POPE _ SWIFT . ADDISON DEFOE STEELE BARROW. BERKELEY. LONDON: rBZ.DERlCK.WAKHE 4 C HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. INCLUDING BIOGRAPHICAL AND CRITICAL NOTICES, BY/CHARLES KNIGHT. WITH FIFTY-TWO ILLUSTRATIONS BY WILLIAM HARVEY. & $efcr ffifottfon. REMODELLED AND REVISED BY THE ORIGINAL EDITOR. IN FOUR VOLUMES. VOL. II. LONDON: FREDERICK WARNE & CO., BEDFORD STREET, COVENT GARDEN. 1866. CONTENTS OF VOL. II. 91. 92. 93- 94- 95- 96. 97- 98. 99- 100. 101. IO2. 103. 104. 105. 106. 107. 108. 109. no. III. 112. "3- 114. 115- 116. 117. 118. 119. 1 20. 121. 122. SUBJECT. Books Examples of Spiritual Perfection Escape from the Bastille The Death of Lord Falkland Trees Highland Snow Storm . Preface to the Schoolmaster The Mountain of Miseries . . Prayer Sisters of Charity Contentment and Thankfulness AUTHOR. PAGE RICHARD DE BURY i BATES ... 4 DE LATUDE . . n CLARENDON . . 19 VARIOUS . . 25 29 4 1 45 50 54 JOHN WILSON ASCHAM ADDISON JEREMY TAYLOR ANONYMOUS . IZAAK WALTON J The Great Earthquake at Lisbon DAVY ... 62 An Elizabethan Country House SIR JOHN CULLUM . 78 Hymn of Heavenly Beauty .*.... SPKNSER . . 83 Fortune ' . . . LUCAS ... 90 The Massacre of St Bartholomew MAD. DE MORNAV 'qfj Morning VARIOUS . . 106 The Moskito Indian of Juan Fernandez . . . DAMPIER . . m The Great Author of Civilisation RAY . . .115 The Merry Devil of Edmonton ANONYMOUS . . 118 Mental Stimulus Necessary to Exercise .... ANDREW COMBE . 124 Dying Thoughts BAXTER . . 130 The Mocking-Bird ALEX. WILSON . 137 Crabbe and Burke CRABBE . . 143 The History of a Philosophic Vagabond .... GOLDSMITH . . 148 Court of James the First SIR J. HARRINGTON 157 Lady Fanshawe LADY FANSHAWE . 160 Rural Life in England ....... WASHINGTON IRVING 168 The Passage of the Red Sea HEBER . . .174 The Old Mariners of England CHAS. KINGSLEY . 179 Aurengzebe BERNIER . 186 VI CONTENTS. SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE 123. Epistle to a Friend S. ROGERS . . 194 124. Apophthegms IV VARIOUS . . 201 125. The Great Dismal Swamp of America .... SIR C. LYELL . 207 126. The Chemical Philosopher SIR H. DAVY . . 211 127. Conversion of King Ethelbert BEDS . . . 219 128. Griselda , BOCCACCIO . . 223 129. It will never do to be Idle ANONYMOUS . . 233 130. Of Improving by Good Examples ..... O. FELTHAM . . 239 131. Rural Life in Sweden LONGFELLOW. . 243 132. The Character of Polybius the Historian .... DRYDEN . . 249 133. Summer VARIOUS . . 254 134. Primitive Christians W. CAVE . . 260 135. The Literature of the Age of Elizabeth .... HAZLITT . . 266 136. Statesmanship MACHIAVELLI . 273 137. Happiness in Solitude J. J. ROUSSEAU . 276 138. The Cotter's Saturday Night BURNS . . .281 139. Co-operation ......... E. G. WAKEFIELD 288 140. Industry Essentially Social ...... EVERETT . . 293 141. God's Mercy JEREMY TAYLOR . 301 142. The Ducal Osbornes ........ G. L. CRAIK . . 304 143. Watt in his Garret SAMUEL SMILES . 310 I44 ' {-John Elwes the Miser TOPHAM . . 314 146. Martinus Scriblerus ARBUTHNOT . . 330 147. An Earthquake in London, 1750 HORACE WALPOLE 335 148. Introduction to the Night Thoughts YOUNG . . . 339 149. The Savages of North America, 1784 .... DR FRANKLIN . 343 150. The Story of Le Fevre STERNE . . .348 151. Origin of Duelling BASSOMPIERRE . 358 152. Death of Pliny the Elder PLINY THE YOUNGER 362 153. The Old Oak-Tree at Hatfield, Broadoak F. LOCKER . . 366 154. The Royal Household in 1780 . . ' . . . . BURKE . . . 368 155. On the New Testament DODDRIDGE . . 375 156. The Sloth CHAS. WATERTON 385 157. The Poet Described S. JOHNSON . . 392 158. The Character of Louis the Eleventh .... COMINES . . 395 yg. Faustus GOETHE . . .401 160. Caius Marius PLUTARCH . . 409 161. Apophthegms. V VARIOUS . . 422 162. Christian Charity J. B. SUMNER . 424 163. The Last of the Incas ....... WM. H. PRESCOTT 427 164. The Rise of Wolsey CAVENDISH . . 440 165. Summer. II VARIOUS . . 443 166. Scene from the Critic SHERIDAN . . 449 CONTENTS. VH SUBJECT. AUTHOR. PAGE 167. Swineherds of the New Forest GILPIN . . .455 168. Gardens JESSE . . .458 169. Saint Paul CAVE . . .462 170. My Maiden Brief ANONYMOUS . . 469 171. Apophthegms. VI VARIOUS . . 474 172. Luxury of the Roman Nobles A. MARCELLINUS . 481 173. The Pains of Opium ........ THOS. DE QUINCEY 487 174. Health and Long Life SIR W. TEMPLE . 498 175. Evening VARIOUS . . 502 176. The Coming of Our Saviour THOS. BURNET . 507 177. Labour in Utcpia SIR T. MORE . . 512 178. The Schoolmistress SHENSTONE . . 518 179. The Academy of Lagado ....... SWIFT . . . 528 180. Sir William Grant LORD BROUGHAM . 534 181. What is a Poet* WORDSWORTH . 539 182. Dea&ess DnJ. KITTO . 544 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS 91. RICHARD DE BURY. [RICHARD DE BURY, Bishop of Durham, was bom in 1287 ; was tutor to the Prince of Wales, afterwards Edward III. ; subsequently received the highest ecclesiastical preferments from the King ; and died at his episcopal palace at Auckland, in 1345. He was an admirable scholar, and a most diligent collector of books. He bequeathed his valuable MSS. to a company of scholars at Oxford. The following extract is from the only known work of this 'learned prelate, entitled " Philobiblon, a Treatise on the Love of Books. " This was written in Latin in 1 344 ; was printed in 1473 ; and was translated into English in 1832, by a gentleman of great acquirements, who published a limited impression.] The desirable treasure of wisdom and knowledge, which all men covet from the impulse of nature, infinitely surpasses all the riches of the world ; in comparison with which, precious stones are vile, silver is clay, and purified gold grains of sand ; in the splendour VOL. II. A 2 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST A UTHORS. [RICHARD DK BURY. of which, the sun and moon grow dim to the sight ; in the admi- rable sweetness of which, honey and manna are bitter to the taste. The value of wisdom decreaseth not with time ; it hath an ever flourishing virtue that cleanseth its possession from every venom. O celestial gift of Divine liberality, descending from the Father of light to raise up the rational soul even to heaven ! thou art the celestial alimony of intellect, of which whosoever eateth shall yet hunger, and whoso drinketh shall yet thirst; a harmony rejoicing the soul of the sorrowful, and never in any way discomposing the hearer. Thou art the moderator and the rule of morals, operating according to which none err. By thee kings reign, and lawgivers decree justly. Through thee, rusticity of nature being cast off, wits and tongues being polished, and the thorns of vice utterly eradicated, the summit of honour is reached, and they become fathers of their country and companions of princes, who, without thee, might have forged their lances into spades and ploughshares, or perhaps have fed swine with the prodigal son. Where, then, most potent, most longed-for treasure, art thou concealed ? and where shall the thirsty soul find thee 1 Undoubtedly, indeed, thou hast placed thy desirable tabernacle in books, where the Most High, the Light of light, the Book of Life, hath established thee. There then all who ask receive, all who seek find thee, to those who knock thou openest quickly. In books Cherubim expand their wings, that the soul of the student may ascend and look around from pole to pole, from the rising to the setting sun, from the north and from the south, in them the Most High incom- prehensible God himself is contained and worshipped. In them the nature of celestial, terrestrial, and infernal beings is laid open. In them the laws by which every polity is governed are decreed, the offices of the celestial hierarchy are distinguished, and tyran- nies of such demons are described as the ideas of Plato never surpassed, and the chair of Crato never sustained. In books we find the dead as it were living ; in books we fore- see things to come ; in books warlike affairs are methodised ; the rights of peace proceed from books. All things are corrupted and decay with time. Satan never ceases to devour those whom RICHARD DE BURY.] BOOKS. 3 he generates, insomuch that the glory of the world would be lost in oblivion if God had not provided mortals with a remedy in books. Alexander the ruler of the world, Julius the invader of the world and of the city, the first who in unity of person assumed the empire in arms and arts, the faithful Fabricius, the rigid Cato, would at this day have been without a memorial if the aid of books had failed them. Towers are razed to the earth, cities overthrown, triumphal arches mouldered to dust; nor can the king or pope be found, upon whom the privilege of a lasting name can be conferred more easily than by books. A book made renders succession to the author j for as long as the book exists, the author remaining uddvarog, immortal, cannot perish ; as Ptolemy witnesseth in the prologue of his Almazett, he (he says) is not dead, who gave life to science. What learned scribe, therefore, who draws out things new and old from an infinite treasury of books, will limit their price by any other thing whatsoever of another kind ? Truth, overcoming all things, which ranks above kings, wine, and women, to honour which above friends obtains the benefit of sanctity, which is the way that deviates not, and the life without end, to which the holy Boetius attributes a threefold existence, in the mind, in the voice, and in writing, appears to abide most usefully and fructify most productively of advantage in books. For the truth of the voice perishes with the sound. Truth, latent in the mind, is hidden wisdom and invisible treasure ; but the truth which illuminates books, desires to manifest itself to every disciplinable sense, to the sight when read, to the hearing when heard : it, moreover, in a manner commends itself to the touch, when submitting to be transcribed, collated, corrected, and preserved. Truth confined to the mind, though it may be the possession of a noble soul, while it wants a companion and is not judged of, either by the sight or the hearing, appears to be inconsistent with pleasure. But the truth of the voice is open to the hearing only, and latent to the sight, (which shows as many differences of things fixed upon by a most subtle motion, beginning and ending as it were simul- taneously.) But the truth written in a book, being not fluctuat- 4 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BATES. ing, but permanent, shows itself openly to the sight passing through the spiritual ways of the eyes, as the porches and halls of common sense and imagination ; it enters the chamber of in- tellect, reposes itself upon the couch of memory, and there con- generates the eternal truth of the mind. Lastly, let us consider how great a commodity of doctrine ex- ists in books, how easily, how secretly, how safely they expose the nakedness of human ignorance without putting it to shame. These are the masters that instruct us without rods and ferulas, without hard words and anger, without clothes or money. If you approach them, they are not asleep ; if investigating you interrogate them, they conceal nothing ; if you mistake them, they never grumble ; if you are ignorant, they cannot laugh at you. 92. BATES. [DR WILLIAM BATES was one of the most eminent of the divines whose con- scientious scruples removed them from the Church of England in 1662, under the Act of Uniformity. He had previously been one of the king's chaplains ; had been offered the deanery of Lichfield and Coventry ; and at the time of his ejectment was vicar of St Dunstan's in the West. There is something exceedingly touching in a passage in his farewell sermon to his parishioners : "It is neither fancy, faction, nor humour, that makes me not comply: but merely the fear of offending God. And if, after the best means used for my illu- mination (as prayer to God, discourse, and study) I am not able to be satisfied as to the lawfulness of what is required ; if it be my unhappiness to be in error ; surely men will have no reason to be angry with me in this world, and I hope God will pardon me in the next." After his secession from the Esta- blished Church, Dr Bates became the minister of a congregation of Protestant Dissenters at Hackney, at which place he died in 1699, in his seventy-fourth year. His works were collected in \ 700, in a folio volume, which has been several times reprinted.] The gospel proposes the most animating examples of perfec- tion, BATES.! EXAMPLES OF SPIRITUAL PERFECTION. 5 We are commanded to be perfect as our heavenly Father is perfect. There are some attributes of God, which are objects, not of our imitation, but of our highest veneration. Such are His eternity, immensity, omnipotence, immutability. There are other attributes, His moral perfections, which are imitable holi- ness, goodness, justice, truth. These are fully declared in His law, and visibly in His providence. This command, as was before explained, is to be understood, not of an equality, but of a resem- blance. God is essentially, transcendently, and unchangeably holy, the original of holiness in intelligent creatures. There is a greater disproportion between the holiness of God and that of angels, though it be unspotted, than between the celerity of the sun in the heavens and the slow motion of the shadow upon the dial regulated by it. It should be our utmost aim, our most earnest endeavour, to imitate the Divine perfection. Then is the soul godlike, when its principal powers, the understanding and the will, are influenced by God. The heathen deities were distinguished by their vices intem- perance, impurity, and cruelty; and under such patronage their idolaters sinned boldly. The true God commands us to "be holy, as He is holy; to be followers of Him as dear children." Love produces desires and endeavours of likeness. The life of Christ is a globe of precepts, a model of perfection, set before us for our imitation. In some respects this is more pro- portionable to us ; for in Him were united the perfections of God with the infirmities of a man. He was " holy, harmless, undefiled, and separate from sinners." His purity was absolute, and every grace in the most divine degree was expressed in His actions. His life and death were a compound miracle, of obedience to God and love to men. Whatever His Father ordered Him to undertake, or undergo, He entirely consented to; He willingly took on Him the form of a servant; it was not put upon Him by compulsion. In His life humility towards men, infinite descents below Him, self- denial, zeal for the honour of God, ardent desires for the salvation and welfare of men, were as visible as the flame discovers fire. In His sufferings obedience and sacrifice were united. The will- 6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BATES. ingness of His spirit was victorious over the repugnance of the natural will in the garden. " Not my will but thine be done," was His unalterable choice. His patience was insuperable to all injuries. He was betrayed by a disciple for a vile price, and a murderer was preferred before Him. He was scorned as a false prophet, as a feigned king, and as a deceitful Saviour. He was spit on, scourged, crowned with thorns, and crucified; and in the height of His suffer- ings never expressed a spark of anger against His enemies, nor the least degree of impatience. Now consider, it was one principal reason of His obedience to instruct and oblige us to conform to His pattern, the certain and constant rule of our duty. We may not securely follow the best saints, who sometimes, through ignorance and infirmity, deviate from the narrow way; but our Saviour is "the way, the truth, and the life." What He said, after His washing the disciples' feet, (an action wherein there was such an admirable mixture of humility and love, that it is not possible to conceive which excelled, for they were both in the highest perfection,) " I have given you an example, that as I have done to you, so do ye," is applicable to all the kinds of virtues and graces exhibited in His practice. He instructs us to do by His doings, and to suffer by His sufferings. " He suffered for us, leaving us an example, that we may follow His steps." He levels the way by going before us. Those duties that are very harsh to sensible nature, He in- structs us in by His preaching and by His passion. How can we decline them, when performed by Him in whom the glorious Deity was personally united to the tender humanity? His life was a continual lecture of mortification. It is the observation of the natural historian, that the tender providence of nature is admir- able in preparing medicines for us in beautiful fragrant flowers ; that we might not refuse the remedy, as more distasteful than our diseases. But how astonishing is the love of God, who sent His Son for our redemption from eternal death ; and in His example has sweetened those remedies which are requisite for the cure of our distempered passions ! Taking up the cross, and submitting to poverty and persecution, are made tolerable by considering that in enduring them we follow our Redeemer, Can any motive BATES, j EXAMPLES OF SPIRITUAL PERFECTION. J more engage and encourage our obedience, than the persuasive pattern and commanding example of our Sovereign and Saviour? Can we be averse from our duty, when our lawgiver teaches us obedience by His own practice 1 ? Can any invitation be more attractive than to do that from love to Him which He did for love to us and our salvation? We are His subjects by the dearest titles, and our own consent ; we are dedicated to His honour ; and, as the apostle tells the Galatians, " If ye are circumcised, ye are debtors to keep the whole law ;" by the same reason, if we are baptized, we are obliged to obey the law of faith, to order our lives according to the doctrine and example of Christ. An un- holy Christian is a contradiction so direct and palpable, that one word destroys another : as if one should say, a living carcase, or a cold calenture. We must adorn the gospel of Christ by the sacred splendour of our actions. A life innocent from gross no- torious sins is a poor perfection ; we must " show forth the virtues of Him who hath called us to His kingdom and glory." Men usually observe what is eminently good, or extremely bad. The excellent goodness of Christians recommends the goodness of the gospel, and ought to convince infidels that it came from the Fountain of goodness. The primitive Christians endured the fiery trial with insuperable constancy; and the most powerful argument that inspired their courage, despising life and death, was, that Christ was their leader in those terrible conflicts ; He was their spectator, when they en- countered fierce beasts, and fiercer tyrants for the defence of His truth, and glory of His name; and while they were suffering for Him He was preparing immortal crowns for them. This, St Cyprian, in his pastoral letters to the Christians in Africa, represents with such powerful eloquence, as kindled in their breasts a love to Christ stronger than death. The angels are propounded to us as a pattern for our imitation. Our Saviour directs our desires, that " the will of God may be done on earth, as it is done in heaven." The will of God is either decretive or preceptive. The decretive extends to all events ; nothing falls out at random, nothing by rash chance and 8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BATES. casualty; but all things come to pass according to the counsel of His will, by His efficiency or His permission. The preceptive will of God is the rule of our duty. " This is the will of God, even your sanctification." This is intended here; for it is to be per- formed in conformity to the obedience of the angels. But it is comprehensive of our resigned submission to the will and wisdom of God in the disposals of providence, as well as to our active subjection to His commands. We are equally obliged to acknow- ledge and honour His dominion in ordering all things, as to yield obedience to His sovereignty declared in His laws. The Psalmist addresses himself to the angels, as our pattern : " Bless the Lord, ye his angels, that excel in strength, -that do his commandments, hearkening to the voice of his word." They are the eldest oft- spring of God's power ; glorious, heavenly, and immortal spirits. The title of angels signifies their office ; their nature we do not fully know. We can tell what they are not; not flesh and blood; but negatives do not afford knowledge. It is not knowledge to declare what things are not, but what they are. Their excellency is discovered in Scripture, in that the highest degree of our per- fection is expressed by likeness to the angels. The perfection of beauty in Stephen is set forth : " They saw his face as the face of an angel." Excellent wisdom in David: "My lord the king is wise as an angel of God." Perfect eloquence : " Though I speak with the tongues of men and angels." And the apostle, in assert- ing the infinite dignity of the Mediator, proves it by the argument that He is above angels : " To which of the angels did he say, Thou art my Son 1" that is, in a high and peculiar manner. Now, if they had not been in the highest order of creatures, the argu- ment had not been conclusive ; yet they are infinitely below God. The heavens are not clean in His sight, the stars are not pure before Him. The seraphim veil their faces and their feet in His glorious presence, and cry one to another, "Holy, holy, holy, Lord God of hosts, the whole earth is full of his glory." His separate and transcendent attributes are the foundation of their humility and subjection The matter wherein their obedi- ence is exercised is secret to us, the laws and admirable order in BATES.] EXAMPLES OF SPIRITUAL PERFECTION. g heaven are not fully discovered : but we are assured, that they continually magnify and celebrate the perfections of God. In this lower world, they are " ministering spirits to the heirs of salvation," the adopted children of God. The highest angels are not exempted from this service, nor the lowest saints excluded from the benefit of it. The angel told Zacharias, " I am Gabriel, that stand in the pres- ence of God." It implies his prepared disposition to receive and perform ail his commands. It is said, "They hearken to the voice of His word:" the first signi%:ation of His will puts them in mo- tion. They entirely obey Him ; there is no alloy, no mixture of contraries, in their principles, nothing suspends or breaks the en- tireness of their activity in God's service. They obey Him with all their powers, and the utmost efficacy of them. It is said, "He maketh His angels spirits, His ministers a flame of fire," to signify their celerity and vigour in doing God's will They fly like the wind, to rescue the saints from imminent destructive evils ; and, like a flame of fire, are quick and terrible to consume the wicked. They fully perform His commands. The two angels that were sent to preserve Lot from the destruction of Sodom, while he lingered, took him by the hand, and brought him out of the city ; and would not destroy it till he was safe. They freely and cheer- fully obey God, esteeming His service their glory and felicity. They are styled "thrones and dominions, principalities and powers ;" but they are more pleased in the title of His angels, that is, messengers, and in the relation of His servants. They esteem it their highest exaltation and happiness to obey God. They, with as much diligence and delight, watch over the meanest saints, though never so obscure and despicable in the world, as those who are in royal dignity; because they in it obey the orders of God. They are steady and uniform in their duty, above all temptations from hopes or fears that may slacken their endeavours and unstring the bent of their resolutions in His service. There is an eternal constancy in their obedience. 10 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [BATES. It may be said, this example is above our level in the present state ; our wings are broken, we flag, and cannot reach so high a flight. We sometimes conceive more clearly, sometimes more darkly, of our duty. We are sometimes declining, sometimes reviving and returning. We do not practise obedience with the diligence that is commanded. The weakness of the flesh con- trols the willingness of the spirit. How should it upbraid us, that we fall so short in the imitation of angelic obedience, who are under equal, nay, peculiar obligations to please God ] The grace of God in our redemption is more illustriously visible than in their creation. The goodness of God was most free in making the angels ; but it is infinite mercy in saving man from extreme misery, the desert of his disobedience. The Divine power made the angels, but men are redeemed by the dearest price, the blood of the Son of God. In this God commendeth His love to us, that when we were sinners He gave His Son to die for us. Now beneficence is magnified by the principle and motive of it. Gifts are endeared by the affection of the giver ; and in- genuous thankfulness chiefly respects that. All the precious benefits and vital influences that we receive are from the dearest love of God. Supposing the angels receive as great favours from His bountiful hands ; yet there is a clearer discovery of His heart, His tender and compassionate love, in our salvation. How should this consideration inspire our prayers with a holy fervour, that God would enlighten our minds, to know His holy, acceptable, and perfect will, incline us to choose it, and enable us to do it, as the angels, the most illuminate and zealous servants of God ! The Scripture has lighted up excellent examples of holiness in the lives of the saints upon earth, for our direction and imitation. There is a great advantage in looking on examples; they are more instructive than naked precepts, and more clearly convey the knowledge of our duty. A work done in our sight by another directs us better in the practice of it ; it is more acceptable and of more powerful efficacy to reform us, than counsel and admoni- tion by words. A reproof, if spoken with an imperious air where- in vanity has a visible ascendant, is heard with distaste, and often DELATUDE.! ESCAPE FROM THE BASTILLE. II with disdain ; but an excellent example is a silent reproof, not directed immediately to irregular persons, but discovering what ought to be done, and leaving the application to themselves, so that the impression is more quick and penetrating than that of words. In difficult precepts, no argument is more effectual than examples ; for the possibility of performance is confirmed by in- stances, and the pretence of infirmity is taken away. The com- mand binds us to duty. Examples encourage us to performance. The pattern of the angels, who are pure spirits, is not so influen- tial upon us, as the pattern of the saints, which is more corre- spondent and proportionate to our present state ; as the light of the stars, which are so vastly distant, is not so useful in managing our affairs, as the light of a candle that is near us. The saints are verily allied to us ; they were clothed with the same frail gar- ment of flesh, they had like passions, and were in the same con- tagious world ; yet they were holy and heavenly in their affections and actions. They lived in civil conversation with men, and spiritual communion with God. This ta.kes away the pretence of infirmity; for we have the same word of grace, and Spirit of grace, to strengthen us. 93. (gterap* fram fyt DE LATTJDE. [IN the year 1749, De Latude, who was of a respectable family in Languc- doc, and intended for the engineers, came to Paris, and being unsuccessful in obtaining an appointment, he formed a scheme to gain the good-will of Madame de Pompadour, the king's mistress, by disclosing to her a pretended plot for poisoning her. This artifice being detected, he was seized and confined in the castle of Vincennes, from which he escaped after nine months' confinement but was retaken and imprisoned in the Bastille. He had for a fellow-prisoner a young man of the name of D'Alegre, who had been in confinement, at the instance of Madame de Pompadour, for three years. These two unfortunate men occupied the same chamber. The then governor of the Bastille, Monsieur Berryer, treated them with humanity, and used his best endeavours to procure their discharge by forwarding and backing their memorials and petitions. At 12 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [D E LATUDE. length, however, he was under the painful necessity of announcing to them, that, in consequence of Madame de Pompadour's positive orders never to be spoken to on their behalf, there was no prospect of their release, but with the death or disgrace of that implacable woman. D'Alegre was reduced to despair ; but the courage of De Latude was raised by this intelligence, and he resolved to escape or perish in the attempt We will now let him tell his own story : ] " To any man who had the least notion of the situation of the Bastille, its extent, its towers, its discipline, and the incredible precautions which despotism had multiplied more surely to chain its victims, the mere idea of escaping from it would appear the effect of insanity, and would inspire nothing but pity for a wretch so devoid of sense as to dare to conceive it. A moment's reflec- tion would suffice to show that it was hopeless to attempt an escape by the gates. Every physical impossibility was united to render this impracticable. We had no resource but by the out- side. There was in our chamber a fireplace, the chimney of which came out in the extreme height of the tower it was full of gratings and bars of iron, which in several parts of it scarcely left a free passage for the smoke. Should we be able to get to the top of the tower, we should have below us a precipice of great height, at the bottom of which was a fosse' or broad ditch, sur- rounded by a very lofty wall, to be got over. We were without assistance, without tools, without materials, constantly watched night and day, and guarded besides by a great number of senti- nels, who surrounded the outworks of the Bastille. So many ob- stacles, so many dangers did not deter me. I hinted my scheme to my comrade; he thought me a madman, and relapsed into despair. I was obliged alone to digest my plan, to anticipate the frightful host of difficulties which opposed its execution, and find the means of remedying them all. To accomplish our object, we had to climb to the top of the chimney, notwithstanding the many iron gratings which were opposed to our ascent ; and then, in order to descend from the top of the tower into the fosse, we required a ladder of eighty feet at least, and another ladder, ne- cessarily of wood, to get out of the fosse. If I could get these DE LATUDE.] ESCAPE FROM THE BASTILLE. 13 materials I must hide them from every eye, must work without noise, deceive all our spies, and this for months together. Now for the details of my operations. Our first object was to find a place of concealment for our tools and materials, in case we should be so fortunate as to procure any. By dint of reflecting on the subject, a thought struck me which appeared to me a very happy one. I had occupied several different chambers in the Bastille, and had always observed, whenever the chambers either above or below me were inhabited, that I had heard very dis- tinctly any noise made in either. On the present occasion I heard all the movements of the prisoner above but not of him below, nevertheless I felt confident there was a prisoner there. I conjectured at last that there might be a double floor with a space between each. I took the following means to satisfy myself on the point. There was in the Bastille a chapel, at which by spe- cial favour of Monsieur Berryer, we, as well as the prisoner below, in No. 3, were allowed to hear mass. I resolved to take advan- tage, when mass should be over, of a moment, before the prisoner below was locked up, to take a view of his chamber. I pointed out to D'Alegre how he was to assist me. I told him to put his tooth-pick case in his pocket handkerchief, and when we should be on the second floor, by pulling out his pocket handkerchief, to let his tooth-pick case fall all the way down- stairs, and then to request the turnkey to go and pick it up. My little plan succeeded. While the turnkey was going after the tooth-pick case, I ran quickly up to No. 3, I drew back the bolt of the door I examined the height of the chamber from the floor, and found it about ten feet six inches. I shut the door, and from this room to ours I counted thirty-two steps, measured the height of one of them, and making my calculation, I came to the conclusion that there must be, be- tween the floor of our chamber and the ceiling of that below, a space of five feet six inches, which could not be filled up either by stones or wood on account of their weight. As soon as we were shut up, and bolted in, I embraced D'Alegre with delight ' My friend/ said I, ' patience and courage we are saved ! We can hide our ropes and materials that is all that is wanted ! We 14 HALF-HOURS WITH THR BEST AUTHORS. [DE LATUDK. are saved ! ' ' What/ said he, ' have you not given up your dreams ? Ropes and materials ! where are they, and where shall we get them?' 'Ropes,' said I, 'why we have more than we want, that trunk (showing him mine) contains a thousand feet of them.' Looking at me steadfastly, he replied, ' My good friend, endeavour to regain your senses and to calm the frenzy which agitates you. I know the contents of your trunk, there is not a single inch of rope in it.' 'Ay,' said I, ' but have I not a large Stock of linen twelve dozen of shirts, a great number of napkins, Stockings, nightcaps, and other things ; will not they supply us ? We will unravel them, and we shall have ropes enough.' ' But how are we to extract the iron gratings of our chimney?' said D'Alegre ; ' where are we to get the materials for the wooden ladder which we shall want? where obtain tools for all these works ? we cannot create things.' ' My friend/ I replied, ' it is genius which creates, and we have that which despair gives, that will guide our hands ; once more, we are saved ! ' We had a flat table supported by iron legs ; we gave them an edge by rubbing them on the tiled floor ; of the steel of our tinder-box, we made, in less than two hours, a good knife with which we formed two handles to these iron legs ; the principal use of these was to force out the gratings of our chimney. In the evening, the daily in- spection being over, with these iron legs we raised some tiles of our floor, and by digging for about six hours we discovered that our conjectures were well founded, and that there was a vacant space between the floor and ceiling of about four feet. We re- placed the tiles, so that they scarcely appeared to have been raised. This done, we ripped the seams and hems of two shirts, and drew out the threads of them one by one. These we tied to- gether and wound them on a number of small balls, which we after- wards rewound on two larger balls, each of which was composed of fifty threads sixty feet long. We twisted these and formed a cord about fifty-five feet long, and with it constructed a rope-ladder, which was intended to support us aloft, while we drew out of the chimney the bars and spikes of iron with which it was armed. This was the most painful and troublesome of our labours, and DELATUDE.] ESCAPE FROM THE BASTILLE. 15 cost us six months' toil, the recollection of which makes one shud- der. We could only work by bending our bodies in the most painful positions ; an hour at a time was all we could well bear, and we never came down without hands covered with blood. The iron bars were fastened with an extremely hard mortar which we had no means of softening, but by blowing water with our mouths into the holes as we worked them. Judge what this work must have been, when we were well pleased, if, in a whole night, we had worked away the eighth of an inch of this mortar. When we got a bar out we replaced it in its holes, that when we were in- spected, the deficiency might not appear, and so as to enable us to take all of them out at once should we be in a situation to escape. After six months of this obstinate and cruel work, we applied ourselves to the wooden ladder which was necessary to mount from the fossd upon the parapet, and from thence into the governor's garden. This ladder required to be twenty feet long. We devoted to this part of our work nearly all our fuel ; it con- sisted of round logs about eighteen or twenty inches long. We found we should want blocks or pulleys, and several other things, for which a saw was indispensable. I made one with an iron candlestick, by means of half of the steel of the tinder-box from which I had made the knife ; with this piece of the steel, the saw, and the iron legs of our table, we reduced the size of our logs ; we made tenons and mortices in them to join them one into the others, with two holes through each, and two joints, to prevent swagging. We made the ladder with only one upright, through which we put twenty rounds, each round being fifteen inches long. The upright was three inches diameter, so that each round projected, clear, six inches on each side of the upright. To every piece of which the ladder was composed, the proper round of each joint was tied with a string, to enable us to put it together readily in the dark. As we completed each piece we concealed it be- tween the two floors. With the tools we had made we completed the tools of our workshop. We had a pair of compasses, a square, a carpenter's rule, &c., &c., and hid them in our magazine." l6 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [De LATUDK. De Latude goes on to detail the precautions which he and his companion in misfortune took, in case any of the jailers should be listening, to give feigned names for everything they used in their work, and states the names used by them for each article. He then proceeds with his narrative : "These things being complete, we set about our principal ladder, which was to be at least eighty feet long. We began by unravel- ling our linen; shirts, napkins, nightcaps, stockings, drawers, pocket-handkerchiefs everything which could supply thread or silk. As we made a ball we concealed it in Polyphemus, (the name they called the hiding-place,) and when we had a sufficient quantity we employed a whole night in twisting it into a rope ; and I defy a ropemaker to have done it better. The upper part of the building of the Bastille overhangs three or four feet. This would necessarily occasion our ladder to wave and swing about as we came down it, enough to turn the strongest head. To obviate this, and to prevent our fall, we made a second rope 160 feet long. This rope was to be reeved through a kind of double block without sheaves, in case the person descending should be suspended in the air without being able to get down lower. Besides these we made several other ropes of shorter lengths, to fasten our ladder to a can- non, and for other unforeseen occasions. When all these ropes were finished we measured them they amounted to 1400 feet. We then made 208 rounds for the rope and wooden ladders. To prevent the noise which the rounds would make against the wall during our descent, we gave them coverings formed of pieces of the linings of our morning gowns, of our waistcoats, and our under-waistcoats. In all these preparations we employed eighteen months, but still they were incomplete. We had provided means to get to the top of the tower, to get into and out of the fosse" : two more were wanting one to climb upon the parapet ; from the parapet into the governor's garden; from thence to get down into the fosse of the Port St Antoine; but the parapet which we had to cross was always well furnished with sentinels. We might fix on a dark and rainy night, when the sentinels did not go their rounds, and escape by those means, but it might rain when we climbed our chimney, and might clear up at the very moment DE LATUDE.] ESCAPE FROM THE BASTILLE. 17 when we arrived at the parapet: we should then meet with the chief of the rounds, who constantly inspected the parapet, and he being always provided with lights, it would be impossible to con- ceal ourselves, and we should be inevitably ruined. The other plan increased our labours, but was the less dangerous of the two. It consisted in making a way through the wall which separates the fosse of the Bastille from that of the Port St Antoine. I con- sidered that in the numerous floods, during which the Seine had filled this fosse, the water must have injured the mortar, and ren- dered it less difficult, and so we should be enabled to break a passage through the wall. For this purpose we should require an auger to make holes in the mortar, so as to insert the points of the two iron bars to be taken out of our chimney, and with them force out the stones, and so make our way through. Accordingly, we made an auger with one of the feet of our bedsteads, and fastened a handle to it in the form of a cross. We fixed on Wednesday the 25th February 1756, for our flight: the river had overflowed its banks : there were four feet of water in the fosse' of the Bastille, as well as in that of the Port St Antoine, by which we hoped to effect our deliverance. I filled a leathern portmanteau with a change of clothes for both, in case we were so fortunate as to escape. " Dinner was scarcely over when we set up our great ladder of ropes, that is, we put the rounds to it, and hid it under our beds; then we arranged our wooden ladder in three pieces. We put our iron bars in their cases to prevent their making a noise; and we packed up our bottle of usquebaugh to warm us, and restore our strength during our work in the water, up to the neck, for nine hours. These precautions taken, we waited till our supper was brought up. I first got up the chimney. I had the rheumatism in my left arm, but I thought little of the pain : I soon experienced one much more severe. I had taken none of the precautions used by chimney sweepers. I was nearly choked by the soot ; and having no guards on my knees and elbows, they were so excoriated that the blood ran down on my legs and hands. As soon as I got to the top of the chimney I let down a piece of ' VOL. II. B 1 8 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [Ds LATUDE. twine to D'Alegre: to this he attached the end of the rope to which our portmanteau was fastened. I drew it up, unfastened it, and threw it on the platform of the Bastille. In the same way we hoisted up the wooden ladder, the two iron bars, and all our other articles : we finished by the ladder of ropes, the end of which I allowed to hang down to aid D'Alegre in getting up, while I held the upper part by means of a large wooden peg which we had prepared on purpose. I passed it through the cord and placed it across the funnel of the chimney. By these means my companion, avoided suffering what I did. This done, I came down from the top of the chimney, where I had been in a very painful position, and both of us were on the platform of the Bastille. We now arranged our different articles. We began by making a roll of our ladder of ropes, of about four feet diameter, and one thick. We rolled it to the tower called La Tour du Treson, which appeared to us the most favourable for our descent We fastened one end of the ladder of ropes to a piece of cannon, and then lowered it down the wall ; then we fastened the block, and passed the rope of 160 feet long through it. This I tied round my body, and D'Alegre slackened it as I went down. Notwithstanding this precaution I swung about in the air at every step I made. Judge what my situation was, when one shudders at the recital of it. At length I landed without accident in the fosse. Immediately D'Alegre lowered my portmanteau and other things. I found a little spot uncovered by water, on which I put them. Then my companion followed my example; but he had an advantage which I had not had, for I held the ladder for him with all my strength, which greatly prevented its swinging. It did not rain ; and we heard the sentinel marching at about four toises' distance, and we were therefore forced to give up our plan of escaping by the parapet and the governor's garden. We re- solved to use our iron bars. We crossed the fosse straight over to the wall which divides it from the Port St Antoine, and went to work sturdily. Just at this point there was a small ditch about six feet broad and one deep, which increased the depth of the water. Elsewhere it was about up to our middles ; here, to our CLARENDON.] THE DEATH OF LORD FALKLAND. ig armpits. It had thawed only a few days, so that the water had yet floating ice in it : we were nine hours in it, exhausted by fatigue, and benumbed by the cold. We had hardly begun our work before the chief of the watch came round with his lantern, which cast a light on the place we were in; we had no alternative but to put our heads under water as he passed, which was every half-hour. At length, after nine hours of incessant alarm and exertion, after having worked out the stones one by one, we suc- ceeded in making, in a wall of four feet six inches thick, a hole sufficiently wide, and we both crept through. We were giving way to our transports when we fell into a danger which we had not foreseen, and which had nearly been fatal to us. In crossing the fosse St Antoine, to get into the road to Bercy, we fell into the aqueduct which was in the middle. This aqueduct had ten feet water over our heads, and two feet of mud on the side. D'Alegre fell on me, and had nearly thrown me down : had that misfortune happened we were lost, for we had riot strength enough left to get up again, and we must have been smothered. Finding myself laid hold of by D'Alegre, I gave him a blow with my fist, which made him let go, and at the same instant throwing myself forward I got out of the aqueduct. I then felt for D'Alegre, and getting hold of his hair, drew him to me ; we were soon out of the fosse, and just as the clock struck five were on the high road. Pene- trated by the same feeling, we threw ourselves into each other's arms, and after a long embrace we fell on our knees to offer our thanks to the Almighty, who had snatched us from so many dangers." 94. K|p g*aijj 0f f 0rtr Jf alktattir. CLARENDON. IN this unhappy battle of Newbury was slain the Lord Viscount Falkland; a person of such prodigious parts of learning and knowledge, of that inimitable sweetness and delight in conversa- tion, of so flowing and obliging a humanity and goodness to man- 20 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CLARENDON. kind, and of that primitive simplicity and integrity of life, that if there were no other brand upon this odious and accursed Civil War, than that single loss, it must be most infamous and execrable to all posterity. Before this Parliament, his condition of life was so happy, that it was hardly capable of improvement. Before he came to be twenty years of age, he was master of a noble fortune ; which descended to him by the gift of a grandfather, without passing through his father or mother, who were then both alive. His educa- tion for some years had been in Ireland, where his father was Lord Deputy; so that when he returned into England, to the possession of his fortune, he was unentangled with any acquaintance or friends, which usually grow up by the custom of conversation, and therefore was to make a pure election of his company ; which he chose by other rules than were prescribed to the young nobility of that time. And it cannot be denied, though he admitted some few to his friendship for the agreeableness of their natures, and their undoubted affection to him, that his familiarity, and friend- ship for the most part, was with men of the most eminent and sublime parts, and of untouched reputation in point of integrity; and such men had a title to his bosom. He was superior to all those passions and affections which attend vulgar minds, and was guilty of no other ambition than of knowledge, and to be reputed a lover of all good men; and that made him too much a contemner of those arts which must be indulged in the transaction of human affairs. In the last short Parliament, he was a burgess in the House of Commons ; and, from the debates, which were there managed with all imaginable gravity and sobriety, he contracted such a reverence to Parlia- ment, that he thought it really impossible they could ever produce mischief or inconvenience to the kingdom ; or that the kingdom could be tolerably happy in the intermission of them. The great opinion he had of the uprightness and integrity of those persons who appeared most active, especially of Mr Hampden, kept him longer from suspecting any design against the peace of the kingdom; and though he differed from them CLARENDON.] THE DEATH OF LORD FALKLAND. 21 commonly in conclusions, he believed long their purposes were honest When he grew better informed what was law, and dis- cerned in them a desire to control that law by a vote of one or both Houses, no man more opposed those attempts, and gave the adverse party more trouble, by reason and argumentation; inso- much as he was, by degrees, looked upon as an advocate for the Court; to which he contributed so little, that he declined those addresses, and even those invitations which he was obliged almost by civility to entertain. And he was so jealous of the least imagination that he should incline to preferment, that he affected even a moroseness to the Court and to the courtiers; and left nothing undone which might prevent and divert the king's or queen's favour towards him, but the deserving it. For this reason, when he heard it first whispered, " that the king had a purpose to make him a Privy Councillor," for which there was, in the beginning, no other ground but because he was known sufficient, he resolved to decline it; and at last suffered himself only to be overruled, by the advice and persuasions of his friends, to submit to it Afterwards when he found that the king intended to make him Secretary of State, he was positive to refuse it Two reasons prevailed with him to receive the seals, and but for those he had resolutely avoided them. The first, the consider- ation that his refusal might bring some blemish upon the king's affairs, and that men would have believed that he had refused so great an honour and trust, because he must have been with it obliged to do somewhat else not justifiable. And this he made matter of conscience, since he knew the king made choice of him before other men, especially because he thought him more honest than other men. The other was, lest he might be thought to avoid it out of fear to do an ungracious thing to the House of Commons, who were sore troubled at the displacing Sir Harry Vane, whom they looked upon as removed for having done them those offices they stood in need of; and the disdain of so popular an incumbrance wrought upon him next to the other. For as he had a full appetite of fame by just and generous actions, so he 22 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CLARENDON. had an equal contempt of it by any servile expedients : and he so much the more consented to and approved the justice upon Sir Harry Vane, in his own private judgment, by how much he surpassed most men in the religious observation of a trust, the violation whereof he would not admit any excuse for. For these reasons, he submitted to the king's command, and became his secretary, with as humble and devoted an acknow- ledgment of the greatness of the obligation as could be expressed, and as true a sense of it in his heart. Yet two things he could never bring himself to whilst he continued in that office, that was to his death; for which he was contented to be reproached as for omissions in a most necessary part of his place. The one, employ- ing of spies, or giving any countenance or entertainment to them. I do not mean such emissaries as with danger would venture to view the enemy's camp, and bring intelligence of their number, or quartering, or any particulars that such an observation can com- prehend ; but those who, by communication of guilt, or dissimu- lation of manners, wind themselves into such trusts and secrets as enable them to make discoveries. The other, the liberty of opening letters, upon a suspicion that they might contain matter of dangerous consequence. He had a courage of the most clear and keen temper, and so far from fear that he seemed not without some appetite of danger; and therefore, upon any occasion of action, he always engaged his person in those troops which he thought, by the forwardness of the commanders, to be most like to be farthest engaged ; and in all such encounters, he had about him an extraordinary cheer- fulness, without at all affecting the execution that usually attended them; in which he took no delight, but took pains to prevent it, where it was not, by resistance, made necessary : insomuch that at Edge-hill, when the enemy was routed, he was like to have in- curred great peril by interposing to save those who had thrown away their arms, and against whom, it may be, others were more fierce for their having thrown them away : so that a man might think he came into the field chiefly out of curiosity to see the face of danger, and charity to prevent the shedding of blood. CLARENDON.] THE DEATH OF LORD FALKLAND. 23 From the entrance into this unnatural war, his natural cheer- fulness and vivacity grew clouded, and a kind of sadness and de- jection of spirits stole upon him which he had never been used to : yet, being one of those who believed that one battle would end all differences, and that there would be so great a victory on one side, that the other would be compelled to submit to any conditions from the victor, (which supposition and conclusion generally sunk into the minds of most men, and prevented the looking after many advantages that might then have been laid hold of,) he resisted those indispositions. But after the furious resolution of the two Houses not to admit any treaty for peace, those indispositions, which had before touched him, grew into a perfect habit of uncheerfulness ; and he, who had been so exactly easy and affable to all men that his face and countenance was always present and vacant to his company, and held any cloudi- ness, and less pleasantness of the visage, a kind of rudeness or incivility, became, on a sudden, less communicable ; and thence, very sad, pale, and exceedingly affected with the spleen. In his clothes and habit, which he had minded before always with more neatness, and industry, and expense, than is usual to so great a soul, he was not now only incurious but too negligent : and in his reception of suitors, and the necessary, or casual addresses to his place, so quick, and sharp, and severe, that there wanted not some men (strangers to his nature and disposition) who believed him proud and imperious ; from which no mortal man was ever more free. When there was any overture or hope of peace, he would be more erect and vigorous, and exceedingly solicitous to press any- thing which he thought might promote it ; and sitting among his friends, often, after a deep silence and frequent sighs, would, with a shrill and sad accent, ingeminate the word peace, peace; and would passionately profess, " that the very agony of the war, and the view of the calamities and desolation the kingdom did and must endure, took his sleep from him, and would shortly break his heart." This made some think, or pretend to think, " that he was so much enamoured on peace, that he would have been 24 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [CLARENDON. glad the king should have bought it at any price ;" which was a most unreasonable calumny. As if a man that was himself the most punctual and precise in every circumstance that might reflect on conscience or honour, could have wished the king to have committed a trespass against either. And yet this senseless scandal made some impression upon him, or at least he used it for an excuse of the daringness of his spirit : for at the leaguer before Gloucester, when his friend passionately reprehended him for exposing his person unnecessarily to danger, (for he delighted to visit the trenches, and nearest approaches, and to discover what the enemy did,) as being so much beside the duty of his place, that it might be understood rather to be against it, he would say merrily, " that his office could not take away the privilege of his age ; and that a secretary in war might be present at the greatest secret in danger ;" but withal, alleged seriously, "that it concerned him to be more active in enterprises of hazard than other men ; that all might see that his impatiency for peace proceeded not from pusillanimity, or fear to adventure his own person." In the morning before the battle, as always upon action, he was very cheerful, and put himself in the first rank of the Lord Byron's regiment, then advancing upon the enemy, who had lined the hedges on both sides with musketeers : from whence he was shot with a musket in the lower part of the belly : and in the instant falling from his horse, his body was not found till the next morn- ing ; till when there was some hope that he might have been a prisoner ; though his nearest friends, who knew his disposition, received small comfort from that imagination. Thus fell that in- comparable young man, in the four and thirtieth year of his age ; having so much despatched the true business of life, that the eldest rarely attain to that immense knowledge, and the youngest enter not into the world with more innocency : whosoever leads such a life needs be the less anxious upon how short warning it is taken from him. VARIOUS.] TREES. 95. TREES so beautiful in their individual attributes, so magnificent in their forest groups are amongst the most lovely and glorious of the materials which Nature spreads before the poets. Spenser makes his Catalogue of Trees full of picturesque association, by his wonderful choice of epithets : And forth they pass with pleasure, forward led, Joying to hear the birds' sweet harmony, Which, therein shrouded from the tempest's dread, Seemed in their song to scorn the cruel sky ; Much can they praise the trees so straight and high, The sailing pine, the cedar proud and tall, The vine-prop elm, the poplar never dry, The builder-oak, sole king of forests all ; The aspen good for staves ; the cypress, funeral. The laurel, meed of mighty conquerors And poets sage ; the fir that weepeth still, The willow, worn of forlorn paramours, The yew, obedient to the bender's will, The birch for shafts, the sallow for the mill, The myrrh sweet bleeding of the bitter wound, The warlike beech, the ash for nothing ill, The fruitful olive, and the plantane round, The carver holm, the maple seldom inward sound. SPENSER. Scott associates the "forest fair" with the feudal grandeur of hunt and falconry : The scenes are desert now, and bare, Yon lonely thorn would he could tell Where flourish'd once a forest fair, The changes of his parent dell, When these waste glens with copse Since he, so gray and stubborn now, were lined, Waved in each breeze a sapling And peopled with the hart and hind. bough : Yon thorn perchance whose prickly Would he could tell how deep the spears shade, Have fenced him for three hundred A thousand mingled branches made ; years, How broad the shadows of the oak, While fell around his green compeers How clung the rowan to the rock, 26 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS. And through the foliage show'd his head, With narrow leaves and berries red ; What pines on every mountain sprung, O'er every dell what birches hung, In every breeze what aspens shook, What alders shaded every brook ! "Here in my shade," methinks he 'd say, " The mighty stag at noontide lay : The wolf I 've seen, a fiercer game, (The neighbouring dingle bears his name,) With lurching step around me prowl, And stop against the moon to howl ; The mountain-boar, on battle set, His tusks upon my stem would whet ; While doe and roe, and red-deer good, Have bounded by through gay green- wood. Then oft from Newark's riven tower, Sallied a Scottish monarch's power : A thousand vassals muster'd round, With horse, and hawk, and horn, and hound ; And I might see the youth intent Guard every pass with cross-bow bent ; And through the brake the rangers stalk, And falc'ners hold the ready hawk ; And foresters in greenwood trim, Lead in the leash the gaze-hounds grim, Attentive, as the bratchet's bay From the dark covert drove the prey, To slip them as he broke away. The startled quarry bounds amain, As fast the gallant greyhounds strain : Whistles the arrow from the bow, Answers the arquebuss below ; While all the rocking hills reply To hoof-clang, hound, and hunter's cry, And bugles ringing lightsomely." SCOTT. Keats makes the " leafy month of June " fresher and greener, with remem- brances of the " Sherwood clan " the woodland heroes of the people's ballads: No ! those days are gone away, And their hours are old and gray, And their minutes buried all Under the down-trodden fall Of the leaves of many years : Many times have winter's shears, Frozen north, and chilling east, Sounded tempests to the feast Of the forest's whispering fleeces, Since men knew not rents nor leases. No, the bugle sounds no more, And the twanging bow no more ; Silent is the ivory shrill ; Past the heath and up the hill ; There is no mid-forest laugh, Where lone echo gives the half To some wight amazed to hear Jesting deep in forest drear. On the fairest time of June You may go with sun or moon, Or the seven stars to light you, Or the polar ray to right you ; But you never may behold Little John, or Robin bold ; Never one of all the clan, Thrumming on an empty can Some old hunting ditty, while He doth his green way beguile To fair hostess Merriment, Down beside the pasture Trent ; For he left the merry tale, Messenger for spicy ale. Gone, the merry morris den ; Gone, the song of Gamelyn ; Gone, the tough-belted outlaw, Idling in the " greene-shawe : " VARIOUS.] TREES. 27 All are gone away and past ! He would swear, for all his oaks, And if Robin should be cast Fall'n beneath the dockyard strokes, Sudden from his tufted grave, Have rotted on the briny seas ; And if Marian should have She would weep that her wild bees Once again her forest days, Sang not to her strange ! that honey She would weep, and he would craze : Can't be got without hard money ! KEATS. A living writer dwells upon the solemn stillness of the forest, with a poet's love built upon knowledge. No one can understand that peculiar stillness who has not passed maliy a thoughtful hour beneath the " melancholy boughs/ 7 amidst which there is ever sound which seems like silence : I love the forest; I could dwell among That silent people, till my thoughts up grew In nobly ordered form, as to my view Rose the succession of that lofty throng : The mellow footstep on a ground of leaves Form'd by the slow decay of num'rous years, The couch of moss, whose growth alone appears, Beneath the fir's inhospitable eaves, The chirp and flutter of some single bird, The rustle in the brake, what precious store Of joys have these on poets' hearts conferr'd? And then at times to send one's own voice out, In the full frolic of one startling shout, Only to feel the after stillness more ! MILNES. The American poet's reverence for the forest rises into devotion : Father, thy hand Hath rear'd these venerable columns, thou Didst weave this verdant roof. Thou didst look down Upon the naked earth, and forthwith rose All these fair ranks of trees. They, in thy sun Budded, and shook their green leaves in thy breeze, And shot towards heaven. The century-living crow, Whose birth was in their tops, grew old and died Among their branches, till, at last, they stood, As now they stand, massy, and tall, and dark, 28 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [VARIOUS. Fit shrine for humble worshipper to hold Communion with his Maker. These dim vaults, These winding aisles, of human pomp or pride Report not. No fantastic carvings show The boast of our vain race to change the form Of thy fair works. But thou art here thou fill'st The solitude. Thou art in the soft winds That run along the summit of these trees In music; thou art in the cooler breath, That from the inmost darkness of the place, Comes, scarcely felt the barky trunks, the ground, The fresh moist ground, are all instinct with thee. Here is continual worship; nature, here, In the tranquillity that thou dost love, Enjoys thy presence. Noiselessly, around, From perch to perch, the solitary bird Passes; and yon clear spring, that, 'midst its herbs, Wells softly forth, and visits the strong roots Of half the mighty forest, tells no tale Of all the good it does. Thou hast not left Thyself without a witness, in these shades, Of thy perfections. Grandeur, strength, and grace Are here to speak of thee. This mighty oak By whose immovable stem I stand and seem Almost annihilated not a prince, In all that proud old world beyond the deep, E'er wore his crown as loftily as he Wears the green coronal of leaves with which Thy hand has graced him. Nestled at his root Is beauty, such as blooms not in the glare Of the broad sun. That delicate forest flower, With scented breath, and look so like a smile, Seems, as it issues from the shapeless mould, An emanation of the indwelling Life, A visible token of the upholding Love, That are the soul of this wide universe. BRYANT. JOHN WILSON.] HIGHLAND SNOW STORM. 29 96. JOHN WILSON. QOHN WILSON, the distinguished Professor of Moral Philosophy in the University of Edinburgh, was born at Paisley, in 1 788. He was the son of an opulent manufacturer, and received his elementary education at Glasgow University, proceeding afterwards to Magdalen College, Oxford. His poetical genius was developed at the university. He obtained the Newdegate Prize, and amidst a passion for athletic exercises, which distinguished him in after- life, he was looked upon as one of the most remarkable young men of his day. Upon his leaving Oxford he purchased a charming property, Ellerlay, on Lake Windermere. At this period he published the first of his beautiful poems, " The Isle of Palms." Subsequently he became a member of the Scottish bar, and in a few years received the appointment to that chair which he so long filled with honour. Ill health obliged him to resign it in 1 853, and he died in 1854. His nephew, the late Professor Ferrier, published a collected edition of his works. His permanent reputation will, we think, rest upon his prose writings. His contributions to " Blackwood's Magazine" raised the whole tone and character of periodical literature. The keenest wit, the most playful fancy, the most genial criticism, the deepest pathos, were lavished year after year with a profusion almost miraculous. Some of the finest of these productions have been collected as "The Recreations of Christopher North." It would be difficult to point to three volumes of our own times that have an equal chance of becoming immortal.] One family lived in Glencreran, and another in Glencoe the families of two brothers seldom visiting each other on working days, seldom meeting even on Sabbaths, for theirs was not the same parish kirk seldom coming together on rural festivals or holidays, for in the Highlands now these are not so frequent as of yore ; yet, all these sweet seldoms, taken together, to loving hearts made a happy many, and thus, though each family passed its life in its own home, there were many invisible threads stretched out through the intermediate air, connecting the two dwellings together, as the gossamer keeps floating from one tree to an- other, each with its own secret nest And nest-like both dwellings were. That in Glencoe, built beneath a treeless but high-heathered rock, lone in all storms, with greensward and garden on a slope down to a rivulet, the clearest of the clear (oh! once wofully reddened!) and growing, so it seems, in the mosses of its own 30 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [JOHN WILSON. roof, and the huge stones that overshadow it, out of the earth. That in Glencreran more conspicuous, on a knoll, among the pastoral meadows, midway between mountain and mountain, so that the grove which shelters it, except when the sun is shining high, is darkened by their meeting shadows, and dark, indeed, even in the sunshine, for 'tis a low but wide-armed grove of old oak-like pines. A little farther down, and Glencreran is very sylvan ; but this dwelling is the highest up of all, the first you descend upon, near the foot of that wild hanging staircase between you and Glen-Etive. And, except this old oak-like grove of pines, there is not a tree, and hardly a bush, on bank or brae, pasture or hay-field, though these are kept by many a rill, there mingling themselves into one stream, in a perpetual lustre, that seems to be as native to the grass, as its light is to the glow-worm. Such are the two huts for they are huts and no more and you may see them still, if you know how to discover the beautiful sights of nature from descriptions treasured in your heart; and if the spirit of change, now nowhere at rest on the earth, not even in its most solitary places, have not swept from the scenes the beautified, the humble, but hereditary dwellings that ought to be allowed, in the fulness of the quiet time, to relapse back into the bosom of na- ture, through insensible and unperceived decay. These huts belonged to brothers, and each had an only child a son and a daughter born on the same day, and now bloom- ing on the verge of youth. A year ago, and they were but mere children ; but what wondrous growth of frame and spirit does nature at that season of life often present before our eyes ! So that we almost see the very change going on between morn and morn, and feel that these objects of our affection are daily brought closer to ourselves, by partaking daily more and more in all our most sacred thoughts, in our cares and in our duties, and in knowledge of the sorrows as well as the joys of our common lot Thus had these cousins grown up before their parents' eyes -;-Flora Macdonald, a name hallowed of yore, the fairest, and Ronald Cameron, the boldest of all the living flowers in Glencoe and Glencreran. It was now their seventeenth birthday, and JOHN WILSON.] HIGHLAND SNOW STORM. 31 never had a winter sun smiled more serenely over a knoll of snow. Flora, it had been agreed on, was to pass that day in Glencreran, and Ronald to meet her among the mountains, that he might bring her down the many precipitous passes to his parents' hut. It was the middle of February, and the snow had lain for weeks with all its drifts unchanged, so calm had been the weather and so continued the frost. At the same hour, known by horologe on the cliff touched by the finger of dawn, the happy creatures left each their own glen, and mile after mile of the smooth surface glided away past their feet, almost as the quiet water glides by the little boat that in favouring breezes walks merrily along the sea. And soon they meet at the trysting-place a bank of birch-trees beneath a cliff that takes its name from the eagles. On their meeting, seemed not to them the whole of nature suddenly inspired with joy and beauty? Insects, unheard by them before, hummed and glittered in the air; from tree roots, where the snow was thin, little flowers, or herbs flower-like, now for the first time were seen looking out as if alive; the trees themselves seemed budding, as if it were already spring; and rare as in that rocky region are the birds of song, a faint thrill for a moment touched their ears, and the flutter of a wing, telling them that somewhere near there was preparation for a nest. Deep down beneath the snow they listened to the tinkle of rills unreached by the frost, and merry, thought they, was the music of these con- tented prisoners. Not summer's self, in its deepest green, so beautiful had ever been to them before, as now the mild white of winter ; and as their eyes were lifted up to heaven, when had they ever seen before a sky of such perfect blue, a sun so gentle in its brightness, or altogether a week-day in any season so like a Sabbath in its stillness, so like a holiday in its joy? Lovers were they, although as yet they scarcely knew it ; for from love only could have come such bliss as now was theirs, a bliss, that while it beautified was felt to come from the skies. Flora sang to Ronald many of her old songs, to those wild Gaelic airs that sound like the sighing of winds among fractured cliffs, or the branches of storm-tossed trees, when the subsiding 32 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [JOHN WILSON. tempest is about to let them rest. Monotonous music ! but irre- sistible over the heart it has once awakened and enthralled, so sincere seems to be the mournfulness it breathes a mournfulness brooding and feeding on the same note, that is at once its natural expression and sweetest aliment, of which the singer never wearieth in her dream, while her heart all the time is haunted by all that is most piteous, by the faces of the dead in their paleness return- ing to the shades of life, only that once more they may pour from their fixed eyes those strange showers of unaccountable tears ! How merry were they between those mournful airs ! How Flora trembled to see her lover's burning brow and flashing eyes, as he told her tales of great battles fought in foreign lands, far across the sea tales which he had drunk in with greedy ears from the old heroes scattered all over Lochaber and Badenoch, on the brink of the grave still garrulous of blood ! " The sun sat high in his meridian tower." But time had not been with the youthful lovers, and the blessed beings believed that 'twas but a little hour since beneath the Eagle Cliff they had met in the prime of the morn ! The boy starts to his feet, and his keen eye looks along the ready rifle for his sires had all been famous deer-stalkers, and the passion of the chase was hereditary in his blood. Lo! a deer from Dalness, hound-driven, or sullenly astray, slowly bearing his antlers up the glen, then stopping for a moment to snuff the air, then away away! The rifle-shot rings dully from the scarce echoing snow-cliffs, and the animal leaps aloft, struck by a certain but not sudden death- wound. Oh ! for Fingal now to pull him down like a wolf! But labouring and lumbering heavily along, the snow spotted as he bounds with blood, the huge animal at last disappears round some rocks at the head of the glen. " Fol- low me, Flora!" the boy-hunter cries; and, flinging down their plaids, they turn their bright faces to the mountain, and away up the long glen after the stricken deer. Fleet was the mountain girl ; and Ronald, as he ever and anon looked back to wave her on, with pride admired her lightsome motion as she bounded JOHN WILSON.] HIGHLAND SNOW STORM. 33 along the snow. Redder and redder grew that snow, and more heavily trampled, as they winded round the rocks. Yonder is the deer, staggering up the mountain, not a half mile off now standing at bay, as if before his swimming eyes came Fingal, the terror of the forest, whose howl was known to all the echoes, and quailed the herd while their antlers were yet afar off. " Rest, Flora, rest ! while I fly to him with my rifle and shoot him through the heart!" Up up up the interminable glen, that kept winding and winding round many a jutting promontory and many a castellated cliff, the red deer kept dragging his gore-oozing bulk, sometimes almost within, and then for some hundreds of yards just beyond, rifle-shot ; while the boy, maddened by the chase, pressed for- wards, now all alone, nor any more looking behind for Flora, who had entirely disappeared ; and thus he was hurried on for miles by the whirlwind of passion, till at last he struck the noble quarry, and down sank the antlers in the snow, while the air was spurned by the convulsive beatings of feet. Then leaped Ronald upon the red deer like a beast of prey, and lifted up a look of triumph to the mountain-tops. Where is Flora ? Her lover has forgotten her and he is alone nor knows it he and the red deer an enormous animal, fast stiffening in the frost of death. Some large flakes of snow are in the air, and they seem to waver and whirl, though an hour ago there was not a breath. Faster they fall and faster the flakes are almost as large as leaves ; and overhead whence so suddenly has come that huge yellow cloud? "Flora, where are you? where are you, Flora?" and from the huge hide the boy leaps up, and sees that no Flora is at hand. But yonder is a moving speck, far off upon the snow. 'Tis she 'tis she; and again Ronald turns his eyes upon the quarry, and the heart of the hunter burns within him like a new- stirred fire. Shrill as the eagle's cry, disturbed in his eyry, he sends a shout down the glen, and Flora, with cheeks pale and bright by fits, is at last by his side. Panting and speechless she stands, and then dizzily sinks on his breast. Her hair is ruffled by the wind that revives her, and her face all moistened by the VOL. II. C 34 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. Q OH N WILSO*. snow-flakes, now not falling, but driven for the day has under- gone a dismal change, and all over the sky are now lowering sav- age symptoms of a fast-coming night-storm. Bare is poor Flora's head, and sorely drenched her hair, that an hour or two ago glittered in the sunshine. Her shivering frame misses now the warmth of the plaid, which almost no cold can penetrate, and which had kept the vital current flowing freely in many a bitter blast. What would the miserable boy give now for the coverings lying far away, which, in his foolish passion, he flung down to chase that fatal deer ! " Oh, Flora ! if you would not fear to stay here by yourself, under the protection of God, who surely will not forsake you, soon will I go and come from the place where our plaids are lying ; and under the shelter of the deer we may be able to outlive the hurricane you wrapped up in them and folded, O my dearest sister, in my arms ?" " I will go with you down the glen, Ronald;" and she left his breast; but, weak as a day-old lamb, tottered and sank down on the snow. The cold intense as if the air was ice had chilled her very heart, after the heat of that long race ; and it was manifest that here she must be for the night to live or to die. And the night seemed already come, so full was the lift of snow ; while the glimmer every moment became gloomier, as if the day were expiring long before its time. Howling at a distance down the glen was heard a sea-born tempest from the Linnhe Loch, where now they both knew the tide was tumbling in, bringing with it sleet and snow- blasts from afar ; and from the opposite quarter of the sky an in- land tempest was raging to meet it, while every lesser glen had its own uproar, so that on all hands they were environed with death. " I will go and, till I return, leave you with God." " Go, Ronald !" and he went and came, as if he had been endowed with the raven's wings. Miles away and miles back had he flown, and an hour had not been with his going and his coming ; but what a dreary wretched- ness meanwhile had been hers ! She feared that she was dying that the cold snow-storm was killing her and that she would never more see Ronald, to say to him farewell. Soon as he was JOHN WILSON.] HIGHLAND SNOW STORM. 35 gone all her courage had died. Alone, she feared death, and wept to think how hard it was for one so young thus miserably to die. He came, and her whole being was changed. Folded up in both the plaids, she felt resigned. " Oh ! kiss me, kiss me, Ronald ; for your love great as it is is not as my love. You must never forget me, Ronald, when your poor Flora is dead." Religion with these two young creatures was as clear as the light of the Sabbath-day and their belief in heaven just the same as in earth. The will of God they thought of just as t*hey thought of their parents' will, and the same was their living obedience to its decrees. If she was to die, supported now by the presence of her brother, Flora was utterly resigned ; if she was to live, her heart imaged to itself the very forms of her grateful worship. But all at once she closed her eyes, she ceased breathing and, as the tempest howled and rumbled in the gloom that fell around them like blindness, Ronald almost sunk down, thinking that she was dead. " Wretched sinner that I am ! my wicked madness brought her here to die of cold ! " And he smote his breast, and tore his hair, and feared to look up, lest the angry eye of God were look- ing on him through the storm. All at once, without speaking a word, Ronald lifted Flora in his arms, and walked away up the glen, here almost narrowed into a pass. Distraction gave him supernatural strength, and her weight seemed that of a child. Some walls of what had once been a house, he had suddenly remembered, were but a short way off; whether or not they had any roof he had forgotten, but the thought even of such a shelter seemed a thought of salvation. There it was a snow-drift at the opening that had once been a door snow up the holes once windows the wood of the roof had been carried off for fuel, and the snow-flakes were falling in, as if they would soon fill up the inside of the ruin. The snow in front was all trampled, as by sheep; and carrying in his burden under the low lintel, he saw the place was filled with a flock that had foreknown the hurricane, and that, all huddled together, 36 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. QOHN WILSOH. looked on him as on the shepherd, come to see how they were faring in the storm. And a young shepherd he was, with a lamb apparently dying in his arms. All colour, all motion, all breath seemed to be gone ; and yet something convinced his heart that she was yet alive. The ruined hut was roofless, but across an angle of the walls some pine-branches had been flung, as a sort of shelter for the sheep or cattle that might repair thither in cruel weather some pine-branches left by the wood-cutters, who had felled the yew-trees that once stood at the very head of the glen. Into that corner the snow-drift had not yet forced its way, and he sat down there, with Flora in the cherishing of his embrace, hoping that the warmth of his distracted heart might be felt by her, who was as cold as a corpse. The chill air was somewhat softened by the breath of the huddled flock, and the edge of the cutting wind blunted by the stones. It was a place in which it seemed pos- sible that she might revive, miserable as it was with the mire- mixed snow, and almost as cold as one supposes the grave. And she did revive, and under the half-open lids the dim blue appeared to be not yet life deserted. It was yet but the afternoon, night-like though it was, and he thought, as he breathed upon her lips, that a faint red returned, and that they felt the kisses he dropt on them to drive death away. " Oh ! father, go seek for Ronald, for I dreamt to-night that he was perishing in the snow." " Flora, fear not, God is with us." "Wild swans, they say, are come to Loch Phoil. Let us go, Ronald, and see them ; but no rifle for why kill creatures said to be so beautiful 1 ?" Over them where they lay, bended down the pine-branch roof, as if it would give way beneath the increas- ing weight : but there it still hung, though the drift came over their feet, and up to their knees, and seemed stealing upwards to be their shroud. " Oh ! I am overcome with drowsiness, and fain would be allowed to sleep. Who is disturbing me and what noise is this in our house?" "Fear not, fear not, Flora, God is with us." "Mother! am I lying in your arms? My father surely is not in the storm. Oh, I have had a most JOHN WILSON.] HIGHLAND SNOW STORM. 37 dreadful dream !" and with such mutterings as these Flora again relapsed into that perilous sleep, which soon becomes that of death. Night itself came, but Flora and Ronald knew it not ; and both lay motionless in one snow-shroud. Many passions, though earth- born, heavenly all pity, and grief, and love, and hope, and at last despair, had prostrated the strength they had so long sup- ported ; and the brave boy who had been for some time feeble as a very child after a fever, with a mind confused and wander- ing, and in its perplexities sore afraid of some nameless ill had submitted to lay down his head beside his Flora's, and had soon become, like her, insensible to the night and all its storms. Bright was the peat fire in the hut of Flora's parents in Glencoe, and they were among the happiest of the humble happy, bless- ing this the birth-day of their blameless child. They thought of her, singing her sweet songs by the fire-side of the hut in Glen- creran, and tender thoughts of her cousin Ronald were with them in their prayers. No warning came to their ears in the sugh or the howl ; for fear it is that creates its own ghosts, and all its own ghost-like visitings ; and they had seen their Flora, in the meek- ness of the morning, setting forth on her way over the quiet mountains, like a fawn to play. Sometimes too, Love, who starts at shadows as if they were of the grave, is strangely insen- sible to realities that might well inspire dismay. So it was now with the dwellers in the hut at the head of Glencreran. Their Ronald had left them in the morning, night had come, and he and Flora were not there, but the day had been almost like a summer day, and in their infatuation they never doubted that the happy creatures had changed their minds, and that Flora had returned with him to Glencoe. Ronald had laughingly said, that haply he might surprise the people in that glen by bringing back to them Flora on her birth-day, and strange though it afterwards seemed to her to be that belief prevented one single fear from touching his mother's heart, and she and her husband that night lay down in untroubled sleep. And what could have been done for them, had they been told 38 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. UOHN WILSCW. by some good or evil spirit that their children were in the clutches of such a night] As well seek for a single bark in the middle of the misty main ! But the inland storm had been seen brewing among the mountains round King's-House, and hut had communi- cated with hut, though far apart in regions where the traveller sees no symptoms of human life. Down through the long cliff- pass of Mealanumy, between Buchael-Etive and the Black Mount, towards the lone House of Dalness, that lies in the everlasting shadows, went a band of shepherds, trampling their way across a hundred frozen streams. Dalness joined its strength, and then away over the drift-bridged chasms toiled that gathering, with their sheep-dogs scouring the loose snows in the van, Fingal the Red Reaver, with his head aloft on the look-out for deer, grimly eyeing the corrie where last he tasted blood. All " plaided in their tartan array," these shepherds laughed at the storm, and hark, you hear the bagpipe play the music the Highlanders love both in war and in peace. " They think then of the owrie cattle, And silly sheep ; " and though they ken 'twill be a moonless night, for the snow- storm will sweep her out of heaven, up the mountain and down the glen they go, marking where flock and herd have betaken themselves, and now, at midfall, unafraid of that blind hollow, they descend into the depth where once stood the old grove of pines. Following their dogs, who know their duties in their in- stinct, the band, without seeing it, are now close to that ruined hut. Why bark the sheep-dogs so and why howls Fingal, as if some spirit passed athwart the night ? He scents the dead body of the boy who so often had shouted him on in the forest when the antlers went by! Not dead nor dead she who is on his bosom. Yet life in both frozen and will the red blood in their veins ever again be thawed ] Almost pitch dark is the roofless ruin ; and the frightened sheep know not what is that terrible shape that is howling there. But a man enters, and lifts up one of the bodies, giving it into the arms of those at the doorway, and JOHN WILSON.] HIGHLAND SNOW STORM. then lifts up the other ; and by the flash of a rifle, they see that it is Ronald Cameron and Flora Macdonald, seemingly both frozen to death. Some of those reeds that the shepherds burn in their huts are kindled, and in that small light they are assured that such are the corpses. But that noble dog knows that death is not there, and licks the face of Ronald, as if he would restore life to his eyes. Two of the shepherds know well how to fold the dying in their plaids, how gentlest to carry them along ; for they had learnt it on the field of victorious battle, when, without stumbling over the dead and wounded, they bore away the shat- tered body, yet living, of the youthful warrior, who had shown that of such a clan he was worthy to be the chief. The storm was with them all the way down the glen ; nor could they have heard each others' voices had they spoke; but mutely they shifted the burden from strong hand to hand, thinking of the hut in Glencoe, and of what would be felt there on their arrival with the dying or the dead. Blind people walk through what to them is the night of crowded day-streets, unpausing turn round corners, unhesitating plunge down steep stairs, wind their way fearlessly through whirlwinds of life, and reach in their serenity, 4O HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. UOHN WILSON. each one unharmed, his own obscure house. For God is with the blind. So is He with all who walk on walks of mercy. This saving band had no fear, therefore there was no danger, on the edge of the pitfall or the cliff. They knew the countenances of the mountains, shown momentarily by ghastly gleamings through the fitful night, and the hollow sound of each particular stream beneath the snow, at places where in other weather there was a pool or a water-fall. The dip of the hills, in spite of the drifts, familiar to their feet, did not deceive them now; and then the dogs, in their instinct, were guides that erred not: and as well as the shepherds knew it themselves, did Fingal know that they were anxious to reach Glencoe. He led the way as if he were in moon- light ; and often stood still when they were shifting their burden, and whined as if in grief. He knew where the bridges were stones or logs ; and he rounded the marshes where at springs the wild fowl feed. And thus instinct, and reason, and faith, con- ducted the saving band along and now they are at Glencoe, and at the door of the hut. To life were brought the dead; and there, at midnight, sat they up like ghosts. Strange seemed they for a while to each others' eyes, and at each other they looked as if they had forgotten how dearly once they loved. Then, as if in holy fear, they gazed in each others' faces, thinking that they had awoke together in heaven. " Flora !" said Ronald, and that sweet word, the first he had been able to speak, reminded him of all that had passed, and he knew that the God in whom they had put their trust had sent them deliverance. Flora, too, knew her parents, who were on their knees; and she strove to rise up and kneel down beside them, but she was powerless as a broken reed; and when she thought to join with them in thanksgiving, her voice was gone. Still as death sat all the people in the hut, and one or two who were fathers were not ashamed to weep. ASCHAM.J PREFACE TO THE SCHOOLMASTER. 41 97. faa tor ASCHAM. [ROGER ASCHAM was born in 1515. His father was a house-steward in a wealthy family. By the patronage of Sir Anthony Wingfield he was placed at St John's College, Cambridge. The Greek language had only been re- cently taught at the universities, and Ascham devoted himself to its study with great ardour, applying himself with the utmost diligence to the instruction of others. In 1548 he was appointed instructor in the learned languages to the Lady Elizabeth, afterwards queen ; and, with the interval of three years, dur- ing which he travelled through Italy and Germany, he held offices at court during the reigns of Edward VL, Mary, and Elizabeth. He died in 1568. When Queen Elizabeth heard the news of his death she exclaimed, "she would rather have thrown ten thousand pounds into the sea than have lost her Ascham."] When the great plague was at London, the year 1563, the Queen's Majesty, Queen Elizabeth, lay at her Castle of Windsor : whereupon, the loth day of December, it fortuned that in Sir William Cecil's chamber, her Highness's principal secretary, there dined together these personages, Mr Secretary himself, Sir William Peter, Sir I. Mason, Dr Wotton, Sir Richard Sackville, Treasurer of the Exchequer, Sir Walter Mildmay, Chancellor of the Exche- quer, Mr Haddon, Master of Requests, Mr John Astley, Master of the Jewel House, Mr Bernard Hampton, Mr Nicasius, and I. Of which number, the most part were of her Majesty's most hon- ourable Privy Council, and the rest serving her in very good place. I was glad then, and do rejoice yet to remember, that my chance was so happy, to be there that day, in the company of so many wise and good men together, as hardly there could have been picked out again, out of all England beside. Mr Secretary hath this accustomed manner, though his head be never so full of most weighty affairs of the realm, yet at din- ner-time he doth seem to lay them always aside : and finding ever fit occasion to talk pleasantly of other matters, but most gladly of some matter of learning ; wherein he will courteously hear the mind of the meanest at his table. Not long after our sitting down, I have strange news brought 42 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ASCHAM. me, saith Mr Secretary, this morning, that divers scholars of Eton be run away from the school, for fear of beating. Whereupon Mr Secretary took occasion to wish, that some more discretion were in many schoolmasters, in using correction, than commonly there is, who many times punish rather the weakness of nature than the fault of the scholar. Whereby many scholars that might else prove well be driven to hate learning, before they know what learning meaneth ; and so are made willing to forsake their book, and be glad to be put to any other kind of living. Mr Peter, as one somewhat severe of nature, said plainly, that the rod only was the sword that must keep the school in obedience, and the scholar in good order. Mr Wotton, a man mild of na- ture, with soft voice, and few words, inclined to Mr Secretary's judgment, and said, in mine opinion the schoolhouse should be in deed, as it is called by name, the house of play and pleasure, and not of fear and bondage ; and as I do remember, so saith Socrates in one place of Plato. And therefore, if a rod carry the fear of the sword, it is no marvel if those that be fearful of nature choose rather to forsake the play, than to stand always within the fear of a sword in a fond man's handling. Mr Mason, after his manner, was very merry with both parties, pleasantly playing both with shrewd touches of many courste boys, and with the small dis- cretion of many lewd schoolmasters. Mr Haddon was fully of Mr Peter's opinion, and said that the best schoolmaster of our time was the greatest beater, and named the person. Though, quoth I, it was his good fortune to send from his school into the university one of the best scholars indeed of all our time, yet wise men do think that that came so to pass rather by the great toward- ness of the scholar, than by the great beating of the master; and whether this be true or no, you yourself are best witness. I said somewhat further in the matter, how and why young children were sooner allured by love than driven by beating, to attain good learning ; wherein I was the bolder to say my mind, because Mr Secretary courteously provoked me thereunto ; or else, in such a company, and namely in his presence, my wont is to be more willing to use mine ears than to occupy my tongue. ASCHAM.] PREFACE TO THE SCHOOLMASTER. 43 Sir Walter Mildmay, Mr Astley, and the rest said very little ; only Sir Richard Sackville said nothing at all. After dinner I went up to read with the Queen's Majesty. We read then together in the Greek tongue, as I well remember, that noble oration of Demosthenes against ^Eschines, for his false dealing in his em- bassage to King Philip of Macedonia. Sir Richard Sackville came up soon after, and finding me in her Majesty's privy cham- ber, he took me by the hand, and carrying me to a window, said, Mr Ascham, I would not for a good deal of money have been, this day, absent from dinner, where, though I said nothing, yet I gave as good ear, and do consider as well the talk that passed, as any one did there. Mr Secretary said, very wisely, and most truly, that many young wits be driven to hate learning, before they know what learning is. I can be good witness to this my- self: for a fond schoolmaster, before I was fourteen years old, drove me so, with fear of beating, from all love of learning, as now, when I know what difference it is to have learning and to have little or none at all, I feel it my greatest grief, and find it my greatest hurt that ever came to me, that it was my so ill chance to light upon so lewd a schoolmaster. But seeing it is but in vain to lament things past, and also wisdom to look to things to come, surely, God willing, if God lend me life, I will make this, my mis- hap, some occasion of good hap to little Robert Sackville my son's son. For whose bringing up I would gladly, if it so please you, use specially your good advice. I hear say you have a son much of his age : we will deal thus together. Point you out a schoolmaster, who, by your order, shall teach my son and yours, and for all the rest I will provide, yes, though they three do cost me a couple of hundred pounds by year : and beside, you shall find me as fast a friend to you and yours as perchance any you have. Which promise the worthy gentleman surely kept with me, until his dying day. We had then further talk together of bringing up of children : of the nature of quick and hard wits : of the right choice of a good wit : of fear and love in teaching children. We passed from children and came to young men, namely, gentlemen : we 44 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. fAscHAM. talked of their too much liberty, to live as they lust : of their let- ting loose too soon, to overmuch experience of ill, contrary to the good order of many old commonwealths of the Persians and Greeks : of wit gathered, and good fortune gotten by some only by experience, without learning. And lastly, he required of me very earnestly to show what I thought of the common going of Englishmen into Italy. But, saith he, because this place and this time will not suffer so long talk as these good matters require, therefore I pray you, at my request, and at your leisure, put in some order of writing the chief points of this our talk, concerning the right order of teaching and honesty of living, for the good bringing up of children and young men. And surely, besides contenting me, you shall both please and profit very many others. I made some excuse by lack of ability, and weakness of body : Well, saith he, I am not now to learn what you can do. Our dear friend, good Mr Goodricke, whose judgment I could well believe, did once for all satisfy me fully therein. Again, I heard you say, not long ago, that you may thank Sir John Cheke for all the learning you have : and I know very well myself that you did teach the Queen. And, therefore, seeing God did so bless you to make you the scholar of the best master, and also the school- master of the best scholar, that ever were in our time, surely you should please God, benefit your country, and honour your own name, if you would take the pains to impart to others what you learned of such a master, and how ye taught such a scholar. And in uttering the stuff ye received of the one, in declaring the order ye took with the other, ye shall never lack neither matter nor manner what to write, nor how to write in this kind of argu- ment. I, beginning some further excuse, suddenly was called to come to the Queen. The night following I slept little, my head was so full of this our former talk, and I so mindful somewhat to satisfy the honest request of so dear a friend, I thought to prepare some little treatise for a New-Year's gift at Christmas ; but as it chanceth to busy builders, so in building this my poor school- house (the rather because the form of it is somewhat new and ADDISON.J THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 45 differing from others) the work rose daily higher and wider than I thought it would at the beginning. And though it appear now, and be in very deed but a small cottage, poor for the stuff, and rude for the workmanship, yet in going forward, I found the site so good as I was loath to give it over, but the making so costly outreaching my ability, as many times I wished that some one of those three, my dear friends with full purses, Sir Thomas Smith, Mr Haddon, or Mr Watson, had had the doing of it. Yet, nevertheless, I myself spending gladly that little that I gat at home by good Sir John Cheke, and that that I borrowed abroad of my friend Sturmius, besides somewhat that was left me in reversion by my old masters Plato, Aristotle, and Cicero, I have at last patched it up as I could, and as you see. 98. SDjp IJjntttfam 0f A DREAM. ADDISON. IT is a celebrated thought of Socrates, that if all the misfor- tunes of mankind were cast into a public stock, in order to be equally distributed among the whole species, those who now think themselves the most unhappy, would prefer the share they are already possessed of, before that which would fall to them by such a division. Horace has carried this thought a great deal further, (Sat. i. 1. i, ver. i,) which implies, that the hardships or misfortunes we lie under are more easy to us than those of any other person would be, in case we could change conditions with him. As I was ruminating upon these two remarks, and seated in my elbow chair, I insensibly fell asleep ; when on a sudden me- thought there was a proclamation made by Jupiter, that every mortal should bring in his griefs and calamities, and throw them together in a heap. There was a plain appointed for this 46 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON. purpose. I took my stand in the centre of it, and saw, with a great deal of pleasure, the whole human species marching one after another, and throwing down their several loads, which im- mediately grew up into a prodigious mountain, that seemed to rise above the clouds. There was a certain lady of a thin airy shape, who was very active in this solemnity. She carried a magnifying glass in one of her hands, and was clothed in a loose flowing robe, embroidered with several figures of fiends and spectres, that discovered them- selves in a thousand chimerical shapes, as her garments hovered in the wind. There was something wild and distracted in her looks. Her name was Fancy. She led up every mortal to the appointed place, after having very officiously assisted him in making up his pack, and laying it upon his shoulders. My heart melted within me to see my fellow-creatures groaning under their respective burdens, and to consider that prodigious bulk of human calamities which lay before me. There were, however, several persons who gave me great diver- sion. Upon this occasion, I observed one bringing in a fardel, very carefully concealed under an old embroidered cloak, which, upon his throwing it into the heap, I discovered to be poverty. Another, after a great deal of puffing, threw down his luggage, which, upon examining, I found to be his wife. There were multitudes of lovers, saddled with very whimsical burdens, composed of darts and flames; but, what was very odd, though they sighed as if their hearts would break under these bundles of calamities, they could not persuade themselves to cast them into the heap when they came up to it; but, after a few vain efforts, shook their heads, and marched away as heavy laden as they came. I saw multitudes of old women throw down their wrinkles, and several young ones, who stripped themselves of a tawny skin. There were very great heaps of red noses, large lips, and rusty teeth. The truth of it is, I was surprised to see the greatest part of the mountain made up of bodily deformities. Observing one advancing towards the heap with a larger cargo than ordinary upon his back, I found, upon his near approach, ADDISON.] THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 47 that it was only a natural hump, which he disposed of with great joy of heart among this collection of human miseries. There were likewise distempers of all sorts; though I could not but observe, that there were many more imaginary than real. One little packet I could not but take notice of, which was a com- plication of all the diseases incident to human nature, and was in the hand of a great many fine people ; this was called the spleen. But what most of all surprised me, was a remark I made, that there was not a single vice or folly thrown into the whole heap ; at which I was very much astonished, having concluded within myself that every one would take this opportunity of getting rid of his passions, prejudices, and frailties. I took notice in particular of a very profligate fellow, who I did not question came loaden with his crimes ; but upon searching into his bundle, I found that, instead of throwing his guilt from him, he had only laid down his memory. He was followed by another worthless rogue, who flung away his modesty instead of his ignorance. When the whole race of mankind had thus cast their burdens, the phantom which had been so busy on this occasion, seeing me an idle spectator of what passed, approached towards me. I grew uneasy at her presence, when of a sudden she held her magnifying glass full before my eyes. I no sooner saw my face in it, but was startled at the shortness of it, which now appeared to me in its utmost aggravation. The immoderate breadth of the features made me very much out of humour with my own coun- tenance, upon which I threw it from me like a mask. It happened very luckily that one who stood by me had just before thrown down his visage, which it seems was too long for him. It was indeed extended to a most shameful length; I believe the very chin was, modestly speaking, as long as my whole face. We had both of us an opportunity of mending ourselves; and all the contributions being now brought in, every man was at liberty to exchange his misfortunes for those of another person. I saw with unspeakable pleasure the whole species thus de- livered from its sorrows ; though at the same time, as we stood 48 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ADDISON. round the heap, and surveyed the several materials of which it was composed, there was scarce a mortal in this vast multitude who did not discover what he thought pleasures and blessings of life, and wondered how the owners of them ever came to look upon them as burdens and grievances. As we were regarding very attentively this confusion of miseries, this chaos of calamity, Jupiter issued out a second proclamation, that every one was now at liberty to exchange his affliction, and to return to his habitation with any such bundle as should be allotted to him. Upon this Fancy began again to bestir herself, and, parcelling out the whole heap with incredible activity, recommended to every one his particular packet. The hurry and confusion at this time was not to be expressed. Some observations which I made upon the occasion, I shall communicate to the public. A venerable gray-headed man, who had laid down the cholic, and who, I found, wanted an heir to his estate, snatched up an undutiful son, who had been thrown into the heap by his angry father. The graceless youth, in less than a quarter of an hour, pulled the old gentleman by the beard, and had like to have knocked his brains out; so that, meeting the true father, who came towards him with a fit of the gripes, he begged him to take his son again, and give him back his cholic; but they were incapable either of them to recede from the choice they had made. A poor galley slave, who had thrown down his chains, took up the gout instead, but made such wry faces, that one might easily perceive he was no great gainer by the bargain. It was pleasant enough to see the several exchanges that were made, for sickness against poverty, hunger against want of appetite, and care against pain. The female world were very busy among themselves in bartering for features : one was trucking a lock of gray hairs for a carbuncle; another was making over a short waist for a pair of round shoulders ; and a third cheapening a bad face for a lost reputa- tion : but on all these occasions there was not one of them who did not think the new blemish, as soon as she got it into her pos- session, much more disagreeable than the old one. I made the ADDISON.] THE MOUNTAIN OF MISERIES. 49 same observation on every other misfortune or calamity which every one in the assembly brought upon himself in lieu of what he had parted with ; whether it be that all the evils which befall us are in some measure suited and proportioned to our strength, or that every evil becomes more supportable by our being accus- tomed to it, I shall not determine. I could not from my heart forbear pitying the poor hump- backed gentleman mentioned before, who went off a very well shaped person with a stone in his bladder ; nor the fine gentle- man who had struck up this bargain with him, that limped through a whole assembly of ladies, who used to admire him, with a pair of shoulders peeping over his head. I must not admit my own particular adventure. My friend with a long visage had no sooner taken upon him my short face, but he made such a grotesque figure in it, that as I looked upon him I could not forbear laughing at myself, insomuch that I put my own face out of countenance. The poor gentleman was so sensible of the ridicule, that I found he was ashamed of what he had done ; on the other side I found that I myself had no great reason to triumph, for as I went to touch my forehead, I missed the place, and clapped my finger upon my upper lip. Besides, as my nose was exceeding prominent, I gave it two or three un- lucky knocks, as I was playing my hand about my face, and aiming at some other part of it. I saw two other gentlemen by me, who were in the same ridiculous circumstances. These had made a foolish swap between a couple of thick bandy legs and two long trapsticks that had no calves to them. One of these looked like a man walking upon stilts, and was so lifted up into the air, above his ordinary height, that his head turned round with it ; while the other made such awkward circles, as he at- tempted to walk, that he scarcely knew how to move forward upon his new supporters. Observing him to be a pleasant kind of fellow, I stuck my cane in the ground, and told him I would lay him a bottle of wine that he did not march up to it on a line that I drew for him in a quarter of an hour. The heap was at last distributed among the two sexes, who VOL. II. D 50 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. QEREMY TAYLOR. made a most piteous sight as they wandered up and down under the pressure of their several burdens. The whole plain was filled with murmurs and complaints, groans and lamentations. Jupiter at length taking compassion on the poor mortals, ordered them a second time to lay down their loads, with a design to give every one his own again. They discharged themselves with a great deal of pleasure : after which, the phantom who had led them into such gross delusions, was commanded to disappear. There was sent in her stead a goddess of a quite different figure ; her motions were steady and composed, and her aspect serious but cheerful. She every now and then cast her eyes towards heaven, and fixed them upon Jupiter. Her name was Patience. She had no sooner placed herself by the mount of sorrows, but, what I thought very remarkable, the whole heap sunk to such a degree, that it did not appear a third part so big as it was before. She afterwards returned every man his own proper calamity, and teaching him how to bear it in the most commodious manner, he marched off with it contentedly, being very well pleased that he had not been left to his own choice as to the kind of evils which ' fell to his lot. Besides the several pieces of morality to be drawn out of this vision, I learned from it never to repine at my own misfortunes, or to envy the happiness of another, since it is impossible for any man to form a right judgment of his neighbour's sufferings ; for which reason also I have determined never to think too lightly of another's complaints, but to regard the sorrows of my fellow- creatures with sentiments of humanity and compassion. 99. JEREMY TAYLOR. MANY times good men pray, and their prayer is not a sin, but yet it returns empty ; because, although the man may be, yet the prayer is not, in proper disposition : and here I am to account JEREMY TAYLOR.] PR A YER. I to you concerning the collateral and accidental hindrances of the prayer of a good man. The first thing that hinders the prayer of a good man from obtaining its effects, is a violent anger and a violent storm in the spirit of him that prays. For anger sets the house on fire, and all the spirits are busy upon trouble, and intend propulsion, defence, displeasure, or revenge ; it is a short madness, and an eternal enemy to discourse, and sober counsels, and fair conver- sation ; it intends its own object with all the earnestness of per- ception, or activity of design, and a quicker motion of a too warm and distempered blood ; it is a fever in the heart, and a calenture in the head, and a fire in the face, and a sword in the hand, and a fury all over ; and therefore can never suffer a man to be in a disposition to pray. For prayer is an action, and a state of in- tercourse and desire, exactly contrary to this character of anger. Prayer is an action of likeness to the Holy Ghost, the spirit of gentleness and dovelike simplicity; an imitation of the holy Jesus, whose spirit is meek, up to the greatness of the biggest example ; and a conformity to God, whose anger is always just, and marches slowly, and is without transportation, and often hin- dered, and never hasty, and is full of mercy : prayer is the peace of our spirit, the stillness of our thoughts, the evenness of recol- lection, the seat of meditation, the rest of our cares, and the calm of our tempest ; prayer is the issue of a quiet mind, of untroubled thoughts, it is the daughter of charity, and the sister of meekness; and he that prays to God with an angry, that is, with a troubled and discomposed spirit, is like him that retires into a battle to meditate, and sets up his closet in the out-quarters of an army, and chooses a frontier garrison to be wise in. Anger is a perfect alienation of the mind from prayer, and therefore is contrary to that attention which presents our prayers in a right line to God. For so have I seen a lark rising from his bed of grass, and soar- ing upwards, singing as he rises, and hopes to get to heaven, and climb above the clouds ; but the poor bird was beaten back with the loud sighings of an eastern wind, and his motion made irregu- lar and inconstant, descending more at every breath of the tern- 52 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. QEREMY TAVLOR. pest than it could recover by the libration and frequent weighing of his wings ; till the little creature was forced to sit down and pant, and stay till the storm was over ; and then it made a pros- perous flight, and did rise and sing as if it had learned music and motion from an angel as he passed sometimes through the air about his ministries here below ; so is the prayer of a good man ; when his affairs have required business, and his business was matter of discipline, and his discipline was to pass upon a sinning person, or had a design of charity, his duty met with the infirmities of a man, and anger was its instrument, and the instrument became stronger than the prime agent, and raised a tempest, and overruled the man ; and then his prayer was broken, and his thoughts were troubled, and his words went up towards a cloud, and his thoughts pulled them back again, and made them without intention, and the good man sighs for his infirmity, but must be content to lose the prayer, and he must recover it when his anger is removed ; and his spirit is be- calmed, made even as the brow of Jesus, and smooth like the heart of God ; and then it ascends to heaven upon the wings of the holy dove, and dwells with God, till it returns, like the useful bee, loaden with a blessing and the dew of heaven. Indifferency and uneasiness of desire is a great enemy to the success of a good man's prayer. When Plato gave Diogenes a great vessel of wine, who asked but a little, and a few caraways, the cynic thanked him with his rude expression : " Thou neither answerest to the question thou art asked, nor givest according as thou art desired : being inquired of, how many are two and two 1 thou answerest, twenty." So it is with God and us in the inter- course of our prayers ; we pray for health and He gives us, it may be, a sickness that carries us into eternal life ; we pray for neces- sary support for our persons and families, and He gives us more than we need ; we beg for a removal of a present sadness, and He gives us that which makes us able to bear twenty sadnesses, a cheerful spirit, a peaceful conscience, and a joy in God, as an antepast of eternal rejoicings in the kingdom of God. But, then, although God doth very frequently give us great things beyond JEREMY TAYLOR.] PRAYER. 53 the matter of our desires, yet He does not so often give us great things beyond the spirit of our desires, beyond the quickness, vivacity, and fervour of our minds : for there is but one thing in the world that God hates, besides sin, that is, indifferency and lukewarmness ; which, although it hath not in it the direct nature of sin, yet it hath this testimony from God, that it is loathsome and abominable ; and excepting this thing alone, God never said so of anything in the New Testament, but what was a direct breach of a commandment. The reason of it is, because luke- warmness, or an indifferent spirit, is an undervaluing of God and of religion ; it is a separation of reason from affections, and a per- fect conviction of the understanding to the goodness of a duty, but a refusing to follow what we understand. For he that is luke- warm alway, understands the better way, and seldom pursues it ; he hath so much reason as is sufficient, but he will not obey it ; his will does not follow the dictate of his understanding, and therefore it is unnatural. St James, in his accounts concerning an effective prayer, not only requires that he be a just man who prays, but his prayer must be fervent ; " an effectual fervent prayer/' so our English reads it ; it must be an intent, zealous, busy, operative prayer ; for consider what a huge indecency it is, that a man should speak to God for a thing that he values not ; or that he should not value a thing, without which he cannot be happy ; or that he should spend his religion upon a trifle ', and if it be not a trifle, that he should not spend his affections upon it. If our prayers be for temporal things, I shall not need to stir up your affections to be passionate for their purchase ; we desire them greedily, we run after them intemperately, we are kept from them with huge impatience; and yet the things of religion and the spirit are the only things that ought to be desired vehemently, and pursued passionately, because God hath set such a value upon them, that they are the effects of His greatest loving-kindness ; they are the purchases of Christ's blood, and the effect of His con- tinual intercession, the fruits of His bloody sacrifice, and the gifts of His healing and saving mercy; the graces of God's Spirit, and the only instruments of felicity: and if we can have fondnesses for 54 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS. things indifferent or dangerous, our prayers upbraid our spirits when we beg coldly and tamely for those things for which we ought to die, which are more precious than the globes of kings and weightier than imperial sceptres, richer than the spoils of the sea or the treasures of the Indian hills. 100. jsisitrs of ANONYMOUS. [IN Mr Southey's " Sir Thomas More," the following account of the Beguines of Belgium, and the Sisters of Charity of France, is reprinted from the "London Medical Gazette," vol. i.] A few summers ago I passed through Flanders on my way to Germany, and at the hospital at Bruges saw some of the Beguines, and heard the physician, with whom I was intimate, speak in strong terms of their services; he said, "There are no such nurses." I saw them in the wards attending on the sick, and in the chapel of the hospital on their knees washing the floor. They were obviously a superior class of women, and the contrast was striking between these menial offices and the respectability of their dress and appearance ; but the Beguinage of Ghent is one of their principal establishments, and, spending a Sunday there, I went in the evening to vespers. It was twilight when I entered the chapel. It was dimly lighted by two or three tall tapers before the altar and a few candles at the remotest end of the building in the orchestra, but the body of the chapel was in deep gloom, filled from end to end with several hundreds of these nuns seated in rows, in their dark dresses and white cowls, silent and motionless, excepting now and then when one of them started up, and stretching out her arms in the attitude of the crucifixion, stood in that posture many minutes, then sank and disappeared among the crowd. The gloom of the chapel the long line of these unearthly-looking figures like so many corpses propped up in their grave-clothes the dead silence of the building, once only ANONYMOUS.] SISTJSKS Of CHARITY. 55 interrupted by a few voices in the distant orchestra chanting vespers, was one of the most striking sights I ever beheld. To some readers, the occasional attitude of the nuns may seem an absurd expression of fanaticism, but they are anything but fanatics. Whoever is accustomed to the manners of continental nations, knows that they employ grimace in everything. I much doubt whether, apart from the internal emotion of piety, the external expression of it is graceful in any one, save only in a little child in his night-shirt, on his knees, saying his evening prayer. The Beguinage, or residence of the Beguines at Ghent, is a little town of itself, adjoining the city, and enclosed from it. The transition from the crowded streets of Ghent to the silence and solitude of the Beguinage is very striking. The houses in which the Beguines reside are contiguous, each having its small garden, and on the door the name, not of the resident, but of the pro- tecting saint of the house ; these houses are ranged into streets. There is also the large church, which we visited, and a burial- ground, in which there are no monuments. There are upwards of six hundred of these nuns in the Beguinage of Ghent, and about six thousand in Brabant and Flanders. They receive sick persons into the Beguinage, and not only nurse but support them until they are recovered ; they also go out to nurse the sick. They are bound by no vow excepting to be chaste and obedient while they remain in the order; they have the power of quitting it and returning again into the world whenever they please, but this it is said they seldom or never do. They are most of them women unmarried, or widows past the middle of life. In 1244, a synod at Fritzlau decided that no Beguine should be younger than forty years of age. They generally dine together in the refectory; thair apartments are barely yet comfortably furnished, and, like all the habitations of Flanders, remarkably clean. About their origin and name little is known by the Beguines themselves, or is to be found in books. For the following particulars I am chiefly indebted to the " Histoire des Ordres Monastiques," (tome viii.) Some attribute both their origin and name to St Begghe, who 56 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [ANONYMOUS. lived in the seventh century; others to Lambert le Eegue, who lived about the end of the twelfth century. This latter saint is said to have founded two communities of them at Liege, one for women, in 1173, the other for men, in 1177. After his death they multiplied fast, and were introduced by St Louis to Paris, and other French cities. The plan flourished in France, and was adopted under other forms and names. In 1443, Nicholas Rollin, Chancellor to Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, founded a hospital at Beaune and brought six Beguines from Malines to attend upon it, and the hospital became so famed for the care of its patients, that the opulent people of the neighbourhood when sick were often removed to it, preferring its attendance to what they received at home. In one part of the hospital there was a large square court, bordered with galleries leading to apartments suitable to such patients; when they quitted the hospital the donations which they left were added to its funds. The Sceurs de la Charite' of France are another order of religious nurses, but different from the Beguines in being bound by monastic vows. They originated in a charity sermon, perhaps the most useful and extensive in its influence that ever was preached. Vincent de Paul, a celebrated missionary, preaching at Chatillon, in 1617, recommended a poor sick family of the neighbourhood to the care of his congregation. At the conclusion of the sermon a number of persons visited the sick family with bread, wine, meat, and other comforts. This led to the formation of a committee of charitable women, under the direction of Vincent de Paul, who went about relieving the sick poor of the neighbourhood, and met every month to give an account of their proceedings to their superior. Such was the origin of the celebrated order of the Sceurs de la Charite'. Wherever this missionary went he attempted to form similar establishments. From the country they spread to cities, and first to Paris, where, in 1629, they were established in the parish of St Saviour. And in 1625, a female devotee, named Le Gras, joined the order of the Sceurs de la Charite'. She was married young to M. Le Gras, one of whose family had founded a hospital at Puy, but becoming ANONYMOUS.] SfSTJSKS OF CHARITY. 57 a widow in 1625, in the thirty-fourth year of her age, she made a vow of celibacy, and dedicated the rest of her life to the service of the poor. In her Vincent de Paul found a great accession. Under his direction she took many journeys, visiting and inspecting the establishments which he had founded. She was commonly accom- panied by a few pious ladies. Many women of quality enrolled themselves in the order, but the superiors were assisted by inferior servants. The Hotel-Dieu was the first hospital in Paris where they exercised their vocation. This they visited every day, sup- plying the patients with comforts above what the hospital afforded, and administering, besides, religious consolation. By degrees they spread into all the provinces of France, and at length the Queen of Poland requested Mademoiselle Le Gras, for though a widow that was her title, to send her a supply of Sceurs de la Charite', who were thus established in Varsovia, in 1652. At length, after a long life spent in the service of charity and religion, Mademoiselle Le Gras died on the i$th of March 1660, nearly seventy years of age, and for a day and a half her body lay ex- posed to the gaze of the pious. A country clergyman, who spent several years in various parts of France, gives an account of the present state of the order, which, together with what I have gathered from other sources, is in substance as follows : It consists of women of all ranks, many of them of the higher orders. After a year's novitiate in the convent, they take a vow which binds them to the order for the rest of their lives. They have two objects, to attend the sick and to educate the poor; they are spread all over France, are the superior nurses at the hospitals, and are to be found in every town, and often even in villages. Go into the Paris hospitals at almost any hour of the day, and you will see one of these respect- able looking women, in her black gown and white hood, passing slowly from bed to bed, and stopping to inquire of some poor wretch what little comfort he is fancying will alleviate his suffer- ings. If a parochial cure wants assistance in the care of his flock, he applies to the order of Les Sceurs de la Charite. Two of them (for they generally go in couples) set out on their charitable 58 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [!ZAAK WALTON. mission: wherever they travel their dress protects them. "Even more enlightened persons than the common peasantry hail it as a happy omen when on a journey a Sceur de la Charite happens to travel with them, and even instances are recorded in which their presence has saved travellers from the attacks of robbers." During the Revolution they were rarely molested. They were the only religious order permitted openly to wear their dress and pursue their vocation. Government gives a hundred francs a year to each sister, besides her travelling expenses ; and if the parish where they go cannot maintain them, they are supported out of the funds of the order. In old age they retire to their convent, and spend the rest of their lives in educating the noviciates. Thus, like the vestal virgins of old, the first part of their life is spent in learning their duties, the second in practising them, and the last in teaching them. 101. C0titetmcni atttr IZAAK WALTON. [IzAAK WALTON, whose character as an author is known wherever English literature is cultivated, was born in 1593. " The Complete Angler" was the production of a haberdasher of Fleet Street, who was the friend of the truly eminent Dr Donne. Pursuing his business through many years of his blame- less life, his recreation was angling. His chief haunt was the river Lea. Of the old scenery and the old manners of a district within ten miles of London he has left the most delicious pictures the reflection of nature in the heart of a good man. Walton was the biographer of Hooker, Donne, Wotton, and Herbert. He left his business after the death of his wife in 1644; and lived till the age of ninety, in the quiet enjoyment of literary leisure, beloved and respected by the worthiest men of his time. ] I will, as we walk in the cool shade of this sweet honeysuckle hedge, mention to you some of the thoughts and joys which have possessed my soul since we two met together. And these thoughts shall be told you, that you also may join with me in thankfulness to the Giver of every good and perfect gift for our happiness. And that our present happiness may appear to be the greater, and IZAAK WALTON.] CONTENTMENT AND THANKFULNESS. 59 we the more thankful for it, I will beg you to consider with me how many do even at this very time lie under the torment of diseases that we are free from. And every misery that I miss is a new mercy; and therefore let us be thankful. There have been, since we met, others that have met disasters of broken limbs; some have been blasted, others thunder-stricken; and we have been freed from these, and all those other miseries that threaten human nature: let us therefore rejoice and be thankful. Nay, which is a far greater mercy, we are freed from the insupportable burthen of an accusing tormenting conscience; a misery that none can bear: and therefore let us praise Him for His preventing grace, and say, every misery that I miss is a new mercy. Nay, let me tell you, there be many that have forty times our estate, that would give the greatest part of it to be healthful and cheerful like us. I have a rich neighbour who is always so busy that he has no leisure to laugh : the whole business of his life is to get money, and more money, that he may still get more and more money; he is still drudging on, and says that Solomon says, "The diligent hand maketh rich;" and it is true indeed: but he considers not that it is not in the power of riches to make a man happy; for it was wisely said, by a man of great observation, " That there be as many miseries beyond riches as on this side them." And yet God deliver us from pinching poverty; and grant that, having a competency, we may be content and thankful. Let us not repine, or so much as think the gifts of God unequally dealt, if we see another abound with riches; when, as God knows, the cares that are the keys that keep those riches, hang often so heavily at the rich man's girdle, that they clog him with weary days and restless nights, even when others sleep quietly. We see but the outside of the rich man's happiness ; few consider him to be like the silkworm, that when she seems to play, is, at the very same time, spinning her own bowels, and consuming herself; and this many rich men do, loading themselves with corroding cares, to keep what they have, probably, unconscionably got. Let us therefore be thankful for health and a competence ; and, above all, for a quiet conscience. 60 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [!ZAAK WALTON. Let me tell you that Diogenes walked on a day, with his friend, to see a country fair ; where he saw ribbons and looking-glasses, and nut-crackers, and fiddles, and hobby-horses, and many other gimcracks ; and having observed them, and all the other finnim- bruns that made a complete country fair, he said to his friend, " Lord, how many things are there in this world of which Dio- genes hath no need !" And truly is it so, or might be so, with very many who vex and toil themselves to get what they have no need of. Can any man charge God, that He hath not given him enough to make his life happy 1 ? No, doubtless; for nature is content with a little. And yet you shall hardly meet with a man that complains not of some want ; though he, indeed, wants no- thing but his will ; it may be, nothing but his will of his poor neighbour, for not worshipping or not flattering him; and thus, when we might be happy and quiet, we create trouble to ourselves. I have heard of a man who was angry with himself because he was no taller ; and of a woman that broke her looking-glass be- cause it would not show her face to be as young and handsome as her next neighbour's was. And I know another to whom God hath given health and plenty ; but a wife that nature hath made peevish, and her husband's riches had made purse-proud ; and must, because she was rich, and for no other virtue, sit in the highest pew in the church ; which being denied her, she engaged her husband into a contention for it, and at last into a law-suit with a dogged neighbour who was as rich as he, and had a wife as peevish and purse-proud as the other : and this law-suit begot higher oppositions, and actionable words, and more vexations and law-suits ; for you must remember that both were rich, and must therefore have their will. Well ! this wilful purse-proud law-suit lasted during the life of the first husband ; after which his wife vexed and chid, and chid and vexed, till she also chid and vexed herself into her grave ; and so the wealth of these poor rich peo- ple was curst into a punishment, because they wanted meek and thankful hearts ; for those only can make us happy. I know a man that had health and riches ; and several houses, all beautiful and ready furnished ; and would often trouble himself and family IZAAK WALTON.] CONTENTMENT AND THANKFULNESS. 6 1 to be removing from one house to another : and being asked by a friend why he removed so often from one house to another, re- plied, " It was to find content in some one of them." But his friend, knowing his temper, told him, if he would find content in any of his houses, he must leave himself behind him ; for content will never dwell but in a meek and quiet soul. And this may appear if we read and consider what our Saviour says in St Mat- thew's Gospel ; for He there says, " Blessed be the merciful, for they shall obtain mercy. Blessed be the pure of heart, for they shall see God. Blessed be the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. And blessed be the meek, for they shall possess the earth." Not that the meek shall not also obtain mercy, and see God, and be comforted, and at last come to the kingdom of heaven; but in the meantime, he, and he only, pos- sesses the earth, as he goes towards that kingdom of heaven, by being humble and cheerful, and content, with what his good God has allotted him. He has no turbulent, repining, vexatious thoughts that he deserves better ; nor is vexed when he sees others possessed of more honour or more riches than his wise God has allotted for his share : but he possesses what he has with a meek and contented quietness, such a quietness as makes his very dreams pleasing, both to God and himself. Let not the blessings we receive daily from God make us not to value, or not praise Him, because they be common ; let us not forget to praise Him for the innocent mirth and pleasure we have met with since we met together. What would a blind man give to see the pleasant rivers, and meadows, and flowers, and foun- tains, that we have met with since we met together? I have been told, that if a man that was born blind could obtain to have his sight for but only one hour during his whole life, and should, at the first opening of his eyes, fix his sight upon the sun when it was in full glory, either at the rising or setting of it, he would be so transported and amazed, and would so admire the glory of it, that he would not willingly turn his eyes from that first ravishing object, to behold all the other various beauties this world could present to him. And this, and many other like blessings, we. 62 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DAW. enjoy daily. And for most of them, because they be so common, most men forget to pay their praise, but let not us; because it is a sacrifice so pleasing to Him that made that sun and us, and still protects us, and gives us flowers, and showers, and stomachs, and meat, and content, and leisure to go a-fishing. My meaning was, and is, to plant that in your mind with which I labour to possess my own soul; that is, a meek and thankful heart. And to that end I have showed you, that riches without them (meekness and thankfulness) do not make any man happy. But let me tell you that riches with them remove many fears and cares. And therefore my advice is, that you endeavour to be honestly rich or contentedly poor ; but be sure that your riches be justly got or you spoil all. For it is well said, " He that loses his conscience has nothing left that is worth keeping." There- fore be sure you look to that. And in the next place look to your health : and if you have it, praise God, and value it next to a good conscience; for health is the second blessing that we mortals are capable of; a blessing that money cannot buy; and therefore value it and be thankful for it. As for money, (which may be said to be the third blessing,) neglect it not: but note, that there is no necessity of being rich ; for I told you, there be as many miseries beyond riches as on this side them : and if you have a competence, enjoy it with a meek, cheerful, thankful heart. I will tell you, Scholar, I have heard a grave divine say, that God has two dwellings ; one in heaven, and the other in a meek and thankful heart; which Almighty God grant to me, and to my honest Scholar 1 102, 103. C feat axuab at DAVY. [IN 1787 were published two octavo volumes, entitled "Letters addressed chiefly to a Young Gentleman upon the Subject of Literature," by the Rev. Charles Davy. In these letters there is nothing very remarkable, with the exception of a most graphic account of the earthquake at Lisbon, in 1755. We remember that our attention was first called to the book by a passage in DAVY.] THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE AT LISBON. some one of Mr De Quincey's writings, in which he exclaims " Oh, that I could describe like Davy ! " It is held, however, that Davy did not write this description, but that it was given to him by an English merchant, who was residing at Lisbon at the time of the event he narrates. In some books of extract this narrative is much curtailed ; we prefer to give it entire, dividing it into two Half-hours.] There never was a finer morning seen than the ist of November; the sun shone out in its full lustre ; the whole face of the sky was perfectly serene and clear ; and not the least signal or warning of that approaching event, which has made this once flourishing, opulent, and populous city a scene of the utmost horror and desolation, except only such as served to alarm, but scarcely left a moment's time to fly from the general destruction. It was on the morning of this fatal day, between the hours of nine and ten, that I was set down in my apartment, just finishing a letter, when the papers and table I was writing on began to tremble with a gentle motion, which rather surprised me, as I could not perceive a breath of wind stirring. Whilst I was reflect- ing with myself what this could be owing to, but without having the least apprehension of the real cause, the whole house began to shake from the very foundation, which at first I imputed to the 04 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. PAVY. rattling of several coaches in the main street, which usually passed that way, at this time, from Belem to the palace ; but on hearken- ing more attentively, I was soon undeceived, as I found it was owing to a strange frightful kind of noise under ground, resem- bling the hollow distant rumbling of thunder. All this passed in less than a minute, and I confess I now began to be alarmed, as it naturally occurred to me that this noise might possibly be the forerunner of an earthquake, as one I remembered, which had happened about six or seven years ago, in the island of Madeira, commenced in the same manner, though it did little or no damage. Upon this I threw down my pen, and started upon my feet, remaining a moment in suspense whether I should stay in the apartment or run into the street, as the danger in both places seemed equal ; and still flattering myself that this tremor might produce no other effects than such inconsiderable ones as had been felt at Madeira ; but in a moment I was roused from my dream, being instantly stunned with a most horrid crash, as if every edifice in the city had tumbled down at once. The house I was in shook with such violence, that the upper stories immedi- ately fell, and though my apartment (which was the first floor) did not then share the same fate, yet everything was thrown out of its place, in such a manner that it was with no small difficulty I kept my feet, and expected nothing less than to be soon crushed to death, as the walls continued rocking to and fro in the fright- fullest manner, opening in several places; large stones falling down on every side from the cracks, and the ends of most of the rafters starting out from the roof. To add to this terrifying scene, the sky in a moment became so gloomy that I could now distin- guish no particular object; it was an Egyptian darkness indeed, such as might be felt ; owing, no doubt, to the prodigious clouds of dust and lime raised from so violent a concussion, and, as some reported, to sulphureous exhalations, but this I cannot affirm ; however, it is certain I found myself almost choked for near ten minutes. As soon as the gloom began to disperse, and the violence of DAVY.] THE GREA T EAR THQUAKE A T LISBON. 65 the shock seemed pretty much abated, the first object I perceived in the room was a woman sitting on the floor with an infant in her arms, all covered with dust, pale and trembling. I asked her how she got hither, but her consternation was so great she could give me no account of her escape. I suppose that when the tremor first began, she ran out of her own house, and finding her- self in such imminent danger from the falling stones, retired into the door of mine, which was almost contiguous to hers, for shelter, and when the shock increased, which filled the door with dust and rubbish, ran upstairs into my apartment, which was then open ; be it as it might, this was no time for curiosity. I remember the poor creature asked me, in the utmost agony, if I did not think the world was at an end; at the same time she complained of being choked, and begged, for God's sake, I would procure her a little drink. Upon this I went to a closet where I kept a large jar of water, (which you know is sometimes a pretty scarce commodity in Lisbon,) but finding it broken in pieces, I told her she must not now think of quenching her thirst, but saving her life, as the house was just falling on our heads, and if a second shock came, would certainly bury us both. I bade her take hold of my arm, and that I would endeavour to bring her into some place of se- curity. I shall always look upon it as a particular providence that I happened on this occasion to be undressed ; for had I dressed myself as proposed when I got out of bed, in order to breakfast with a friend, I should, in all probability, have run into the street at the beginning of the shock, as the rest of the people in the house did, and, consequently, have had my brains dashed out, as every one of them had. However, the imminent danger I was in did not hinder me from considering that my present dress, only a gown and slippers, would render my getting over the ruins almost impracticable : I had, therefore, still presence of mind enough left to put on a pair of shoes and a coat, the first that came in my way, which was everything I saved, and in this dress I hurried down-stairs, the woman with me, holding by my arm, and made directly to that end of the street which opens to the VOL. II. E 66 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DAVY. Tagus. Finding the passage this way entirely blocked up with the fallen houses to the height of their second stories, I turned back to the other end, which led into the main street, (the com- mon thoroughfare to the palace,) having helped the woman over a vast heap of ruins, with no small hazard to my own life. Just as we were going into this street, as there was one part I could not well climb over without the assistance of my hands as well as feet, I desired her to let go her hold, which she did, remaining two or three feet behind me, at which instant there fell a vast stone from a tottering wall, and crushed both her and the child in pieces. So dismal a spectacle at any other time would have affected me in the highest degree ; but the dread I was in of sharing the same fate myself, and the many instances of the same kind which presented themselves all around, were too shocking to make me dwell a moment on this single object. I had now a long narrow street to pass, with the houses on each side four or five stories high, all very old, the greater part already thrown down, or continually falling, and threatening the passengers with inevitable death at every step, numbers of whom lay killed before me. or what I thought far more deplorable so bruised and wounded that they could not stir to help themselves. For my own part, as destruction appeared to me unavoidable, I only wished I might be made an end of at once, and not have my limbs broken, in which case I could expect nothing else but to be left upon the spot, lingering in misery, like these poor un- happy wretches, without receiving the least succour from any person. As self-preservation, however, is the first law of nature, these sad thoughts did not so far prevail as to make me totally despair. I proceeded on as fast as I conveniently could, though with the utmost caution ; and having at length got clear of this horrid pas- sage, I found myself safe and unhurt in the large open space be- fore St Paul's church, which had been thrown down a few minutes before, and buried a great part of the congregation, that was gene- rally pretty numerous, this being reckoned one of the most popu- lous parishes in Lisbon. Here I stood some time considering. DAVY.] THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE AT LISBON. 67 what I should do, and, not thinking myself safe in this situation, I came to the resolution of climbing over the ruins of the west end of the church, in order to get to the river's side, that I might be removed as far as possible from the tottering houses, in case of a second shock. This, with some difficulty, I accomplished ; and here I found a prodigious concourse of people of both sexes, and of all ranks and conditions, among whom I observed some of the principal canons of the patriarchal church, in their purple robes and rochets, as these all go in the habit of bishops ; several priests who had run from the altars in their sacerdotal vestments in the midst of their celebrating mass ; ladies half dressed, and some without shoes : all these, whom their mutual dangers had here assembled as to a place of safety, were on their knees at prayers, with the terrors of death in their countenances, every one striking his breast and crying out incessantly, Miserecordia, men Dios I Amidst this crowd I could not avoid taking notice of an old venerable priest, in a stole and surplice, who, I apprehend, had escaped from St Paul's. He was continually moving to and fro among the people, exhorting them to repentance, and endeavour- ing to comfort them. He told them, with a flood of tears, that God was grievously provoked at their sins, but that if they would call upon the blessed Virgin, she would intercede for them. Every one now flocked around him, earnestly begging his bene- diction, and happy did that man think himself who could get near enough to touch the hem of his garment ; several I observed had little wooden crucifixes and images of saints in their hands, which they offered me to kiss, and one poor Irishman, I re- member, held out a St Antonio to me for the same purpose, and when I gently put his arm aside, as giving him to understand that I desired to be excused this piece of devotion, he asked me with some indignation, whether I thought there was a God. I verily believe many of the poor bigoted creatures who saved these use- less pieces of wood, left their children to perish. However, you must not imagine that I have now the least inclination to mock at their superstitions. I sincerely pity them, and must own that 68 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DAVY. a more affecting spectacle was never seen. Their tears, their bitter sighs and lamentations, would have touched the most flinty heart. I knelt down amongst them, and prayed as fervently as the rest, though to a much properer object, the only Being who could hear my prayers to afford me any succour. In the midst of our devotions, the second great shock came on, little less violent than the first, and completed the ruin of those buildings which had been already much shattered. The consternation now became so universal, that the shrieks and cries of Miserecordia could be distinctly heard from the top of St Catherine's Hill, at a considerable distance off, whither a vast number of people had likewise retreated ; at the same time we could hear the fall of the parish church there, whereby many persons were killed on the spot, and others mortally wounded, You may judge of the force of this shock, when I inform you it was so violent that I could scarcely keep on my knees ; but it was attended with some circumstances still more dreadful than the former. On a sudden I heard a general outcry, " The sea is coming in, we shall be all lost!" Upon this, turning my eyes towards the river, which in that place is near four miles broad, I could perceive it heaving and swelling in a most unaccountable manner, as no wind was stirring. In an instant there appeared, at some distance, a large body of water, rising as it were like a mountain. It came on foaming and roaring, and rushed towards the shore with such impetuosity, that we all immediately ran for our lives as fast as possible ; many were actually swept away, and the rest above their waist in water at a good distance from the banks. For my own part, I had the narrowest escape, and should certainly have been lost, had I not grasped a large beam that lay on the ground, till the water returned to its channel, which it did almost at the same instant, with equal rapidity. As there now appeared at least as much danger from the sea as the land, and I scarce knew whither to retire for shelter, I took a sudden resolution of returning back, with my clothes all dripping, to the area of St Paul's. Here I stood some time, and observed the ships tumbling and tossing about as in a violent storm j some* DAVY.] THE GREA T EAR THQ UAKE A T LISBON 69 had broken their cables, and were carried to the other side of the Tagus ; others were whirled round with incredible swiftness ; several large boats were turned keel upwards ; and all this with- out any wind, which seemed the more astonishing. It was at the time of which I am now speaking, that the fine new quay, built entirely of rough marble, at an immense expense, was entirely swallowed up, with all the people on it who had fled thither for safety, and had reason to think themselves out of danger in such a place : at the same time, a great number of boats and small vessels, anchored near it, (all likewise full of people, who had retired thither for the same purpose,) were all swallowed up, as in a whirlpool, and never more appeared. This last dreadful incident I did not see with my own eyes, as it passed three or four stones' throw from the spot where I then was, but I had the account as here given from several masters of ships, who were anchored within two or three hundred yards of the quay, and saw the whole catastrophe. One of them in parti- cular informed me, that when the second shock came on, he could perceive the whole city waving backwards and forwards, like the sea when the wind first begins to rise ; that the agitation of the earth was so great, even under the river, that it threw up his large anchor from the moorings, which swam, as he termed it, on the surface of the water ; that immediately upon this extra- ordinary concussion, the river rose at once near twenty feet, and in a moment subsided ; at which instant he saw the quay, with the whole concourse of people upon it, sink down, and at the same time every one of the boats and vessels that were near it were drawn into the cavity, which he supposes instantly closed upon them, inasmuch as not the least sign of a wreck was ever seen afterwards. This account you may give full credit to, for as to the loss of the vessels, it is confirmed by everybody ; and with regard to the quay, I went myself a few days after to con- vince myself of the truth, and could not find even the ruins of a place where I had taken so many agreeable walks, as this was the common rendezvous of the factory in the cool of the evening. I found it all deep water, and in some parts scarcely to be fathomed. 70 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. PAW. This is the only place I could learn which was swallowed up in or about Lisbon, though I saw many large cracks and fissures in different parts ; and one odd phenomenon I must not omit, which was communicated to me by a friend, who has a house and wine-cellars on the other side the river, viz., that the dwelling- house being first terribly shaken, which made all the family run out, there presently fell down a vast high rock near it ; that upon this the river rose and subsided in the manner already mentioned, and immediately a great number of small fissures appeared in several contiguous pieces of ground, from whence there spouted out, like a jet d'eau, a large quantity of fine white sand, to a pro- digious height. It is not to be doubted the bowels of the earth must have been excessively agitated to cause these surprising effects ; but whether the shocks were owing to any sudden explo- sion of various minerals mixing together, or to air pent up, and struggling for vent, or to a collection of subterraneous waters forcing a passage, God only knows. As to the fiery eruptions then talked of, I believe they are without foundation, though it is certain I heard several complaining of strong sulphureous smells, a dizziness in their heads, a sickness in their stomachs, and diffi- culty of respiration ; not that I felt any such symptoms myself. I had not been long in the area of St Paul's, when I felt the third shock, which though somewhat less violent than the two former, the sea rushed in again, and retired with the same rapidity, and I remained up to my knees in water, though I had gotten upon a small eminence at some distance from the river, with the ruins of several intervening houses to break its force. At this time I took notice the waters retired so impetuously, that some vessels were left quite dry which rode in seven fathom water ; the river thus continued alternately rushing on and retiring several times together, in such sort, that it was justly dreaded Lisbon would now meet the same fate which a few years before had befallen the city of Lima ; and no doubt had this place lain open to the sea, and the force of the waves not been somewhat broken by the DAVY.] THE GREA T EAR THQUAKE A T LISBON. 71 winding of the bay, the lower parts of it at least would have been totally destroyed. The master of a vessel, which arrived here just after the ist of November, assured me, that he felt the shock above forty leagues at sea so sensibly, that he really concluded he had struck upon a rock, till he threw out the lead, and could find no bottom, nor could he possibly guess at the cause, till the melancholy sight of this desolate city left him no room to doubt of it. The first two shocks, in fine, were so violent, that several pilots were of opinion the situation of the bar, at the mouth of the Tagus, was changed. Certain it is, that one vessel, attempting to pass through the usual channel, foundered, and another struck on the sands, and was at first given over for lost, but at length got through. There was another great shock after this, which pretty much affected the river, but I think not so violently as the preceding, though several persons assured me, that as they were riding on horseback in the great road leading to Belem, one side of which lies open to the river, the waves rushed in with so much rapidity, that they were obliged to gallop as fast as possible to the upper grounds, for fear of being carried away. I was now in such a situation, that I knew not which way to turn myself; if I remained there, I was in danger from the sea; if I retired farther from the shore, the houses threatened certain destruction; and, at last, I resolved to go to the Mint, which, being a low and very strong building, had received no consider- ' able damage, except in some of the apartments towards the river. The party of soldiers, which is every day set there on guard, had all deserted the place, and the only person that remained was the commanding officer, a nobleman's son, of about seventeen or eighteen years of age, whom I found standing at the gate. As there was still a continued tremor of the earth, and the place where we now stood (being within twenty or thirty feet of the opposite houses, which were all tottering) appeared too dangerous, the court-yard likewise being full of water, we both retired inward to a hillock of stones and rubbish : here I entered into conversa- tion with him, and having expressed my admiration that one so 72 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. J.DAVY; young should have the courage to keep his post, when every one of his soldiers had deserted theirs, the answer he made was, though he were sure the earth would open and swallow him up, he scorned to think of flying from his post. In short, it was owing to the magnanimity of this young man, that the Mint, which at this time had upwards of two millions of money in it, was not robbed ; and indeed I do him no more than justice, in saying, that I never saw any one behave with equal serenity and com- posure, on occasions much less dreadful than the present. I believe I might remain in conversation with him near five hours ; and though I was now grown faint from the constant fatigue I had undergone, and having not yet broken my fast, yet this had not so much effect upon me as the anxiety I was under for a particular friend, with whom I was to have dined that day, and who, lodging at the top of a very high house in the heart of the city, and being a stranger to the language, could not but be in the utmost danger; my concern, therefore, for his preservation, made me determine, at all events, to go and see what was become of him, upon which I took my leave of the officer. As I thought it would be the height of rashness to venture back through the same narrow street I had so providentially escaped from, I judged it safest to return over the ruins of St Paul's to the river side, as the water now seemed little agitated. From hence I proceeded, with some hazard, to the large space before the Irish convent of Corpo Santo, which had been thrown down, and buried a great number of people who were hearing mass, besides some of the friars; the rest of the community were stand- ing in the area, looking, with dejected countenances, towards the ruins : from this place I took my way to the back street leading to the palace, leaving the ship-yard on one side, but found the farther passage, opening into the principal street, stopped up by the ruins of the Opera House, one of the solidest and most magnificent buildings of the kind in Europe, and just finished at a prodigious expense ; a vast heap of stones, each of several tons' weight, had entirely blocked up the front of Mr Bristow's house, which was opposite to it, and Mr Ward, his partner, told me the DAW.] THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE AT LISBON. 73 next day, that he was just that instant going out at the door, and had actually set one foot over the threshold, when the west end of the Opera House fell down, and had he not in a moment started back, he should have been crushed into a thousand pieces. From hence I turned back, and attempted getting by the other way into the great square of the palace, twice as large as Lincoln' s Inn Fields, one side of which had been taken up by the noble quay I spoke of, now no more; but this passage was likewise obstructed by the stones fallen from the great arched gateway : I could not help taking particular notice, that all the apartments wherein the royal family used to reside, were thrown down, and themselves, without some extraordinary miracle, must unavoid- ably have perished, had they been there at the time of the shock. Finding this passage impracticable, I turned to the other arched way which led to the new square of the palace, not the eighth part so spacious as the other, one side of which was taken up by the Patriarchal Church, which also served for the Chapel Royal, and the other by a most magnificent building of modern architecture, probably indeed by far the most so, not yet completely finished; as to the former, the roof and part of the front walls were thrown down, and the latter, notwithstanding their solidity, had been so shaken, that several large stones fell from the top, and every part seemed disjointed. The square was full of coaches, chaises, horses, and mules, deserted by their drivers and attendants, as well as their owners. The nobility, gentry, and clergy, who were assisting at divine service when the earthquake began, fled away with the utmost precipitation, every one where his fears carried him, leaving the splendid apparatus of the numerous altars to the mercy of the first comer; but this did not so much affect me as the distress of the poor animals, who seemed sensible of their hard fate ; some few were killed, others wounded, but the greater part, which had received no hurt, were left there to starve. From this square, the way led to my friend's lodgings, through a long, steep, and narrow street; the new scenes of horror I met 74 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DAVY. with here exceed all description; nothing could be heard but sighs and groans ; I did not meet with a soul in the passage who was not bewailing the death of his nearest relations and dearest friends, or the loss of all his substance ; I could hardly take a single step, without treading on the dead or the dying : in some places lay coaches, with their masters, horses, and riders, almost crushed in pieces; here mothers with infants in their arms; there ladies richly dressed, priests, friars, gentlemen, mechanics, either in the same condition, or just expiring : some had their backs or thighs broken, others vast stones on their breasts; some lay almost buried in the rubbish, and crying but in vain to the pas- sengers for succour, were left to perish with the rest. At length I arrived at the spot opposite to the house where my friend, for whom I was so anxious, resided ; and finding this as well as the contiguous buildings thrown down, (which made me give him over for lost,) I now thought of nothing but saving my own life in the best manner I could, and in less than hour got to a public-house, kept by one Morley, near the English burying- ground, about half-a-mile from the city, where I still remain, with a great number of our countrymen, as well as Portuguese, in the same wretched circumstances, having almost ever since lain on the ground, and never once within doors, with scarcely any cover- ing to defend me from the inclemency of the night air, which, at this time, is exceedingly sharp and piercing. Perhaps you may think the present doleful subject here con- cluded; but, alas! the horrors of the ist of November are suffi- cient to fill a volume. As soon as it grew dark, another scene presented itself, little less shocking than those already described; the whole city appeared in a blaze, which was so bright that I could easily see to read by it. It may be said, without exagger- ation, it was on fire at least in a hundred different places at once, and thus continued burning for six days together, without inter- mission, or the least attempt being made to stop its progress. It went on consuming everything the earthquake had spared, and the people were so dejected and terrified, that few or none had courage enough to venture down to save any part of their DAVY.] THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE AT LISBON. 75 substance ; every one had his eyes turned towards the flames, and stood looking on with silent grief, which was only interrupted by the cries and shrieks of women and children calling on the saints and angels for succour, whenever the earth began to tremble, which was so often this night, and indeed I may say ever since, that the tremors, more or less, did not cease for a quarter of an hour together. I could never learn that this terrible fire was owing to any subterraneous eruption, as some reported, but to three causes, which all concurring at the same time, will naturally account for the prodigious havoc it made. The ist of November being All Saints' Day, a high festival among the Portuguese, every altar in every church and chapel (some of which have more than twenty) was illuminated with a number of wax tapers and lamps as customary; these setting fire to the curtains and timber- work that fell with the shock, the conflagration soon spread to the neighbouring houses, and being there joined with the fires in the kitchen chimneys, increased to such a degree, that it might easily have destroyed the whole city, though no other cause had con- curred, especially as it met with no interruption. But what would appear incredible to you, were the fact less public and notorious, is, that a gang of hardened villains, who had been confined, and got out of prison when the wall fell at the first shock, were busily employed in setting fire to those buildings which stood some chance of escaping the general destruction. I cannot conceive what could have induced them to this hellish work, except to add to the horror and confusion, that they might, by this means, have the better opportunity of plundering with security. But there was no necessity for taking this trouble, as they might certainly have done their business without it, since the whole city was so deserted before night, that I believe not a soul remained in it, except those execrable villains, and others of the same stamp. It is possible some among them might have had other motives besides robbing, as one in particular being apprehended, (they say he was a Moor, condemned to the galleys,) confessed at the gallows, that he had set fire to the king's palace with his own hand ; at the same time glorying in the ac- 76 HALF-HOURS WITH THE BEST AUTHORS. [DAW. tion, and declaring, with his last breath, that he hoped to have burned all the royal family. It is likewise generally believed that Mr Bristow's house, which was an exceeding strong edifice, built on vast stone arches, and had stood the shocks without any great damage, further than what I have mentioned, was consumed in the same manner. The fire, in short, by some means or other, may be said to have destroyed the whole city, at least everything that was grand or valuable in it With regard to the buildings, it was observed that the solidest in general fell the first. Every parish church, convent, nunnery } palace, and public edifice, with an infinite number of private houses, were either thrown down, or so miserably shattered that it was rendered dangerous to pass by them. The whole number of persons that perished, including those who were burned, or afterwards crushed to death whilst digging in the ruins, is supposed, on the lowest calculation, to amount to more than sixty thousand ; and though the damage in other re- spects cannot be computed, yet you may form some idea of it, when I assure you that this extensive and opulent city is now nothing but a vast heap of ruins ; that the rich and poor are at present upon a level ; some thousands of families which but the day before had been easy in their circumstances, being now scat- tered about in the fields, wanting every conveniency of life, and finding none able to relieve them. A few days after the first consternation was over, I ventured down into the city by the safest ways I could pick out, to see it there was a possibility of getting anything out of my lodgings ; but the ruins were now so augmented by the late fire, that I was so far from being able to distinguish the individual spot where the house stood, that I could not even distinguish the street amongst such mountains of stones and rubbish which rose on every side. Some days after I ventured down again with several porters, who, having long plied in these parts of the town were well acquainted with the situation of particular houses ; by their assistance I at last discovered the spot ; but was soon convinced to dig for any- thing here, besides the danger of such an attempt, would never DAVY.] THE GREAT EARTHQUAKE AT LISBON-.