace Old Fraught Boy All Sure Thought Joy Ball Endure Power Man Pride Death Devour Span Deride Breath Rust Sire Aim Forgiven Dust Expire Same Heaven. Glass Undo Pass So New- Wings Go Kings We ask any impartial reader, whether he could possibly want a more sufficing account of the progress of this author's piece of reasoning upon Time ? There is, first, the address to the hoary god, with all his emblems and consequence about him, the scythe excepted ; that being an edge-tool to rhymers, which they judiciously keep inside the verse, as in a sheath. And then we are carried through all the stages of human existence, the caducity of which the writer applies to the world at large, impressing upon us the inutility of hope and exertion, and suggesting of course the propriety of thinking just as he does upon all subjects, political and moral, past, present, and to come. The cultivation of pleasant associations is, next to health, the great secret of enjoyment ; and, accordingly, as we lessen our cares and increase our pleasures, we may imagine ourselves affording a grateful spectacle to the Author of happiness. Error and misery, taken in their proportion, are the exceptions in his system. The world is most un- questionably happier upon the whole than otherwise ; or light and air, and the face of nature, would be different from what they are, and mankind no longer be buoyed up in perpetual hope and action. By cultivating agreeable thoughts, then, we tend, like bodies in philosophy, to the greater mass of sensations, rather than the less. What we can enjoy, let us enjoy like creatures made for that very purpose : what we cannot, let us, in the same character, do our best to deprive of its bitterness. Nothing can be more idle than the voluntary gloom with which people think to please Heaven in certain matters, and which they confound with serious acknowledgment, or with what they call a due sense of its dispensations. It is nothing but the cultivation of the principle of fear, in- stead of confidence, with whatever name they may disguise it. It is carrying frightened faces to court, instead of glad and grateful ones ; and is above all measure ridiculous, because the real cause of it, and, by the way, of a thousand other feelings which religious courtiers mistake for religion, cannot be concealed from the Being it is intended to honour. There is a dignity certainly in suffering well, where we cannot choose but suffer ; — if we must take physic, let us do it like men ; — but what would be his dignity, who, when he had the choice in his power, should make the physic bitterer than it is, or even to refuse to 190 ON DEATH AND BURIAL 191 render it more palatable, purely to look grave over it, and do honour to the physician ? The idea of our dissolution is one of those which we most abuse in this manner, principally, no doubt, because it is abhorrent from the strong principle of vitality implanted in us, and the habits that have grown up with it. But what then ? So much the more should we divest it of all the unpleasant associations which it need not excite, and add to it all the pleasant ones which it will allow. But what is the course we pursue ? We remember having a strong impression, years ago, of the absurdity of our mode of treating a death-bed, and of the great desire- ableness of having it considered as nothing but a sick one, one to be smoothed and comforted, even by cordial helps, if necessary. We remember also how some persons, who, nevertheless, did too much justice to the very freest of our speculations to consider them as profane, were startled by this opinion, till we found it expressed, in almost so many words, by no less an authority than Lord Bacon. We got at our notion through a very different process, no doubt, — he through the depth of his knowledge, and we from the very buoyancy of our youth ; — but we are not disposed to think it the less wise on that account. " The serious," of course, are bound to be shocked at so cheering a pro- position ; but of them we have already spoken. The great objection would be, that such a system would deprive the evil-disposed of one terror in prospect, and that this principle of determent is already found too feeble to afford any diminution. The fact is, the whole principle is worth little or nothing, unless the penalty to be inflicted is pretty certain, and appeals also to the less sentimental part of our nature. It is good habits, — a well-educated conscience, — a little early knowledge, — the cultivation of generous motives, — must supply people with preventives of bad conduct ; their sense of things is too immediate and lively 192 ON DEATH AND BURIAL to attend, in the long run, to anything else. We will be bound to say, generally speaking, that the prospective terrors of a death-bed never influenced any others than nervous consciences, too weak, and inhabiting organizations too delicate, to afford to be very bad ones. But, in the mean time, they may be very alarming to such consciences in prospect, and very painful to the best and most tem- perate of mankind in actual sufferance ; and why should this be, but, as we have said before, to keep bitter that which we could sweeten, and to persist in a mistaken want of relief, under a notion of its being a due sense of our condition ? We know well enough what a due sense of our condition is in other cases of infirmity ; and what is a death-bed but the very acme of infirmity, — the sickness, bodily and mental, that of all others has most need of relief ? If the death happens to be an easy one, the case is altered ; and no doubt it is oftener so than people imagine ; — but how much pains are often taken to render it difficult ! — First, the chamber, in which the dying person lies, is made as gloomy as possible with curtains, and vials, and nurses, and terrible whispers, and, perhaps, the continual application of handkerchiefs to weeping eyes ; — then, whether he wishes it or not, or is fit to receive it or not, he is to have the whole truth told him by some busy-body who never was so anxious, perhaps, in the cause of veracity before ; — and lastly, come partings, and family assemblings, and confusion of the head with matters of faith, and tremb- ling prayers, that tend to force upon dying weakness the very doubts they undertake to dissipate. Well may the soldier take advantage of such death-beds as these, to boast of the end that awaits him in the field. But having lost our friend, we must still continue to add to our own misery at the circumstance. We must heap about the recollection of our loss all the most gloomy and ON DEATH AND BURIAL 193 distasteful circumstances we can contrive, and thus, perhaps, absolutely incline ourselves to think as little of him as possible. We wrap the body in ghastly habiliments, put it in as tasteless a piece of furniture as we can invent, dress ourselves in the gloomiest of colours, awake the barbarous monotony of the church-bell (to frighten every sick person in the neighbourhood), call about us a set of officious mechanics, of all sorts, who are counting their shillings, as it were, by the tears that we shed, and watching with jealousy every candle's end of their "perquisites," — and proceed to consign our friend or relation to the dust, under a ceremony that takes particular pains to impress that con- summation on our minds. — Lastly, come, tasteless tomb- stones and ridiculous epitaphs, with perhaps a skull and cross-bones at top ; and the tombstones are crowded to- gether, generally in the middle of towns, always near the places of worship, unless the church-yard is overstocked. Scarcely ever is there a tree on the spot ; — in some remote villages alone are the graves ever decorated with flowers. 1 All is stony, earthy, and dreary. It seems as if, after having rendered everything before death as painful as possible, we endeavoured to subside into a sullen indiffer- ence, which contradicted itself by its own efforts. The Greeks managed these things better. It is curious that we, who boast so much of our knowledge of the immortality of the soul, and of the glad hopes of an after- life, should take such pains to make the image of death melancholy ; while, on the other hand, Gentiles whom we treat with so much contempt for their ignorance on those heads, should do the reverse, and associate it with emblems that ought to belong rather to us. But the truth is, that we know very little what we are talking about when we speak, in the gross, of the ancients, and of their ideas of Deity and humanity. The very finest and most amiable 1 Matters have been improving since this article was written. N i 9 4 ON DEATH AND BURIAL part of our notions on those subjects comes originally from their philosophers ; all the rest, the gloom, the bad passions, the favouritism, are the work of other hands, who have borrowed the better materials as they proceeded, and then pretended an original right in them. Even the absurd parts of the Greek Mythology are less painfully absurd than those of any other ; because, generally speaking, they are on the cheerful side instead of the gloomy. We would rather have a Deity who fell in love with the beautiful creatures of his own making, than one who would consign nine hundred out of a thousand to destruction for not be- lieving ill of him. But not to digress from the main subject. The ancients did not render the idea of death so harshly distinct, as we do, from that of life. They did not extinguish all light and cheerfulness in their minds, and in things about them, as it were, on the instant ; neither did they keep before one's eyes, with hypochondriacal pertinacity, the idea of death's heads and skeletons, which, as representations of humanity, are something more absurd than the brick which the pedant carried about as the specimen of his house. They selected pleasant spots for sepulture, and outside the town ; they adorned their graves with arches and pillars, — with myrtles, lilies, and roses ; they kept up the social and useful idea of their great men by entombing them near the highway, so that every traveller paid his homage as he went ; and latterly, they reduced the dead body to ashes, — a clean and inoffensive substance — gathered it into a tasteful urn, and often accompanied it with other vessels of exquisite construction, on which were painted the most cheerful actions of the person departed, even to those of his every- day life, — the prize in the games, the toilet, the recollec- tions of his marriages and friendships — the figures of beautiful females, — everything, in short, which seemed to keep up the idea of a vital principle, and to say, " the creature ON DEATH AND BURIAL 195 who so did and so enjoyed itself cannot be all gone." The image of the vital principle and of an after-life was, in fact, often and distinctly repeated on these vessels by a variety of emblems, animal and vegetable, particularly the image of Psyche, or the soul, by means of the butterfly, — an association which, in process of time, as other associa- tions gathered about it, gave rise to the most exquisite allegory in the world, the story of Cupid and Psyche. Now, we do not mean to say, that everybody who thinks as we do upon this subject, should or can depart at once from existing customs, especially the chief ones. These things must either go out gradually or by some convulsive movement in society, as others have gone ; and mere eccentricity is no help to their departure. What we cannot undo, let us only do as decently as possible ; but we might render the dying a great deal more comfortable, by just daring a little to consider their comforts and not our puerility : we might allow their rooms also to be more light and cheerful ; we might take pains to bring pleasanter associa- tions about them altogether ; and, when they were gone, we might cultivate our own a little better ; our tombstones might at least be in better taste ; we might take more care of our graves ; we might preserve our sick neighbours from the sound of the death-bell ; a single piece of ribbon or crape would surely be enough to guard us against the un- weeting inquiries of friends, while, in the rest of our clothes, we might adopt, by means of a ring or a watch-ribbon, some cheerful instead of gloomy recollection of the person we had lost, — a favourite colour, for instance, or device, — and thus contrive to balance a grief which we must feel, and which, indeed, in its proper associations, it would not be desirable to avoid. Rousseau died gazing on the setting sun, and was buried under green trees. Petrarch, who seemed born to complete and render glorious the idea of an author from first to last, was found dead in his study with 196 ON DEATH AND BURIAL his head placidly resting on a book. What is there in deaths like these to make us look back with anguish, or to plunge into all sorts of gloominess and bad taste ? We know not whether it has ever struck any of our readers, but we seem to consider the relics of ancient taste, which we possess, as things of mere ornament, and forget that their uses may be in some measure preserved, so as to complete the idea of their beauty, and give them, as it were, a soul again. We place their urns and vases, for instance, about our apartments, but never think of putting anything in them ; yet when they are not absolutely too fragile, we might often do so, — fruit, flowers, — toilet utensils, — a hundred things, with a fine opportunity (to boot) of showing our taste in inscriptions. The Chinese, in the Citizen of the World, when he was shown the two large vases from his own country, was naturally amused to hear that they only served to fill up the room, and held no supply of tea in them as they did at home. A lady, a friend of ours, who shows in her countenance her origin from a country of taste, and who acts up to the promise of her countenance, is the only person, but one, whom we ever knew to turn antique ornament to account in this respect. She buried a favourite bird in a vase on her mantel-piece ; and there the little rogue lies, with more kind and tasteful associations about him, than the greatest dust in Christendom. The other instance is that of two urns of marble, which have been turned as much as possible to the original purposes of such vessels, by becoming the depository of locks of hair. A lock of hair is an actual relic of the dead, as much so, in its proportion, as ashes, and more lively and recalling than even those. It is the part of us that preserves vitality longest ; it is a clean and elegant substance : and it is especially connected with ideas of tenderness, in the cheek or the eyes about which it may have strayed, and the hand- ling we may have given it on the living head. The thoughts ON DEATH AND BURIAL 197 connected with such relics time gradually releases from grief itself, and softens into tender enjoyment ; and we know that in the instance alluded to the possessor of those two little urns would no more consent to miss them from his study, than he would any other cheerful association that he could procure. It is a consideration, which he would not forego for a great deal, that the venerable and lovely dust to which they belonged lies in a village churchyard, and has left the most unfading part of it inclosed in graceful vessels. May-day is a word, which used to awaken in the minds of our ancestors all the ideas of youth, and verdure, and blossoming, and love ; and hilarity ; in short, the union of the two best things in the world, the love of nature, and the love of each other. It was the day, on which the arrival of the year at maturity was kept, like that of a blooming heiress. They caught her eye as she was coming, and sent up hundreds of songs of joy. Now the bright Morning Star, Day's harbinger. Comes dancing from the east, and leads with her The flowery May, who from her green lap throws The yellow cowslip, and the pale primrose. Hail, bounteous May, that dost inspire Mirth, and youth, and warm desire: Woods and groves are of thy dressing ; Hill and dale, doth boast thy blessing. Thus we salute thee with our early song, And welcome thee, and wish thee long. These songs were stopped by Milton's friends the Puritans, whom in his old age he differed with, most likely on these 198 MAY-DAY 199 points among others. But till then, they appear to have been as old, all over Europe, as the existence of society. The Druids are said to have had festivals in honour of May. Our Teutonic ancestors had, undoubtedly ; and in the countries which had constituted the Western Roman Empire, Flora still saw thanks paid for her flowers, though her worship had gone away. 1 The homage which was paid to the Month of Love and flowers, may be divided into two sorts, the general and the individual. The first consisted in going with others to gather May, and in joining in sports and games afterwards. On the first of the month, "the juvenile part of both sexes," says Bourne, in his Popular Antiquities, " were wont to rise a little after midnight and walk to some neighbouring wood, where they broke down branches from the trees, and adorned them with nosegays and crowns of flowers. When this was done, they returned with their booty about the rising of the sun, and made their doors and windows to triumph in the flowery spoil. The after part of the day was chiefly spent in dancing round a May-pole, which being placed in a convenient part of the village, stood there, as it were, consecrated to the Goddess of Flowers, without the least violation offered to it, in the whole circle of the year." Spenser, in his Shepherd's Calendar, has detailed the circumstances, in a style like a rustic dance. Younge folke now flocken in — every where To gather May-buskets 2 — and swelling brere ; 1 The great May holiday observed over the West of Europe was known for centuries, up to a late period, under the name of the Belte, or Beltane. Such a number of etymologies, all perplexingly probable, have been found for this word, that we have been surprised to miss among them that of Bel-temps, the Fine Time or Season. Thus Printemps, the First Time, or Prime Season, is the Spring. 2 Baskets — Boskets — Bushes — from Boschetti, Ital, 200 MAY-DAY And home they hasten — the postes to dight, And all the kirk-pilours — eare day-light, With hawthorne buds — and sweet eglantine, And girlonds of roses — and soppes in wine. ****** Sicker this morowe, no longer agoe. 1 saw a shole of shepherds outgoe With singing, and shouting, and jolly chere ; Before them yode l a lustie tabrere 2 That to the many a hornpipe played, Whereto they dauncen eche one with his mayd To see these folks make such jovisaunce, Made my heart after the pipe to daunce. Tho 3 to the greene wood they speeden hem all, To fetchen home May with their musicall ; And home they bringen, in a royall throne, Crowned as king; and his queen attone 4 Was Lady Flora, on whom did attend A fayre fiocke of faeries, and a fresh bend Of lovely nymphs. O that I were there To helpen the ladies their May-bush beare. The day was passed in sociality and manly sports ; — in archery, and running, and pitching the bar, — in dancing, singing, playing music, acting Robin Hood and his company, and making a well-earned feast upon all the country dainties in season. It closed with an award of prizes. As I have seen the Lady of the May, Set in an arbour (on a holiday) Built by the Maypole, where the jocund swains Dance with the maidens to the bag-pipe's strains, When envious night commands them to be gone, Call for the merry youngsters one by one, And for their well performance soon disposes, To this a garland interwove with roses, To that a carved hook, or well-wrought scrip, Gracing another with her cherry lip ; 1 Tode, Went. 2 Tabrere. a Tabourer. 3 Tho, Then. 4 Attone, At once— With him. MAY-DAY 201 To one her garter, to another then A handkerchief cast o'er and o'er again ; And none returneth empty, that hath spent His pains to fill their rural merriment. 1 Among the gentry and at court the spirit of the same enjoyments took place, modified according to the taste or rank of the entertainers. The most universal amusement, agreeably to the general current in the veins, and the common participation of flesh and blood (for rank knows no distinc- tion of legs and knee-pans), was dancing. Contests of chivalry supplied the place of more rural gymnastics. But the most poetical and elaborate entertainment was the Mask. A certain flowery grace was sprinkled over all ; and the finest spirits of the time, though they showed both their manliness and wisdom in knowing how to raise the pleasures of the season to their height. Sir Philip Sydney, the idea of whom has come down to us as a personification of all the refinement of that age, is fondly recollected by Spenser in this character. His sports were faire, his joyance innocent, Sweet without soure, and honey without gall : And he himself seemed made for merriment, Merrily masking both in bowre and hall. There was no pleasure nor delightfull play, When Astrophel soever was away. For he could pipe, and daunce, and caroll sweet, Amongst the shepheards in their shearing feast ; 1 Britannia's Patorals, by William Browne. Song the 4th. Browne, like his friend Wither, from whom we quoted a passage last week, wanted strength and the power of selection; though not to such an extent. He is however well worth reading by those who can expatiate over a pastoral subject, like a meadowy tract of country ; finding out the beautiful spots, and gratified, if not much delighted, with the rest. His genius, which was by no means destitute of the social part of passion, seems to have been turned almost wholly to description, by the beauties of his native county Devonshire. 202 MAY-DAY As somer's larke that with her song doth greet The dawning day forth comming from the East. And layes of love he also could compose ; Thrice happie she, whom he to praise did choose. Astrophel, st. 5. Individual homage to the month of May consisted in paying respect to it though alone, and in plucking flowers and flowering boughs to adorn apartments with. This maiden, in a morn betime, Went forth when May was in the prime To get sweet setywall, The honey-suckle, the harlock, The lily, and the lady-smock, To deck her summer-hall. Drayton s Pastorals, Eclog. 4. But when morning pleasures are to be spoken of, the lovers of poetry who do not know Chaucer, are like those who do not know what it is to be up in the morning. He has left us two exquisite pictures of the solitary observance of May, in his Palamon and Arcite. They are the more curious, inasmuch as the actor in one is a lady, and in the other a knight. How far they owe any of their beauty to his original, the Theseide of Boccaccio^ we cannot say ; for we never had the happiness of meeting with that rare work. The Italians have so neglected it, that they have not only never given it a rifacimento or re-modelling, as in the instance of Boiardo's poem, but are almost as much un- acquainted with it, we believe, as foreign nations. Chaucer thought it worth his while to be both acquainted with it, and to make others so ; and we may venture to say, that we know of no Italian after Boccaccio's age who was so likely to understand him to the core, as his English admirer, Ariosto not excepted. Still, from what we have seen of Boccaccio's poetry, we can imagine the Theseide to have been too lax and long. If Chaucer's Palamon and Arcite MAY-DAY 203 be all that he thought proper to distil from it, it must have been greatly so ; for it was an epic. But at all events the essence is an exquisite one. The tree must have been a fine old enormity, from which such honey could be drawn. To begin, as in duty bound, with the lady. How she sparkles through the antiquity of the language, like a young beauty in an old hood ! Thus passeth yere by yere, and day by day, Till it felle ones in a morowe of May, That Emelie— But we will alter the spelling where we can, as in a former instance, merely to let the reader see what a notion is in his way, if he suffers the look of Chaucer's words to prevent his enjoying him. Thus passeth year by year, and day by day, Till it fell once, in a morrow of May, That Emily, that fairer was to seen Than is the lily upon his stalk green, And fresher than the May with flowers new, (For with the rosy colour strove her hue ; I n'ot which was the finer of them two) Ere it was day, as she was wont to do, She was arisen and all ready dight, For May will have no sluggardly a-night : The season pricketh every gentle heart, And maketh him out of his sleep to start, And saith " Arise, and do thine observance." This maketh Emily have remembrance To do honour to May, and for to rise. Yclothed was she, fresh for to devise: Her yellow hair was braided in a tress, Behind her back, a yarde l long I guess : And in the garden, at the sun uprist, She walketh up and down where as her list ; She gathereth flowers, party white and red To make a subtle garland for her head ; 1 These additional syllables are to be read slightly, like the Were fixed at his back, to cut his ayery wayes." Faerie Queen, Book II. canto 8. There are the wings of Titian's Cupid, in the picture where his mother is blinding him. Perhaps it was a consciousness to that effect which led the poet into his comparison. We omit the latter as unsuitable ; but we must not omit what follows. The stranger delivers up his charge to the pilgrim ; and then, says the poet, — " Eftsoones he gan display His painted nimble wings, and vanisht quite away. The palmer seeing his left empty place, And his slow eies beguiled of their sight, Waxe sore arFraid, and standing still a space Gaz'd after him, as fowle escapt by flight." Where the " blessed bird" goes to (as Dante calls him), we do not presume to say ; nor what he does when he has ended his journey. I A FEW WORDS ON ANGELS 341 :i What know we of the blest above But that they sing, and that they love? " says Waller. To say we know it, is to say a little too much ; but to imagine it is reasonable enough, considering that singing and loving (provided they be genuine of their sort) are two of the highest pleasures on earth, and may be fancied to touch upon heaven. Milton has said some fine things about the loves of angels, to which we content our- selves with referring the reader. Taken out of their context, and of that " celestial colloquy sublime," we might do them an injustice. The angel, in this article of ours, may be said to become our property, as soon as we can descry him with earthly eyes, and no sooner ; or we may fancy we hear before we see him. " And now 'tis like all instruments, Now like a lonely flute ; And now it is angel's song, That bids the heavens be mute.'' Coleridge's Ancient Mariner. We must humanize everything before we can love it. To fancy an angel rising in the east like a star, is making him too potent and gigantic. He must come near to us, and in our own shape ; must be guarding innocence or consoling adversity, or suggesting wisdom and sweeter thoughts to those who fancy themselves wicked, or conversing with the glad eyes and inarticulate raptures of infancy ; for infants, when smiling and babbling to themselves, are supposed to be talking with angels. Even those beautiful gorgeous wings, in which he is invested by the poets, hardly seem to be an apparel in which he is to stay with us. They are for a sudden vision, a stoop out of the lustre of heaven. It is remarkable that the painters have never' given coloured wings to their angels. The temptation would seem to be great, — the palette looks like a wing ready made, — and yet they have not given way to it. No : the angel is the angel 342 A FEW WORDS ON ANGELS of one's infancy, the blooming white-vested boy with the spotless wings ; and thus is he painted by the Guidos and Correggios. We think we see him now, looking out of one of their divine pictures, young, blooming, innocent, natural as un- conscious perfection, beautiful as truth. He is a boy on a noble scale, but still human ; and his large curls are tawny with the noons of Paradise. An angel is the chorister of heaven, the page of martyr- dom, the messenger from the home of mothers. He comes to the tears of the patient, and is in the blush of a noble anger. He kisses the hand that gives an alms. He talks to parents of their departed children, and smoothes the pillow of sickness, and supports the cheek of the prisoner against the wall, and is the knowledge and comfort which a heart has of itself when nobody else knows it, and is the playfellow of hope, and the lark of aspiration, and the lily in the dusk of adversity. All this we believe him, even should we hold his appearance to be a fable, and though we deny the letter of a thousand things out of which we would extricate the spirit ; for wherever there is goodness and imagination, there of necessity are thoughts angelical, winged indestructible hopes. The dryest line of the geometer, if he knew all, were a wand of as much wonder as Prospero's ; or if it were not so, Prospero's itself were none, and our most exalted aspirations would still be as warrantable as the earth we touch. If anything unwise could be unpardonable, the only fault not to be forgiven were dogmatism ; and yet where could an angelical thought exist, and forgiveness not be discovered ? We conclude with the lovely scene out of Massinger. Drayton gives us to understand that angels converse in poetry. We know not how that may be ; but if ever blooming, angelical boy was visible in a book, and talked 01 paper, it is here. A FEW WORDS ON ANGELS 343 Angelo, an Angel, attends Dorothea as a Page. Angelo, Dorothea. The time midnight. Dor. My book and taper. Ang Here, most holy mistress. Dor. Thy voice sends forth such music, that I never Was ravish'd with a more celestial sound. Were every servant in the world like thee, So full of goodness, angels would come down To dwell with us : thy name is Angelo, And like that name thou art. Get thee to rest ; Thy youth with too much watching is opprest. Aug. No, my dear lady. I could weary stars, And force the wakeful moon to loose her eyes, By my late watching but to wait on you. When at your pray'rs you kneel before the altar, Methinks I'm singing with some quire in heaven, So blest I hold me in your company. Therefore, my most loved mistress, do not bid Your boy, so serviceable, to get hence ; For then you break his heart. Dor. Be nigh me still, then. In golden letters down I'll set that day, Which gave thee to me. Little did I hope To meet such worlds of comfort in thyself, This little, pretty body, when I, coming Forth of the Temple, heard my beggar-boy, My sweet-fac'd godly beggar-boy, crave an alms, Which with glad hand I gave, with lucky hand ; And when I took thee home, my most chaste bosom Methought was filled with no hot wanton fire, But with a holy flame, mounting since higher, On wings of cherubims, than it did before. Aug. Proud am I that my lady's modest eye So likes so poor a servant. Dor. I have ofFer'd Handfuls of gold but to behold thy parents. I would leave kingdoms, were I queen of some, To dwell with thy good father ; for the son Bewitching me so deeply with his presence, He that begot him must do't ten times more. I pray thee, my sweet boy, show me thy parents ; Be not ashamed. 344 A FEW WORDS ON ANGELS Ang. I am not : I did never Know who my mother was ; but by yon palace, Filled with bright heav'nly courtiers, I dare assure you, And pawn these eyes upon it, and this hand, My father is in heav'n ; and, pretty mistress, If your illustrious hour-glass spend his sand No worse than yet it doth, upon my life, You and I both shall meet my father there, And he shall bid you welcome. Dor. A bless'd day 1 1 We had a great mind to conclude with this scene, but there is another in the same play which presents us with so beautiful a picture of the angel, — somewhat between the gorgeousness of the poets in general and the simplicity of the painters, — that we cannot resist copying it. Theo- philus, the persecutor, who has been the cause of the martyrdom of Dorothea, and who is converted and becomes a martyr himself, is soliloquizing upon the torture he will wreak upon those who differ with him, when Angelo comes in with a basket of fruit and flowers. The Roman does not see him at first, and so continues talking. Theoph. This Christian slut was well, A pretty one ; but let such horror follow 1 "This scene," says an excellent critic, "has beauties of so high an order, that with all my respect for Massinger, I did not think he had poetical enthusiasm capable of furnishing them. His associate, Decker, who wrote old Fortunatus, had poetry enough for anything. The very impurities which obtrude themselves among the sweet pieties of this play (like Satan among the sons of heaven), and which the brief scope of my plan fortunately enables me to leave out, have a strength of contrast, a raciness and a glow in them, which are above Massinger. They set off the religion of the rest, somehow, as Caliban serves to show Miranda." — Specimens of English Dramatic Poets, by Charles Lamb. Thus it is that fine natures know how to turn fugitive or imaginary evil to account, instead of thinking themselves called upon to show that they cannot think too much evil about it; as some critics have done, whom it were a poor thing to name in so sweet a place. A FEW WORDS ON ANGELS 345 The next I feed with torments, that when Rome Shall hear it, her foundation at the sound May feel an earthquake. How now ! \_Mutic. Ang. Are you amazed, sir ? So great a Roman spirit, and doth it tremble ? Theoph. How cam'st thou in? To whom Thy business? Ang. To you : I had a mistress, late sent hence by you Upon a bloody errand ; you entreated, That when she came in to that blessed garden Whither she knew she went, and where now happy, She feeds upon all joy, she would send to you Some of that garden fruit, and flowers ; which here, To have her promise saved, are brought by me. Theoph. Cannot I see this garden ? Ang. Yes, if the master Will give you entrance. [He vanisheth. Theoph. 'Tis a tempting fruit — And the most bright-cheeked child I ever viewed, — Sweet smelling, goodly fruit. What flowers are these? In Dioclesian's gardens the most beauteous, Compared with these, are weeds : is it not February, The second day she died ? frost, ice, and snow, Hang on the beard of winter where's the sun That gilds the summer? Pretty, sweet boy, say, In what country shall a man find this garden ? My delicate boy, — gone ! vanished ! Within there, Julianus ! Geta ! Enter Julianus and Geta. Both. My Lord. Theoph. Are my gates shut ? Geta. And guarded. Theoph. Saw you not a boy ? Jul. Where? Theoph. Here he entered ; a young lad ; A thousand blessings danced upon his eyes, A smooth-faced, glorious thing, that brought this basket. Geta. No, sir ? Theoph. Away — but be in reach, if my voice calls you. [Exeunt. 346 A FEW WORDS ON ANGELS We need not point out to our readers the " bright- cheeked child," the "smooth-faced glorious thing," that brings a basket, — a thousand blessings dancing upon his eyes ; — but we notice the words that we may enjoy them in their company. — And so with this perfect taste cf the angel and his Eden fruit, we conclude. THE MOUNTAIN OF THE TWO LOVERS We forget in what book it was, many years ago, that we read the story of a lover who was to win his mistress by carrying her to the top of a mountain, and how he did win her, and how they ended their days on the same spot. We think the scene was in Switzerland ; but the mountain, though high enough to tax his stout heart to the uttermost, must have been among the lowest. Let us fancy it a good lofty hill in the summer time. It was, at any rate, so high, that the father of the lady, a proud noble, thought it impos- sible for a young man so burdened to scale it. For this reason alone, in scorn, he bade him do it, and his daughter should be his. 347 348 MOUNTAIN OF TWO LOVERS The peasantry assembled in the valley to witness so extraordinary a sight. They measured the mountain with their eyes; they communed with one another, and shook their heads ; but all admired the young man ; and some of his fellows, looking at their mistresses, thought they could do as much. The father was on horseback, apart and sullen, repenting that he had subjected his daughter even to the show of such a hazard ; but he thought it would teach his inferiors a lesson. The young man (the son of a small land-proprietor, who had some pretensions to wealth, though none to nobility) stood, respectful- looking, but confident, rejoicing in his heart that he should win his mistress, though at the cost of a noble pain, which he could hardly think of as a pain, consider- ing who it was that he was to carry. If he died for it, he should at least have had her in his arms, and have looked her in the face. To clasp her person in that manner was a pleasure which he contemplated with such transport as is known only to real lovers ; for none others know how respect heightens the joy of dispensing with formality, and how the dispensing with the formality ennobles and makes grateful the respect. The lady stood by the side of her father, pale, desirous and dreading. She thought her lover would succeed, but only because she thought him in every respect the noblest of his sex, and that nothing was too much for his strength and valour. Great fears came over her nevertheless. She knew not what might happen in the chances common to all. She felt the bitterness of being herself the burden to him and the task ; and dared neither to look at her father nor the mountain. She fixed her eyes, now on the crowd (which nevertheless she beheld not) and now on her hand and her fingers' ends, which she doubled up towards her with a pretty pretence, — the only deception she had ever used. Once MOUNTAIN OF TWO LOVERS 349 or twice a daughter or a mother slipped out of the crowd, and coming up to her, notwithstanding their fears of the lord baron, kissed that hand which she knew not what to do with. The father said, " Now, sir, to put an end to this mum- mery ; " and the lover, turning pale for the first time, took up the lady. The spectators rejoice to see the manner in which he moves off, slow but secure, and as if encouraging his mistress. They mount the hill ; they proceed well ; he halts an instant before he gets midway, and seems refusing something ; then ascends at a quicker rate ; and now being at the midway point, shifts the lady from one side to the other. The spectators give a great shout. The baron, with an air of indifference, bites the tip of his gauntlet, and then casts on them an eye of rebuke. At the shout the lover resumes his way. Slow but not feebie is his step, yet it gets slower. He stops again, and they think they see the lady kiss him on the forehead. The women begin to tremble, but the men say he will be victorious. He resumes again ; he is half-way between the middle and the top ; he rushes, he stops, he staggers ; but he does not fall. Another shout from the men, and he resumes once more ; two-thirds of the remaining part of the way are conquered. They are certain the lady kisses him on the forehead and on the eyes. The women burst into tears, and the stoutest men look pale. He ascends slowlier than ever, but seeming to be more sure. He halts, but it is only to plant his foot to go on again ; and thus he picks his way, planting his foot at every step, and then gaining ground with an effort. The lady lifts up her arms, as if to lighten him. See ! he is almost at the top ; he stops, he struggles, he moves side- ways, taking very little steps, and bringing one foot every time close to the other. Now — he is all but on the top ; he halts again ; he is fixed ; he staggers. A groan goes through the multitude. Suddenly, he turns full front 350 SPRING towards the top ; it is luckily almost a level ; he staggers, but it is forward : — Yes : — every limb in the multitude makes a movement as if it would assist him : — see at last ! he is on the top ; and down he falls flat with his burden. An enormous shout! He has won: he has won. Now he has a right to caress his mistress, and she is caressing him, for neither of them gets up. If he has fainted, it is with joy, and it is in her arms. The baron put spurs to his horse, the crowd following him. Half-way he is obliged to dismount ; they ascend the rest of the hill together, the crowd silent and happy, the baron ready to burst with shame and impatience. They reach the top. The lovers are face to face on the ground, the lady clasping him with both arms, his lying on each side. " Traitor ! " exclaimed the baron, " thou hast practised this feat before, on purpose to deceive me. Arise ! " " You cannot expect it, sir," said a worthy man, who was rich enough to speak his mind : " Samson himself might take his rest after such a deed! " " Part them ! " said the baron. Several persons went up, not to part them, but to con- gratulate and keep them together. These people look close ; they kneel down ; they bend an ear ; they bury their faces upon them. " God forbid they should ever be parted more," said a venerable man; "they never can be." He turned his old face, streaming with tears, and looked up at the baron : — " Sir, they are dead ! " SPRING Ah, happy hills ! ah, pleasing shade! Ah, fields, beloved in vain! — Gray. Hail, beautiful season ! hail, return of the green leaves ! hail, violets, daisies and buttercups ! hail, blue sky ; and SPRING 351 ye, white little silver clouds, " gay creatures of the elements," the posterity of your turbid sires of winter time ! Hail, moreover, ye evidences of spring, even in cities ! Hail, green in the windows, and on the ladies' caps ! Hail, coats instead of great-coats ! Hail, beaux and other butterflies ! Hail, the leaving off of fires ; provided, dear fires, among my countrymen, ye are left off! Great encroachers upon summer time are ye ; mighty disputers of the sunshine with May and June ! There is a tendency all over the temperate part of Europe to anticipate the beauties of spring, — to fancy the season more forward than it is, or to complain that it is otherwise. I find this in Italy as well as in England. Horace Walpole said that it was the fashion to say there was no winter in Italy. There is certainly a winter sharp enough to startle foreigners ; and the spring in Tuscany is far from premature. I have not found the weather in either season different from what Horace says of the snows in winter, and Virgil of the stormy showers in spring. The Primavera, or spring of the Italian poets, disappoints expectation as much as the Aprils and Mays described by our own. Primavera comes in March, and is properly the first part of the vernal season, the ver pr'imum of the Latins. The blossom issues forth on the trees, the cranes are seen travelling in the sky, the hedges are lively with violets and periwinkles ; but it is not a season warranting what the poets say of it, and warming the blood. Cold winds prevail, as with us ; the snows, lingering on the mountains, embitter them, and the rains are violent. April commences the true poetical spring, and May is spring confirmed, the real season of the " novel li amori" the May of the British poets. Whether the seasons alter from time to time in different parts of the world is a point contested. Most likely they do. But, 352 SPRING for a long time past, the May of our poets is rather June, and very often the middle and end of June rather than the beginning. For many years it has been common to have fires as late as the old King's birthday, the 4th of June. What we call spring is indeed spring, literally speaking ; and a very beautiful idea the word gives us. The ver of the ancients appears to have meant the rising of the sap. Our Saxon term is more lively and visible. It is not merely the life, but the leaping of the season ; the gladness of its pulse. And yet the vivacity belongs rather to nature than to us. We have not got rid enough of our colds and clothings. 1 f the season is very fine indeed, the true time of enjoy- ment in England is the one that Thomson has selected for his Bower of Indolence, — " A season atween June and May, Half prankt with spring, with summer half embrown'd." When the spring came this year in Tuscany, it was a great pleasure to me to see the corn, vine and oil, all preparing to flourish together, — for the fields are nothing else. What are meadows and cornfields in England, are orchards full of olives and vines in Tuscany, with the corn growing betwixt them. The green corn running in close stripes among the olive trees, and the preparations for the budding of the vines, — it being the custom here to make trellises of reed- work, really elegant in many parts of the hedges, — furnish a lively spectacle. But spring, as well as winter, made me think of home. I put on my cap and pitched myself in those delicious fields, all over daisies and buttercups, which go sloping from Hampstead to West End and Kilburn, — fields, the representatives of thousands of others all over England, and in which I would rather take a walk " atween June and May " than in the divinest spot recorded by the divinest of southern poets. It is common with persons in SPRING 353 love to fancy that everybody must be happy who lives in the society of the object of their attachment. In the same manner, when I am compelled to forego the privileges of my Cap, and confine myself to wishing without enjoying (which is sometimes the case), I cannot help envying the reader for his power to go into the places I write of. I say to myself, " Now somebody will take it into his head to go and look at those fields, or he will go and look at those he is more acquainted with ; or he will, or he can, go into some English field or other rich with grass and powdered with flowers. He will see the hedges ; he will see the elms and oaks (there are no elms and oaks here). He will, or he may and can, or might, could, would, should walk in a wood full of them. Furthermore, he will meet with some old friends." Reader, if there is any man who has offended you, and whom you find it hard to forgive, forgive him, I entreat you ; for I forgive you, and you are the most provoking person I have known a long time. I could knock the paper out of your hand. Don't you sit giggling there, you other reader, C. L., A. B., or C, or whatever title please thy god- father's ear. Conscious of your power to take a long walk through the sun and dust, you take advantage of my weak- ness to triumph over me. But, lo ! my Wishing-Cap is on me in all its glory. The very mention of your name makes me present. I am with you ; walk with you, talk with you. It was I who sighed just now while you were reading. Reader, we are reconciled and together. Fortunately I am not of a temper to make the worst of any situation I happen to be cast in. And I look upon it as a reward for my love of Nature that I have never been in a situation in which I had not some glimpse of her to console me. Even in prison I had a little garden to myself, and raised my own heart's-ease. It may not be the most grateful thing in the world to think of a jail while strolling z 3 94 SPRING about the most classical ground in Tuscany. I confess I think of it very often. But Nature will excuse me, because my dejection is owing to my love. If I had not loved her so much at home, I should not miss, as I do, the old home- stead. I do what I can. I think of Petrarch and Boccaccio, of Milton and Galileo, and Fiesole, which I see from my window, and which is a common boundary to my walks. I endeavour to keep the vines and the olive trees new to me. Besides Virgil and the Italy of books, I make the olives remind me of Athens, of Plato, and Homer, and Sophocles, and Socrates, and a still more reverend Name in another country, who went up into the mount of olives to pray. A Dominican convent is a little in my way, with its inscription in honour of the fiery saint, " the destroyer of heretics ; " but the friars no longer inhabit it, and I endeavour to consider even the Inquisition as a violent note struck in the ears of mankind to make them attend to the doctrine it contradicted. Philosophy has separated the doctrine from its abuse, and the Inquisition is no more. I think of the gayer sort of abuses, the red side of their cheek, the jollity of a refectory. Pope's picture is before me, of "Happy convents, buried deep in vines, Where slumber abbots purple as their wines." (A couplet as plump and painted as the subject.) The transition to Horace and Anacreon is a pleasing necessity. I am in the very thick of the vines of Redi, the author of the Bacchus in Tuscany. His Bacchus is as flourishing a god as ever, and sworn by as devoutly, though the saints have displaced his image. Florence, at a little distance, meets the turn of my eye at every opening of the trees. In short, I am in a world of poetry and romance, of vines and olives, and myrtles (which grow wild), of blue mountains and never-ending orchards, with a beautiful city in the middle of it. What signifies ? I think of an English field in a ^sfilr SPRING 357 sylvan country, a cottage and oaks in the corner, a path and a stile, and a turf full of daisies ; and a child's book with a picture in it becomes more precious to me than all the land- scapes of Claude. I intended to sprinkle this article with some flowers out of the Italian poets ; but positively I will not do it. They are not good. They are not true. The grapes are sour. Commend me to the cockney satisfactions of Chaucer, Spenser, and Milton, who talk of "merry London," of lying whole hours looking at the daisies, and of walking out on Sunday mornings to enjoy the daisies and green fields. There are no daisies here that I can see, except those belonging to the Grand Duke. What is a daisy belonging to a duke ? Nature is not to be put upon a gentleman's establishment. The other fine houses do not impose upon me. They want comfort and fire-places, and instead of parks, and other natural pieces of ground about them, have vines and olives, vines and olives without end. The peasants are all vine-dressers and olive-squeezers. You meet a piece of a cow occasionally on your table ; but a good, handsome, live animal, with a low, I have not encountered for many months. You must go to Lombardy for a pasture. There are goats, very large and bucolic ; but goats in England are poor and small, which is the proper goat, and renders a kid pathetic. The only one I have a respect for is the companion of our voyage, given us by a friend, and preserved through various vicissitudes for her sake. A dog belonging to an acquaint- ance of ours inhospitably bit her ear off, and the storms at sea frightened away her milk. But she now reposes for life, like a matron, enjoying herself among scenes more native to her palate than England itself. If the sky in England would only mitigate a little of its clouds and fogs in favour of one of its country-women, and of a modest demi-exotic, who loves a green field better than all the sugar-canes of his ancestors . . . But what 358 SPRING signifies talking ? Suffice it, that an Englishman in Italy, who loves Italian poetry, and is obliged to be grateful to Italian skies, assures his beloved countrymen (who are not always sensible of the good things they have about them) that there is nothing upon earth so fine as a good, rich English meadow in summer time. That English French- man, La Fontaine, is of the same opinion ; for when he speaks with rapture of a bit of turf, and says there is nothing to equal it, it must be recollected that such turf is more native to England than to France ; and so he would have told us had he come over to England, as he ought to have done, and taken a stroll in our fields with his friend, St Evremond. Even a Tuscan's idea of a garden is not complete without a piece of turf, though the podere, or farm, encroaches everywhere, and pounds and shillings must be planted in the shape of olive trees. A garden in the English taste is a " miracolo " and a " paradiso ; " their poetry rises within them at the sight of it, but they think this is only for princes and grand dukes. Yet Horace could not dispense with his grass and his oak trees ; and the valley which I look upon from my window sparkles in the Decameron with a perpetual green. Nature inspires great authors, and they repay her by rescuing her very self from oblivion, and keeping her transitory pictures fresh in our hearts. They, thank God, as well as the fields, are Nature ; and so is every great and kindly aspira- tion we possess. TWELFTH NIGHT A STREET PORTRAIT SHAKSPEARE S PLAY RECOLLECTIONS OF A TWELFTH NIGHT Christmas goes out in fine style,— with Twelfth Night. It is a finish worthy of the time. Christmas Day was the morning of the season ; New Year's Day the middle of it, or noon ; Twelfth Night is the night, brilliant with innumer- able planets of Twelfth-cakes. The whole island keeps court ; nay, all Christendom. All the world are kings and queens. Everybody is somebody else ; and learns at once to laugh at, and to tolerate, characters different from his own, by enacting them. Cakes, characters, forfeits, lights, theatres, merry rooms, little holiday faces, and, last not least, the painted sugar on the cakes, so bad to eat but so fine to look at, useful because it is perfectly useless except for a sight and a moral, — all conspire to throw a giddy splendour 359 360 TWELFTH NIGHT over the last night of the season, and to send it to bed in pomp and colours, like a Prince. And not the least good thing in Twelfth Night is, that we see it coming for days beforehand, in the cakes that garnish the shops. We are among those who do not " like a surprise," except in dramas (and not too much of it even there, nor unprepared with expectation) . We like to know of the good things intended for us. It adds the pleasure of hope to that of possession. Thus we eat our Twelfth-cake many times in imagination before it comes. Every pastry- cook's shop we pass, flashes it upon us. Coming Tivelfth-cakes cast their shadows before ; if shadows they can be called, which shade have none ; so full of colour are they, as if Titian had invented them. Even the little ragged boys who stand at those shops by the hour, admiring the heaven within, and are destined to have none of it, get, perhaps, from imagination alone, a stronger taste of the beatitude, than many a richly-fed palate, which is at the mercy of some particular missing relish, — some touch of spice or citron, ora" leetle more " egg. We believe we have told a story of one of those urchins before, but it will bear repetition, especially as a strong relish of it has come upon us, and we are tempted to relate it at greater length. There is nothing very wonderful or epi- grammatic in it, but it has to do with the beatific visions of the pastry-shops. Our hero was one of those equivocal animal-spirits of the streets, who come whistling along, you know not whether thief or errand-boy, sometimes with bundle and sometimes not, in corduroys, a jacket, and a cap or bit of hat, with hair sticking through a hole in it. His vivacity gets him into scrapes in the street, and he is not ultra-studious of civility in his answers. If the man he runs against is not very big, he gives him abuse for abuse at once ; if otherwise, he gets at a convenient distance, and TWELFTH NIGHT 361 : < Eh, stupid ! " or " Can't you see before you?" or "Go, and get your face washed." This last is a favourite saying of his, out of an instinct referable to his own visage. He sings " Hokee-pokee " and a " Shiny Night," varied occasionally with an uproarious " Rise, gentle Moon," or " Coming through the Rye." On winter evenings, you may hear him indulging himself, as he goes along, in a singular undulation of howl ; — a sort of gargle, — as if a wolf were practising the rudiments of a shake. This he delights to do more particularly in a crowded thoroughfare, as though determined that his noise should triumph over every other, and show how jolly he is, and how independent of the ties to good behaviour. If the street is a quiet one, and he has a stick in his hand (perhaps a hoop-stick), he accompanies the howl with a run upon the gamut of the iron rails. He is the nightingale of mud and cold. If he gets on in life, he will be a pot-boy. At present- as we said before, we hardly know what he is ; but his mother thinks herself lucky if he is not transported. Well ; one of these elves of the pave — perplexers of Lord Mayors, and irritators of the police — was standing one evening before a pastry-cook's shop- window, flattening his nose against the glass, and watching the movements of a school-boy who was in the happy agony of selecting the best bun. He had stood there ten minutes before the boy came in, and had made himself acquainted with all the eat- ables lying before him, and wondered at the slowness, and apparent indifference, of jaws masticating tarts. His in- terest, great before, is now intense. He follows the new- comer's eye and hand, hither and thither. His own arm feels like the other's arm. He shifts the expression of his mouth and the shrug of his body, at every perilous approxi- mation which the chooser makes to a second-rate bun. He is like a bowler following the nice inflections of the bias ; for he wishes him nothing but success ; the occasion is too 362 TWELFTH NIGH/T great for envy ; he feels all the generous sympathy of a knight of old, when he saw another within an ace of winning some glorious prize, and his arm doubtful of the blow. At length the awful decision is made, and the bun laid hands on. " Yah ! you fool," exclaims the watcher, bursting with all the despair and indignation of knowing boyhood, " you have left the biggest J " Twelfth-cake and its king and queen are in honour of the crowned heads who are said to have brought presents to Jesus in his cradle — a piece of royal service not necessary to be believed in by good Christians, though very proper to be maintained among the gratuitous decorations with which good and poetical hearts willingly garnish their faith. " The Magi, or Wise Men, are vulgarly called (says a note in Brand's Popular Antiquities, quarto edition by Ellis, p. 19) the three kings of Collen (Cologne). The first, named Melchior, an aged man with a long beard, offered gold ; the second, Jasper, a beardless youth, offered frankincense ; the third, Balthaser, a black or Moor, with a large spreading beard, offered myrrh." This picture is full of colour, and has often been painted. The word Epiphany ( E-T/£>ai>s/a, super apparitio, an appearance from above), alludes to the star which is described in the Bible as guiding the Wise Men. In Italy, the word has been corrupted into Beffania, or Beffana (as in England it used to be called, Piffany) ; and Beffana, in some parts of that country, has come to mean an old fairy, or Mother Bunch, whose figure is carried about the streets, and who rewards or punishes children at night by putting sweetmeats, or stones and dirt, into a stocking hung up for the purpose near the bed's head. The word Beffa, taken from this, familiarly means a trick or mockery put upon any one: — to such base uses may come the most splendid terms ! Twelfth Day, like the other TWELFTH NIGHT 363 old festivals of the church of old, has had a link or connection found for it with Pagan customs, and has been traced to the Saturnalia of the ancients, when people drew lots for imaginary kingdoms. Its observation is still kept up, with more or less ceremony, all over Christendom. In Paris, they enjoy it with their usual vivacity. The king there is chosen, not by drawing a paper as with us, but by the lot of a bean which falls to him, and which is put into the cake : and great ceremony is observed when the king or the queen " drink " ; which once gave rise to a jest, that occasioned the damnation of a play of Voltaire's. The play was performed at this season, and a queen in it having to die by poison, a wag exclaimed with Twelfth Night solemnity, when her Majesty was about to take it, " The Queen drinks." The joke was infectious ; and the play died, as well as the poor queen. Many a pleasant Twelfth Night have we passed in our time ; and such future Twelfth Nights as may remain to us shall be pleasant, God and good-will permitting : for even if care should be round about them, we have no notion of missing these mountain-tops of rest and brightness, on which people may refresh themselves during the stormiest parts of life's voyage. Most assuredly will we look forward to them, and stop there when we arrive, as though we had not to begin buffeting again the next day. No joy or consolation that heaven or earth affords us will we ungratefully pass by; but prove, by our accep- tance and relish of it, that it is what it is said to be, and that we deserve to have it. " The child is father to the man ; " and a very foolish-grown boy he is, and unworthy of his sire, if he is not man enough to know to be like him. What ! shall he go and sulk in a corner because life is not just what he would have it ? Or shall he discover that his dignity will not bear the shaking of holiday merriment, being too fragile and likely to tumble 364 TWELFTH NIGHT to pieces ? Or lastly, shall he take himself for too good and perfect a person to come within the chance of con- tamination from a little ultra life and Wassail-bowl, and render it necessary to have the famous question thrown at his stately and stupid head — "Dost thou think, because thou art virtuous, there shall be no more cakes and ale ? " This passage is in " Twelfth Night," the last play (be it never forgotten) 1 which Shakspeare is understood to have written, and which shows how in his beautiful and universal mind the belief in love, friendship and joy, and all good things, survived his knowledge of all evil, — affording us an everlasting argument against the conclusions of minor men of the world, and enabling the meanest of us to dare to avow the same faith. Here is another lecture to false and unseasonable notions of gravity, in the same play,— "1 protest (quoth the affected steward Malvolio) I take these wise men that crow so at these set kind of fools, to be no better than the fools' zanies. < 4 Oh (says the Lady Olivia), you are sick of self-love, Malvolio, and taste with a distempered appetite. To be generous, guiltless, and of free disposition, is to take those things for bird-bolts, that you deem cannon-bullets." This is the play in which are those beautiful passages about music, love, friendship, &c, which have as much of the morning of life in them as any that the great poet ever wrote, and are painted with as rosy and wet a pencil : — " If music be the food of love," &c. " Away before me to sweet beds of flowers ; Love-thoughts lie rich when canopied with bowers." 1 This opinion of Malone's has been ably set aside by Mr Knight. The spirit of the Shakspearian wisdom still however remains. TWELFTH NIGHT 3 6 5 " She never told her love, But let concealment, like a worm i' the bud, Feed on her damask cheek," &c. « I hate ingratitude more in a man," says the refined and exquisite Viola, "Than lying, vainness, babbling, drunkenness, Or any taint of vice, whose strong corruption Inhabits our frail blood." And again, « In nature there's no blemish, but the mind [that is to say, the faults of the mind ;] « None can be calVd deform' d but the unkind:' The play of Twelfth Night, with proper good taste, is generally performed, at the theatres, on Twelfth Night. There is little or nothing belonging to the occasion in it, except a set of merry-makers who carouse all night, and sing songs enough to "draw three souls out of one weaver." It is evident that Shakspeare was at a loss for a title to his play, for he has called it Twelfth Night, or What Ton Will ; but the nocturnal revels reminded him of the anniversary which, being the player and humorist that he was, and accustomed, doubtless, to many a good sitting-up, appears to have stood forth prominently among his recollections of the year. So that it is probable he kept up his Twelfth Night to the last :— assuredly he kept up his merry and romantic characters, his Sir Tobies and his Violas. And, keeping up his stage faith so well, he must needs have kept up his home faith. He could not have done it otherwise. He would invite his Stratford friends to " king and queen," and, however he might have looked in face, would still have felt young in heart towards the budding daughters of his visitors, the possible Violas perhaps of some love-story 366 TWELFTH NIGHT of their own, and not more innocent in "the last recesses of the mind " than himself. We spent a Twelfth Night once, which, by common consent of the parties concerned, was afterwards known by the name of the Twelfth Night. It was doubted among us, not merely whether ourselves, but whether anybody else, ever had such a Twelfth Night :— " For never since created cake, Met such untiring force, as named with these Could merit more than that small infantry, Which goes to bed betimes. " The evening began with such tea as is worth mention, for we never knew anybody make it like the maker. Dr Johnson would have given it his placidest growl of appro- bation. Then, with piano-forte, violin, and violoncello came Handel, Corelli, and Mozart. Then followed the drawing for king and queen, in order that the "small infantry" might have their due share of the night, without sitting up too too-late (for a reasonable « too-late " is to be allowed once and away). Then games, of all the received kinds, forgetting no branch of Christmas customs. And very good extempore blank verse was spoken by some of the court (for our characters imitated a court), roc unworthy of the wit and dignity of Tom Thumb. Then came supper, and all characters were soon forgotten but the feasters' own ; good and lively souls, and festive all both male and female,— with a constellation of the brightest eyes that we had ever seen met together. This fact was so striking, that a burst of delighted assent broke forth, when Moore's charming verses were struck up : "To ladies' eyes a round, boys, We can't refuse, we can't refuse ; For bright eyes so abound, boys, 'Tis hard to choose, 'tis hard to choose." TWELFTH NIGHT 367 The bright eyes, the beauty, the good humour, the wine, the wit, the poetry (for we had celebrated wits and poets among us, as well as charming women), fused all hearts together in one unceasing round of fancy and laughter, till breakfast, to which we adjourned in a room full of books, the authors of which might almost have been waked up and embodied, to come among us. Here, with the bright eyes literally as bright as ever at six o'clock in the morning (we all remarked it), we merged one glorious day into another, as a good omen (for it was also fine weather, though in January) ; and as luck and our good faith would have it, the door was no sooner opened to let forth the ever-joyous visitors, than the trumpets of a regiment quartered in the neighbourhood struck up into the morning air, seeming to blow forth triumphant approbation, and as if they sounded purely to do us honour, and to say, " You are as early and untired as we." We do not recommend such nights to be "resolved on," much less to be made a system of regular occurrence. They should flow out of the impulse, as this did; for there was no intention of sitting up so late. But so genuine was that night, and so true a recollection of pleasure did it leave upon the minds of all who shared it, that it has helped to stamp a seal of selectness upon the house in which it was passed, and which, for the encouragement of good-fellowship and of humble aspirations towards tree-planting, we are here ; icited to point out ; for by the same token the writer of these papers planted some plane-trees within the rails by the garden-gate (selecting the plane in honour of the Genius of Domesticity, to which it was sacred among the Greeks) ; and anybody who does not disdain to look at a modest tenement for the sake of the happy hours that have been spe. in it, may know it by those trees, as he passes along the row of houses called York Buildings, in the New Road, Marylebone. A man may pique himself without vanity 368 TWELFTH NIGHT upon having planted a tree ; and, humble as our performance has been that way, we confess we are glad of it, and have often looked at the result with pleasure. The reader would smile, perhaps sigh (but a pleasure would or should be at the bottom of his sigh), if he knew what consolation we had experienced in some very trying seasons, merely from seeing those trees growing up, and affording shade and shelter to passengers, as well as a bit of leafiness to the possessor of the house. Every one should plant a tree who can. 1 It is one of the cheapest, as well as easiest, of all tasks ; and if a man cannot reckon upon enjoying the shade much himself (which is the reason why trees are not planted everywhere), it is surely worth while to bequeath so pleasant and useful a memorial of himself to others. They are green footsteps of our existence, which show that we have not lived in vain. "Dig a well, plant a tree, write a book, and go to heaven," says the Arabian proverb. We cannot exactly dig a well. The parish authorities would not employ us. Besides, wells are not so much wanted in England as in Arabia, nor books either ; otherwise we should be two- thirds on our road to heaven already. But trees are wanted, and ought to be wished for, almost everywhere ; especially amidst the hard brick and mortar of towns ; so that we may claim at least one-third of the way, having planted more than one tree in our time ; and if our books cannot wing our flight much higher (for they never pre- tended to be anything greater than birds singing among the trees), we have other merits, thank Heaven, than our own to go upon ; and shall endeavour to piece out our frail and most imperfect ladder with all the good things we can love and admire in God's creation. 1 Young trees from nursery-grounds are very cheap, and cost less than flowers. TURNBULL AND SPEARS, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH. 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