THE LIBRARY OF THE UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA I ALUMNUS BOOK FUND yi Digitized by the Internet Archive in 2008 with funding from IVIicrosoft Corporation http://www.archive.org/details/GontemplatistserOOmudfrich THE ^ CONTEMPLATIST; lliC SERIES OF ESSAYS UPON iWoralfli mn literature. BY WILLIAM MUDFORD, AUTHOR OF NUBILIA, &c. &c. Neque, te ut miretur turba^ labores, Contentus paucis lectoribus, Horace. LONDON: PUBLISHED BY SHERWOOD, NEELY, 5c JONES, paternoster.ro W. ISIO. LOAN STACIC ?^cjuire and Warwick, Printers, FurmvalVInn Court, London. ADVERTISEMENT. T^HE ESSAYS of which the followuig Volume is composed, were originally published in weekly numbers. How far they might have ex- tended, had their success and popularity been equal to the author's wishes, I am not exactly able to say. They might have been more, or they might have been as few as they now are. Many years have elapsed since any successful at- tempt has been made to add one more to our Essay- ists ; to that body of familiar morals, of innoxious gaiety, and of literary disquisition, for which we are justly celebrated among foreign nations. Adven- turers, indeed, have not been wanting ; but they wanted talents : and I hope it will be considered as no very daring presumption in me to suppose my- self equal to those who have failed. If I be not found superior, I must silently take my station with them : but that is a decree yet unpublished. What my aim is, let me candidly avow. I would endeavour to add one more production to what is already numerous, but not so numerous as to pre- clude addition, or to forbid hope. I will not, there- fore, say that I despair of success : if I did, 1 would not make the attempt. I commenced my under- taking with a mixture of confitlence and of timidity : with confidence in that final equity of public opi- nion, which, however milled by popularity and fashion, never ultimately denies the meed to merit, or gives it to demerit ; and with that timidity which the highest powers of the human mind might not blush to feel, when they address themselves to a competition with such names as Addison and Johnson. London f Nov. 9, 1810. CONTENTS. No. I. Introductory Address 4,, Page 1 No. II. The Hill of Literature and the Temple of the Essayists, an Allegory l7 No. III. Vindication of Authors by profession 33 No. IV. The Narrative of Julra 49 No. V. The Narrative of Julia continued 65 No. VI. Critical Examination of the styles of Addison, Johnson, and Goldsmith 81 No. VII. Critical Examination of Milton's Samson Agonistes 97 No. VIII; Or> the Iniquity of Cruelty to Animals; some Considerations on Lord Erskine's Bill 113 No. IX. The Narrative of Julia continued by her Friend 129 No. X. Analysis of the Tragedy of Sir Walter Raleigh, by Sewell 145 No. XI. The Narrative of Julia concluded 161 No. XII. The Enormity of Adultery— Seduction, whether a greater crime ? 177 No. XIII. The Dignity of the Human Mind— the Basis of all Man's Superiority , 193 No. XIV. Critical Examination of the Poems and Ge- nius of H. K. White 209 No. XV. The same Subject continued 225 No. XVI. The same Subject concluded .241 No. XVII. Matrimonial Infelicity J its probable Causes suted 257 No. XVIIi. The Evils of Suspicion, illustrated by a Narrative , 273 No. XIX. Considerations on the Utility of the Learned Languages 289 No. XX. Account of John Wilde, Esq 305 No. XXI. The Difficulty and Importance of Self- Knowledge 321 Ct)e Contemplatist No. I. SATURDAY, JUNE 9, 1810. Itic est, aut nusquam, quod qucerimus. Horace. nPHE stores of learning and the gaiety of humour, the sprightliness of wit, and the sententious gravity of wisdom, have al- ready been displayed in the form of periodic cal essays, under various appellations. But their destiny has been various. Some, have risen to a proud height of reputation : others, have blossomed only to fade : some, still com- mand delight and admiration : others, exist but in faint applause : they have gained no illustrious name : they have created no em- A pire 2 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. I. pire in the tongues of men. Yet, they may claim the unambitious merit of contributing to amusement by harmless gaiety, of amend- ing the mind by moral truths humbly ex- pressed, and of sometimes rectifying the taste by the communication of familiar knowledge. The voice of posterity, however, has pro- nounced their sentence: their post has been assigned tliem ; their rank has been declared ; and from that decision there is no appeal. Yet, can it be doubted that the career of each was begun with equal expectations of success ; with equal hopes of receiving adu- latory distinction from contemporary grati- tude; and with an equally ardent anticipation of delighting and instructing succeeding gene- rations, when their authors would be alike insensible to censure and to praise — ^to pre- eminence and neglect — to glory and to shame? The glorious visions of imperishable fame flitted before their fancies, and soothed their labours: the present was absorbed in the fu- ture, and they solaced themselves with the belief, that after ages would be eager to com- memorate No. I. THE CONTEMPLATIST. S memorate their learning and their genius. — How these flattering hopes have been answered affords a useful lesson to mankind. It teaches us, that though the illusions of pride, the con- fidence of vanity, or the venial partiality of friendship, may lead to the belief of superior endowments and to the nurture of extensive expectations of renown; yet, merit alone ought to claim or can obtain it : and it may also teach us that the ambition which points to the pinnacle of fame, though failing in its object, may qualify us to hold a useful and a respectable station ; may give us energy to reach a height above the ordinary level of hu- man life, if not to blaze as a meteor in the eyes of men. The world awards its honours slowly; seldom unjustly; and it gives perma- nent celebrity only to that which time has pronounced to be worthy of it. Let it not, however, be supposed that I would wish to recommend timidity aqd irre- solution to the candidate for fame. It is well that every man, who proposes to call the at- tention of the world towards himself, should A « have 4 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. I. have a just consciousness of his own powers, and a fit reliance upon them. He should at least regard himself as possessing something worthy of communication: some qualities of mind, some niceties of discrimination, some knowledge of mankind, or some acquirements of study, which may justly entitle him to their attention. Without this necessary con- fidence he '\vill either sink into despondency as he contemplates his undertaking, or rely too much upon adventitious assistance, where assistance can be given, and which he will be liable to accept with indiscriminate facility. These are the evils to be feared from the in- fluence of such feelings, and they are such as should be sedulously guarded against. As for myself, neither upborne by the airy, unsubstantial bubbles of imaginary excellence, nor depressed by the gloomy apprehensions of total disqualification, I shall rely, with steady resolution, upon my own exertions; not wholly careless of the applause of my countrymen, but resolved either to deserve it, or to desist from my labours whenever neglect teaches No. I. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 5 teaches me that I have over-valued my pre* tensions. I shall neither court attention by ^ an alluring display of professions, nor depre- cate censure by the shallow artifice of confess- ing that I deserve it. The one w^ould impose a restraint upon me w^hich I should be unwil- ling to endure: and the other would betray a duplicity unworthy of a man who means fairly. The question cannot long vibrate be- tween doubt and certainty: a few numbers will ascertain whether my lucubrations be or be not deserving of the attention of the public: and that period I shall pass with few emo~ tions of hope or fear; for I have lived long enough in the world to know that neither hope nor fear can accelerate or retard the decisions of mankind. It has passed into a custom with my prede- cessors to occupy their introductory paper with a fictitious account of themselves and coadjutors, corresponding to the character they intended to support. It is a safe politi- cal maxim, that what is established should obtain our reverence : but Horace has told us^ that. THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.L that, in literature, novelty should be our aim. It is not, however, always prudent to dispute the power of custom: and I should feel some pleasure in complying with an established mode, could I persuade myself that I should either contribute to the amusement of my readers, or gratify my own inclinations : but I should probably do neither. As to my readers, they could derive little benefit or delight from treading again in a path where I could scatter none of the flowers of novelty, where I could lead them into no undiscovered windings, nor amuse them with any yet unseen beauties : and / should feel but little exultation in re- flecting that I had become, in my outset, an humble imitator, labouring fruitlessly to em- bellish a road which my predecessors have covered with all that is graceful and interest- ing. Nor can I think that they, w^ho read the Contemplatist, w^ill read it with a pleasure that rises or sinks in proportion as they know my complexion and my height : whether I am lean or fat ; talkative or taciturn ; melan- choly or humorous. 1 may be all of these, or none of them : or I may have them only in part. No. I. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 7 part. My hair may be black and my eyes grey : my legs may be as disproportioned as our stage Richard's : I may be deformed like Pope and Scarron; I may have an asthma like Virgil, and sore eyes like Horace ; I may be as ugly as Heidegger, and as morose as Arnauld : or I may have all good qualities of mind and body. No matter. Judge of the soil by the produce: if the harvest be good, the land cannot be barren. Let the curiosity of my readers be excited rather, as Tacitus says of Agricola, figuram animi magis quam corporis \ and let me own the boast of Jugur- tha, Pluri?tiumJaciefido, et nihil de seipso iogiiendo. But another motive may be supposed to influence me in this departure from what has been usual. There is a pride, in the mind of man, which makes him ambitious of distinc- tion, and all distinction is founded upon ori- ginal excellence. No imitator has ever risen to greatness ; and, whatever charge of that kind may be urged against me in the progress of •« THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. L of my undertaking, I am at least resolved to make an auspicious commencement. Let it not, however, be supposed that, because I disclaim all limitation, I have no precise idea of v^hat I intend to do : for, much may be conceived in the mind which cannot, easily, be unfolded into particulars. The ob- scure shadoyv- of something great may fill the imagination, waiting only the progress of time to give it form and animation. I may have traced an extensive outline, embracing many subjects at once interesting, curious, and im- portant : but the colouring, the lights and shades, the smaller objects, the diversification of the scenery, and the harmony of the whole, remain to be supplied as accident may direct, curiosity excite, or adventitious assistance may supply. I have the unwrought materials in store: but know not, yet, into what modes of elegance, fancy, or utility I may transform them. I have accumulated wealth, but am undecided into what channels I shall direct it. Nor must I be condemned for this boast- ful language : the pride of presumed merit is sometimes No. I. THE CONTEMPLATIST, 9 sometimes the best stimulus to its real acqui- sition. Besides, as I must promise something, it is better to promise with that ambiguity which leaves an easy escape from the morti- fication of failure, than to impose such defi- nite performances upon myself as would de- mand a rigorous acquittal. No one, indeed, can trace, with perfect accuracy, the future operations of his own mind: they will often be irregular where he expected correctness ; and often incongruous where he looked for congruity. He will be sometimes dull when he expected to pour forth torrents of eloquence, or to dazzle with coruscations of wit : and sometimes discursive and desultory, when he expected concentra- tion of ideas and a skilful propriety of lan« guage. To limit the faculty of thought would be ridiculous, if possible: but its rapid com- binations mock the vain shackles of man, and prove the divinity of its origin by their superiority over the forms of matter and of life. While, 10 THE CONTEMPLAXrST. No. L While, therefore, I leave to the suggestions of chance, a great part of my future specula- tions, I have yet imposed one rule upon my- self, which, though I state it, I trust my rea- ders wcijld have gratuitously assigned to me, had it been omitted. It is, to make the im- provement of life and the diffusion of mora- lity my first and greatest object: to inculcate whatever can arm the mind against the pas- sions, or eradicate any unworthy sentiments which may prevail : to watch over the man- ners of society, and to stigmatise them with fearless severity, whenever they tend to cor- ruption and degeneracy : to furnish arguments for virtue and objections to vice : to seek the purification of the source of action, that by cleansing the spring, the stream may flow undefiled: and, finally, to omit nothing, (speaking with a reference to the individual powers of man) which can either promote our moral happiness in this world, or our eternal welfare in a world to come. This I could wish to be the distinguishing feature No. I. THE CONTEMPLATIST. M feature of my labours : for it is one which will fix respectability upon my design if it fail, and give it importance if it succeed. In the event of the former, I shall console myself with the reflection, that I fell from weakness rather than from vice: and in the latter, that I am rewarding patronage by my endeavours to de- serve it. I cannot refrain from stating, also, what will be another prominent character of my future labours. I mean Literary Criticism. But I shall sedulously abstain from contem- porary writers ; for I cannot flatter, and I will not lie. No man loves censure : no man loves the hand that plucks a feather from the plu- mage which a delighted world is surveying with ecstacy : and the magnanimous humility which gratefully acknowledges correction^ may dwell upon the lip, but it rarely find^f shelter in the heart. The brief honours which they have, or may acquire, shall therefore be unquestioned by me : their claims to renown I will not dispute : nor, though I may be a,c- cused 1« THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. L cused of envy, shall I dilate upon their merits. I know no safer method by which to secure my own peace, their fame, and my reader's advantage. I shall find, among the iWustrious dead^ subjects of investigation yet unexplored : or, if explored, something may be left which an inquiring mind will easily discover. If I can thus improve the taste, or enlarge the knowledge of those who peruse my papers, I shall consider myself as not having written in vain. I am aware, however, of the difficulty which attends the communication of know- ledge ; a difficulty which arises as often from the unskilfulness of the teacher as from the inaptitude of the recipient. It was justly andi delicately observed by Pope, that Men must be taught as though you taught them not. And things unknown proposed as things Jergot. In fact, pride, under some one or other of its various modifications, attends us all, through No. I. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 15 through life : and the pride of knowledge is, perhaps, of all others the most arrogant. It is not that men are unwilling to learn, but they are averse from being regarded ae learners, as it implies an inferiority from which most minds revolt. They think it a diminution of what they possess, if there be any one who can say I gave it. But it would serve much to repress this idle and injudicious vanity, were they duly to reflect, that almost all general knowledge is received by communication: we give and receive; it is an intellectual barter which is founded upon the eternal fitness of things: no man towers so high above his fellows, as to be incapable of instruction from them: there is no pre- eminence so exalted from which the igno- rance of some things is excluded: the meanest artificer might be able to correct the notions of a Newton in details with which hs* could not, necessarily^ be familiar. Men, mutually dependent in all other things, are no less so in the wants of mind : and these wants constitute a strong link in the boundless U THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.T. boundless chain of social habits and affec* tions. It is of obvious importance, however, that we should employ, in our endeavours to facilitate the interchange of ideas, those means which may be best calculated to produce the desired effect. Hence, I have adopted the form of an Essayist, that my lucubrations may neither offend the learned, who might other- wise expect in me unity of design, nor alarm those who would tremble to sit down to a laboured, connected, and extensive system of ethics. I have yet another motive : to ad- minister to the wants of that class of readers who have only strength enough to make short flights into the regions of knowledge, and who wish, notwithstanding, to be considered as men of observation. They will be thus enabled to acquire a store of ideas with little trouble, and they will insensibly become qualified to pass for men of learning, amid the noisy conviviality of a club, the polite discourse of a fashionable assembly, ot No.L THE CONTEMPLATIST. 15 or the desultory conversation of a tea- table. Such are my views. If I have promised more than I shall perform, it is from an am- bition to please: and should I fail, in my endeavours, it will be from that want of ability for which no labour can compen- sate. *^* To anticipate cavillings I think it right to state, that a few of the Essays, which will appear in the course of this work, have already been published in a periodical miscellany : hut they will necessarily receive much altera- tion, and, it is hoped, improvement. •# • Cfje Contemplattet. No. II. SATURDAY, JUNE l6, 1810. Omnia quce sensu volvuntur vota diurno, Tempore nocturno, reddit arnica quits, Venator, dtfissa toro cum membra reponit. Mens tamen ad silvas, et sua lustra redit. Judicibus lites, aurigce somnia currus, Vanacjue nocturnis meta cavetur equis, Furto gaudet amans; permutat navita merces : Et vigil elapsas qucerit avarus opes. Blandaque largitur frustra sitienbus CBgris, Trriguus gelido pocula fonte sopor. Me quoque musarumstudium, sub node silenti, Artibus assiduis, sollicitare solet, Cl.AUDlAN. ''T^HE mind of a periodical Essayist can , expect but short intervals of rest. It must be perpetually vigilant to discover new (objects for investigation and new topics for amusement. The forms of hfe and the stores of imagination must be incessantly inspected, that nothing may escape which can contribute to the great end of his labours. Nothing in the moral world can be indifferent to him : events must be viewed through a new me- dium, and applied to new purposes: the gold must be taken as it is found, mingled with 18 THE CONTEMPLATIST, No. IL rubbish, sand, and baser metal: it must be refined in the intellectual crucible : the dross must be separated and rejected, and what remains must be worked into taste, elegance, and refinement. The united efforts of the chemist and the artist must be called into action : and the utnnost skill of both must be diligently employed, before the object of their labours be dismissed from their hands. Such must be the ceaseless exertions of him who undertakes to furnish successive subjects of amusement and instruction from his ovrn stores. He can allow himself but few mo- ments of total abstraction from his task, the consciousness of which weisrhs upon him with a pertinacity equal to that of a fond wife round the neck of a husband. But I cannot pretend to decide whether the latter would as willingly escape from his burden as I would from mine, for patience is a virtue which mar- riage is supposed greatly to promote, and pa- tience delights in the endurance of evils, by which alone it can be proved and exercised. Fully aware of this condition into which I have thus voluntarily brought myself, I was pondering, in my elbow chair,upon the progress of my undertaking, and the subjects of which No. 11. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 19 it should l)e composed, when the powers of sleep overcame me: I insensibly fell into a slumber: the pen dropped from my hand: and in this situation the following dream pre- sented itself to my mind. I was, methought, transported into the middle of a spacious plain, through which ran several paths. At one extremity, a lofty hill began to ascend, the lower part of which was extremely irregular, steep, and slippery : but, near the middle, it became apparently more smooth and easy, and so continued to the top, where might be beheld a magnificent structure, which seemed to tower into the skies. Thegran- deur of its appearance was so impressive that I could scarcely withdraw my eyes from the contemplation of it, to notice the other ob- jects which courted my attention. To the right and left of the plain there were other hills, surmounted by other edi- fices, and on these I beheld countless crowds who were toiling to gain the ascent. But what most astonished me was the various success with which these attempts were at- tended. Some commenced their endeavours with a steady and solemn pace : their progress was slow, but it was constant; and if the eye B 2 20 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. II. was turned from them for a while, it was sure to see them advanced when it again looked upon them : there was, also, a calm expression of contentment in their countenances, which seemed to indicate that they were satisfied with their progress, though they continued to direct their view towards the top with such vehemence of hope as shewed that they were not indolently, satisfied with their condition. Others there were who sprung forth ra- pidly at their outset, looking with scorn upon those they left behind, and with eagerness towards those who were before: but their vigour seemed to be exhausted by a single effort: they stopped: they recoiled: and though a few who were about them tried to push them forwards, and to hold them up yet a little longer, they rolled down, with incredible celerity, into a wide abyss which surrounded the hill and which was covered with a thick vapour, and were seen to rise no more. But their place was supplied by fresh adventurers, upon whom the fate of their pre- decessors seemed to make no impression. They commenced with the same ardour, and sunk with the same rapidity. A third set rushed forward with astonish- No. IL THE GONTEMPLATIST. 21 ing velocity, and gained, at one effort, the middle of the hill, but went no further: they did not indeed recede, neither did they ad- vance, though they tried, with much exertion, to ascend a little higher : but every attempt was fruitless: mortification and envy were pourtrayed in their countenances : and when they found that it was absolutely unavailing to make any further trials, they employed them- selves in obstructing the progress of those who were proceeding beyond them, by a thousand little impediments which they threw in their way. In this too they were frustrated, and I then beheld them gradually enveloped in a thick mist, which overspread the place w^here they were, and I saw no more of them : for when the mist disappeared, the ground was vacant. I observed, indeed, that very few reached the summit. The greater part remained sta- tionary between the bottom and the centre : some few passed the latter, and reposed, with apparent satisfaction, a short distance above it. A small number reclined upon the very top, and seemed, by their actions, to encourage those who were near them to continue their labour and perseverance. I could not help 22 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. II. observing, with astonish men t, that a few who seemed to repose with contented dignity at almost the very bottom, sprung, in an instant, "beyond the middle, and sometimes even reached the most elevated point. I saw many who strove to hurl others down, but, losing their own balance, they w^ere themselves pre- cipitated into the gulph below. On every side, indeed, V beheld strife and contention, and a confused noise of vociferous voices struck upon my ear. As I stood contemplating this scene of tu- mult and discord, a youth passed quickly by me, and was directing his steps towards the theatre of competition. I stopped him, and inquired the meaning of what I saw. Having looked at me, for some time, with a superci- lious aspect, he replied, *' This, Sir, is the Hill 6f Literature, and they, whom you see upon it, are authors. They are all striving for the Temple of Immortality, which you may behold on the top: but the God- dess OF Oblivion, who dwells in that murky abyss which you see round the hill, marks many of them for her prey : she is never visible, but always encompassed in mist and vapour, and sweeps her victims from notice No. II. THU CONTEMPLATIST. '^ ■ ' ' / with unrelenting severity: there is a great deal of hostility among the candidates, as you may perceive. Sir: they all dread the yawning pit which seems to gape for them, and they all try to save themselves by their neighbour's downfal: but the Goddess of Oblivion' fears no power except that of Genius, and whoever is accompanied by that celestial guide may scorn her malice : for my own part, I am quite fearless of any thing she can do to me.'*— "What, then," said I, *' is Genius thy guide ?'' He looked at me with astonish- ment as I asked him this question, and with a disdainful toss of his head tripped away. I v/atched his motions with curiosity. He soon reached the hill, and be^an to ascend with confidence and rapidity. He was gazed at by his competitors with a mixture of envy and surprise: but, when he had nearly reached the middle, I saw him totter, his foot slipped, and he was plunged into that gulph whose terrors he had so confidently despised as he began his career. I now directed my attention once more to- wards the first hill, but did not perceive any one near it. 1 could not imagine why it was so utterly neglected, for it appeared to be, in. <24 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IL many respects, more desirable than the other eminences. It had more verdure, and was more grateful to the sight from the various shrubbery which ornamented its sides : yet, it was w^holly deserted. The splendid struc- ture which adorned its summit seeme-il to have been raised m vain : no one sought to approach it. But I felt within myself a rising desire to inspect a building which must have been erected for some purpose, and whose magni- ficence strongly excited my attention ; and, as I stood lost in contemplation, and doubtful whether to make the attempt, 1 beheld three majestic females approaching towards me. Their port was stately, their looks command- ing, and their motions graceful. But there was a striking difference between each of them ; and, as they approached nearer, I ob- served more leisurely their discrepancies. There was, in the looks of the first, a severe and awful majesty, a decorum, a sobriety, and a solemnity, which inspired a mingled feeling of delight and reverence. The fixed gaze of her look seemed to pierce me through : her features were composed and sedate : her step slow, direct, and steady; the colour of her garment was of spotless white, and her waist No. II. THE CONTEMPLATIST. ^b was encircled with a zone beset with innume- rable eyes ; her form was athletic : and there was a certain ineffable grace emanating from her countenance, which was irresistibly fasci- nating. In her right hand she carried a trans- parent wand^ and in her left a massy shield, on which was inscribed, in letters of living gold, the word Truth. The next figure had less dignity and less solemnity in her appearance. She leaned on Truth for her support, and seemed, indeed, unable to walk steadily without her. There was a degree of vivacity in her countenance, though it was constantly chastened by a pre- vailing sobriety of look. Her eyes glanced from side to side with rapidity : and a beam of joy sometimes played across her features when she looked upon Truth, and read a tacit approval in her face. Her step was light and fantastic: her vest shewed a thou- sand brilliant hues, glancing from all parts, as she moved along : she carried in her hand a shield of burnished silver, embossed with groupes of antic figures ; and in the centre was engraven the word Wit, encircled with emeralds, topaz, sapphires, amethysts, and other precious stones. 26 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. II. But how shall I descrihjB the third ? Where shall I find words to express the strange com- bination of qualities which distinguished her? There was a comic archness in her looks that spoke a volume : the smile of gaiety was con- stantly on her face: her motions were full of airiness and vigour: her step was elastic: her gestures often grotesque and sometimes ludi- crous: her garments were profusely decked v^ith dazzling ornaments, which struck upon the sight with such a blaze of splendour, that the eye was wearied with dwelling long upon her, and frequently turned away to repose upon the sober majesty of Truth, or the chaste vivacity of Wit, as we withdraw our sight from the ardent glories of the sun to en- joy the refreshing verdure of nature. Some- times, when her actions were preposterous, and excited disgust rather than merriment, a sudden effulgence from her vestments threw round her a deceitful glare, which concealed her irregularities ; and when this lustre had subsided, she appeared, again, in ail her native attractions. On her left arm she bore a shield, whose shape defied definition : it was wildly ornamented, and I could perceive the word No. II. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 27 Humour in the centre, engraven in a strange fashion. I stood still with awe as I gazed upon them. Tliey approached within a few paces of me, and I shrunk back appalled. Truth stretched forth her hand with a bewitching smile, and an air of kind encouragement: but I still hesitated, when Wit, advancing on the other side, seized me by the hand, and gently led me forward. They were silent, and a sort of reverential fear forbade me to utter a word. We proceeded slowly along towards the deserted hill w^hich I had before contemplated, while Humour gamboled be> fore us with a thousand wild frolics. We gained the bottom of the ascent, and I was astonislied at the facility with which, thus supported, I passed over the awful chasms and fearful obstructions that seemed to forbid all progress. As we approached the centre, the sight was gratefully relieved by a charming verdure, by meads decked with flowers which stretched, in wide prospect, beneath me, by gently-murmuring streams, by groves that seemed to offer a delicious shelter, and within whose embowering roofs birds of choicest song were heard. $8 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. II. I now began to have a clearer view of the magnificent temple that crowned tlie summit, and I observed, also, that every step we ad- vanced, after having passed the middle, was encumbered with numerous and increasing difficulties: the hill itself became almost per- pendicular, and the surface was so slippery, that all possibility of reaching its top, unless supported as I was, seemed to be utterly ex- cluded. I gained, however, the utmost height, and stood wrapped in silent admiration as I gazed upon the superb structure that was now before me. But I was not permitted long to gaze. My celestial guides led me into the interior of the temple, where new w^onders burst upon my astonished si^ht. All was splendour, and grandeur, and pomp: vaulted roofs fretted with gold: rich tapestries inwrought with -diamonds and other precious stones : pillars of marble and porphyry, exquisitely polished, supported the cieling : and on each side spread long arcades that led to delightful groves and shady walks. Mysterious music floated on the air, which wafted perfumes of charming fragrance. Every thing which could capti^ vate the senses was profusely lavished forth. No.ir. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 29 and I should have stopped in a silent ecstacy of enjoyment, had not my guides continued to lead me onwards. I was conducted through many rooms of this description, till we arrived, at last, at one more lofty and spacious than the rest. It was more superbly decorated also, and, at the fur- ther extremity, I beheld a pyramidal ascent of thrones, each overhung by a rich canopy be- dropped with pearls. My guides marked the astonishment that this wrought in me, but they did not speak ; and as I approached nearer I perceived, with amazement, that each throne was filled with a figure which I easily recog- nised. Oh the topmost seat, which was composed of two thrones, sat Addison and Johnson : the former, in an easy and graceful attitude : the latter, wath composed and austere dignity. Addison seemed to regard me with a smile of kind encouragement : his look was playful and benevolent; and his eyes had a mixture of serenity and gaiety in them that was un- commonly interesting: while the brow of Johnson seemed sometimes to scowl upon me as an intruder. Immediately beneath these, on thrones less m THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IT. gorgeously splendid, sat Steele, Hawks- worth, and Warton, with their eyes turned, from time to time, upon Addison and John- son. In the countenance of Steele mirth was the prevailing feature, while Hawks- worth's had an agreeable and attractive so- briety in it: they both smiled upon me as I advanced, and seemed rejoiced at my appear- ance. Under them again, with diminished splendour, I recognized Lloyd, Colman, Cambridge, Moore, and Chesterfield, in all of whom there was so great a similarity that I was unable to perceive any striking dis- tinction. Having gazed for some time upon this spec- tacle, and felt a sort of sacred awe creeping over me, I turned round to Truth, who stood at my right hand, with the hope that she would explain to me this mysterious vision. She seemed to anticipate my wishes, and, after a solemn pause, she thus addressed me : *' Presumptuous mortal, whose teme- rity hath led thee to the confines of this temple, which is sacred to us, neither thy hopes nor thy designs are unknown to me. But, I dare not unveil the volume of futurity : I dare not unclose the book of destiny, to No. II. THE CONTEMPLATLST. 31 know whether thou wilt succeed, or add one more to the many who have sought, in vain, to gain tins temple. 1 have deigned, how- ever, to shew thee the reward of success. Behold that vacant throne rising, a small de- gree, above the immortal two who sit at top: that yet remains unfilled. I see consternation and dismay in thy countenance at the thought of transcending those exalted names: but an humbler reward awaits humbler merit. He who is denied the highest pinnacle of fame, may yet find an inferior station that may well reward his labours. Behold then, on thy right hand and on thy left, other vacant thrones that will he, one day, filled perhaps: let these tempt your ambition : let these fire your, breast with generous emulation, and strive to become one of this august few. Your looks berray hope: encourage it: the first step to excellence is to believe that you are capable of it." As she pronounced these words she con'* ducted me up the marble steps that led to the top, and, at her command, I knelt before Addison, Johnson, and Hawkswohth, who all placed their hands upon my head. Wit then advanced, and under her guidance 3ii THE CONTEMPLAtlST. No. II. I bent before Colman, Lloyd, and Ches- terfield, who repeated the same ceremony: finally, Humour seizing me by the hand, led me, with a gay, good-natured smile, to the feet of Addison once more, who again placed his hand upon my head. After this, I was re- conducted down the steps, and Truth again addressed me: " Thus gifted, go forth: remember this thy solemn initiation, and receive from me this celestial mirror, by which thou wilt be ena- bled to pierce through the envelopements of passion, prejudice, and error, and read the HEART of man, as it is." I stretched forth my hand with eagerness to receive the precious gift, when methought a false step threw me headlong on the ground : in an instant the temple, thrones, and guides vanished from my sight: and I found, to my great mortification, that I had been enjoying a comfortable nap in my arm chair ; and that when I thought I was seizing the mirror, my head had only slipped from its corner, by which I had nearly been precipitated upon the floor. Cf)e Contemplattet. No. IIL SATURDAY, JUNE 23, 1810. Mihi rectius videtur, ingenii, guam vmu?n opibus gloriam qucerere j et, quoniam vita ipsa qua fruimur^ brevis est, memoriam nostri quam maxume loiigam e^ccr^.— — S A L LUST. T HAVE often observed, and with no ordi- nary emotions of resentment, the popular inclination which there is to cast a shade of odium and ridicule upon the profession of an author; an inclination which betrays (as I hope to shew in the course of this paper) so striking an abdication of common sense and common liberality, that it is matter of astonish- ment that it should ever be found in those who seek to establish their own importance upon superiority of mind. There is, also, c 54 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. III. something remarkable in this propensity, which deserves to be noticed. It is sufficiently common in the world to satirize professions. The tailor disdains the cobbler, and the cobbler returns thanks to heaven that he does not love cabbage: the apothecary descants forcibly upon the iniqui- ties of the lawyer ; and the lawyer, unmindful of his own unworthineswS, proclaims loudly the enormous abuses of the man of drugs : and thus it is through every gradation of society. But, in all their rage of malevolence against each other, in all their rancour of opposition, we never find them hostile to themselves : we never hear a tailor stigmatise a tailor, by calling him the ninth part of a man ; nor an attorney condemn an attorney for acts of avowed dishonesty. No : they are thoroughly imbued with what the French denominate the esprit de corps, and thus far, perhaps, they merit praise. But it is otherwise with au- thors; for, I believe the keenest sarcasms, the most insulting taunts, and the most con- temptuous revilings, which have been directed against authors, have proceeded /rom authors. No.IIL THE CONTEMPLATIST. 35 Were I to speak from my own experience, I should say, that I have more frequently and more uniformly heard the profession contu- meliously mentioned by those who were, at the very time, exercising it, than by those who were far removed from its concerns. It is evident, indeed, that the world has drawn its opinion from the declarations of authors themselves. Satirists, novelists, dramatists, essay-writers, and epigram-mongers are the sources whence flows all that scurrile abuse which it has long been the fashion to vent upon the subalterns of literature. It often happens that what should be partial censure becomes indiscriminate ; and such has been the case in the present instance. Bad authors, by what fatality I know not, have, in all ages, been a proscribed race of beings ; the fair game of unfeeling blockheads and illi- beral wits. Vulgar and gross abuse has been heaped upon them with an unsparing hand j a few great names have led the way, and in- solence and ignorance have joined in the pur» suit. It seems to have passed into an esta- blished maxim, that, to write badly, is a crime c 9 36 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. III. of such magnitude as admits of no atonement: it so thoroughly strips the delinquent of all social rights, it casts him forth from the hos- pitable circle of his fellow-creatures with such marks of infamy and disgrace upon him, that humanity itself forbears to appear in his behalf whom all have doomed to relentless persecu- tion. Nothing that is vented against him ; no reproach, however bitter; no lampoon, how- ever malignant; no satire, however false, and therefore the more poignant ; no ridicule, however intolerable; no contempt, however blasting : in short, not the most savage fero- city which can come into action under the veil of literary rancour, is thought to be misap- plied when directed against him who has written without excellence. Common malefactors, for the most infamous crimes, find compassion in some breast, when caught in the toils of justice, and doomed to pay the forfeit of their delinquency : but the bad author none. His miseries are sport: his sorrows are festivity to the literary blood- hounds engaged in the pursuit. The man who commits adultery, who ravages domestic No. III. THE CONTEMPLATIST. ti peace, who blights the fair hopes of an in- nocent, unsuspecting family, who roots out, from the breast of an injured husband, the love and happiness that dwelt there; he, even lie, finds an end to persecution, and his name ceases, at last, to be a watch-word for ridi- cule or infamy. The murderer is treated with decency and feeling; and brutality itself dis- dains, wantonly, to probe the sores of a cor- rupted heart. But, let an author publish a work that is deficient in excellence, who is there that does not think he has a right to lay the feelings of that author at his feet, with all the insulting mockery of derision ? Is he not marked out for acrimonious ridicule, or lordly contempt ? Is not even his moral cha- racter often implicated by some ungenerous sarcasm, or by some facetious parallel ? Is he not derided as a dunce or despised as an ideot? Is not his name mercilessly sported with? — And whence all this ? What offence has been committed ? What violation of public or pri- vate welfare has been attempted ? Let it be remembered that I speak, here, of works which are deficient in some supposed S8 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IIL requisites of taste, judgement, or information; for those of an indecorous or an immoral ten- dency I resign to the utmost scope of infamy, punishment, and degradation. The authors of such books are to be considered in the light of common offenders against the well-being of society. But, {let me again ask) what injury has been, or can be, committed by the publication of a work, not just so good as it might be, that it should be thought a fit plea for overstepping every boundary of feeling and humanity, every limit of justice and liberality } Why, too, I demand, is this unrelenting severity, in the case of failure, shewn only to authors ? A painter, an architect, or a musician, may pro- duce a work which proves to be mcorrect and unworthy of pubhc attention : but, in these cases, every thing is done when this incor- rectness is stated ; and the unsuccessful can- didate is peaceably left to bring forth other productions of greater excellence, by a more matured application of his talents. No one presumes, no one thinks, of holding him up to ridicule and infamy, or of fixing such a iNo.III. THE CONTEMPLATIST. S9 stigma upon his name that it carries with it a sort of judicial condemnation upon every thing to which it may afterwards be prefixed. Again: this malignant warfare, this dis- graceful hostility, is carried on by those who are themselves, authors, and often of acknow- ledged inferiority to those whom they thus calumniate. This is unseemly, and betrays a corrupt nature. But I call upon those who exercise this enmity, to remember the great retributive maxim of our religion : " do unto others as you would they should do unto you," and to consider what would be their feelings if thus treated. No man spends hours, and days, and weeks upon an object without being more or less interested in its ultimate success. No man, perhaps, has sufficient apathy to bring a work to its completion, without indulging pleasing hopes of its merits, and imparting those hopes to friends and relatives. The ambition of de-? lighting or instructing our fellow-creatures is certainly not the least honourable when suc- cessful, iior the least harmless when unsuc- cessful. The mere mortification of neglect arid 40 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IIL disappointment carries with it pain enough, without the infliction of other punishment. But let us pause for a moment, and consider under what complicated pain a delicate and apprehensive mind must labour, which not only sees its fancied laurels wither, withered by the torpid touch of cold oblivion, but be- holds itself attacked with causeless rancour? What must be endure who sees every art em- ployed to render him an object of ridicule and contempt; the public called upon to feast at a banquet where his heart and mind are served up for the repast? With what diminished pleasure he meets those friends, the sharers of his anticipated renown ; with what faded glory he stands before his relatives, thus decried and thus hunted : with what a fallen self-estima- tion he perhaps ever after views himself. It may be, that he affects to meet his persecutors with scorn and indifference ; and this, indeed, would be wisdom's part ; but from himself he cannot conceal the galling and unwelcome truth that his name has been committed to derision and obloquy, and that with his name his feelings have been wrecked. No. III. TEIE CONTEMPLATIST. 4l Think how contracted is the circle of hu- man happiness, and how innocently he at- tempts to pluck some of its tempting treasure who gives a book to the world that is neither immoral nor vicious, and then tell me, ye who are foremost in the ungenerous pursuit, what adequate motive you have for such baseness ? Has he injured you or aught belonging to you? Has he injured any one ? Has he committed any crime? Has he done any thing that can give one moment's inquietude to any human being but himself? No. Why then delight so much in the production of human misery that you can, unprovoked, fix a sting in the bosom of an unoffending individual, whose only crime is that his talents are beneath per- fection? Level not the same engines against harmless inferiority as you would use to crush the aspiring wickedness of vice and infamy. Prove that the want of ability, that the mere publication of an indifferent book, is a crime, and one that entitles its perpetrator to malig- nant aspersion and unfeeling scorn, and then I consent that, as a crime, it meet its due punishment : but, until that be done, I must 42 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. III. ever consider the wanton abuse of such writers among those actions which a wise and feehng mind should blush to remember. It was an observation of Pliny the elder, that no book was so bad, but something might be learned from it; and, if this be true, which I am not inclined to doubt, it furnishes an- other argument why the humbler purveyors of literature should find greater kindness in their more successful brethren than they usually do. But I am wandering from the immediate ob- ject of my paper ; though I do not regret it, for to lift my voice against oppression or cruelty of any description will always be to me an occasion of triumph and satisfaction. I have already observed, that what should be partial censure often becomes indiscrimi- nate; and it is thus that the popular ridicule and obloquy which have been attached to bad, or more judiciously speaking, to unsuccessful authors, have been transferred, with heedless impropriety, to the whole of them. The ma- nifest iniquity of this proceeding needs no exposition : it would be unjust even were the contempt legitimate in its original applica- No. III. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 4S tion : but when, in its first excitation, it rests upon cruelty and falsehood, how greatly is its criminality increased in every subsequent remove. I cannot sufficiently lament that self degra- dation which literary men so frequently exhi- bit. It seems to be the peculiar stigma of this profession, that its members should concur to their own disgrace. Men, in other walks of life, have energy enough to vindicate their pursuits whatever they may be: or, if they have not, it might be expected from the vota- ries of literature, the acknowledged effect of which is to enlarge the mind, and implant feelings of liberality and conscious dignity. By what fatality it is that the result is other- wise I am unable to conjecture. Every lite- rary man can recal some instance in which his associates have meanly assented to insinu- ations, uttered by some loquacious witling, which had an obvious tendency to place them in a ludicrous and consequently a contemp- tible light. To be asked if he lodges in a garret y or resides in Grub-street ; whether he is a bookseller's hack^ or lives upon tick^ are 44 THE CGNTEMPLATIST. No. III. questions that an author is expected to endure with calm forbearance : nay, if he would be quite entertaining, he must echo back the laugh, and bow to the lash, as bears who are taught to dance on heated plates of iron move in the direction of the leader's whip. But he may gain a still greater reputation for wit and pleasantry if he will conduct the attack and shew his cQmpany how to despise him. I have nothing to say to those who imagine that they exhibit proofs of sagacity and hu- mour when they attempt to degrade literature by defaming those who pursue it. A war with folly ends in humiliation if it end in vic- tory. But I deplore the servility of those who voluntarily submit to such undeserved obloquy, and who, not satisfied with humbly tolerating the effusions of abusive ignorance, are, themselves, foremost to depreciate a call- ing which they exercise. This is an aggrava- tion. If they have adopted what they are ashamed of, let them abandon it: let them sink back to their original insignificance, and glide through life unknown and unvalued ; or let them, otherwise, be honest and manly No. III. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 45 enough to shew that they respect a situation which gives them bread. It is a mark of baseness to revile the source from which flows all that we can call our own. I am fully aware of an objection that will be made, and I am prepared to meet it. It will be said, that men of independent circum- stances, men of lettered ease, a Gibbon,dL Hume^ ^Lyttletoriy ^Bolingbroke,2i Pope, are exempt from these sarcasms; that they are levelled only at the drudges of literature; at those who write for bread, and who are often com- pelled, from their necessities, to sacrifice their principles to their wants. But this only heightens the evil ; this only declares that the tongue which slanders is venal as well as malignant; that it is courteous and hum- ble before the throne of wealth; and that it as meanly flatters the haughty sons of pride and consequence, as it basely persecutes the suffering children of poverty and misery. This is, however, the common system of weak and vulgar minds. But it does not di- minish the grievance I complain of; it rather doubles its torture by adding insult to oppres- 46 THfi CONTEMPLATIST. No. III. sion. I admit, that among those who follow literature as a means of subsistence, they who suffer the probability of want to warp their principles, to corrupt their minds, and to se- duce them to the post of venal writers, deserve the strongest censures of indignant virtue: but, that petty minds should therefore indulge themselves in disgraceful calumnies against men struggling with poverty in the labours of intellect, is a species of tyranny that calls for the loudest reprobation. How many piercing insults, how many degrading circumstances, how many humbling situations, must have been endured by a Johnson^ a Goldsmith^ a Collins y a Thomson, a Dryden, an Otway, and many others, before the irresistible and com- manding influence of their genius awed into silence the hooting owls that beset their path. Let us learn wisdom from experience; and when we are tempted to wound the feelings of an author, who is at present toiling in ob- scurity, let us reflect, that we are perhaps casting a momentary gloom over the mind, or giving a pang to the heart, of a future Johnson or a future Collins. And even should No. III. THE CONTEMPLATISt. 4? it not be so ; should the objects of our gibes and scorn be the irrevocable children of insi- pidity and dullness, yet even they are respec- table, for they are, at least, endeavouring to employ the faculties of that quality of man, which, in its lowest state of healthfulness, has dignity enough to merit attention from the philosopher. It has been justly observed by Hume, that *^ such a superiority do the pursuits of litera- ture possess above eVery other occupation, that even he who attains but a mediocrity in them merits the pre-eminence above those that excel the most in the common and vulgar pro- fessions.'* And, indeed, why should an hum- ble labourer in literature, though he produce nothing but ephemeral works, novels that are read and forgotten, or poetry that is never read at all, Avhy should he be more hardly treated than an humble tradesman who does his best in the vocation which he has chosen ? Nay, why should not the writer of a halfpenny ballad meet the same negative protection as a pastry cook or a ginger-bread maker ? Is not the former, who produces a song? however 41 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. III. despicable in composition, so it be pure in sentiment, more usefully employed than the latter in preparing deleterious compounds to destroy the tone and health of our stomachs? In some ensuing paper I shall pursue this subject further, and endeavour to shew the superiority of intellectual pursuits, whether of the highest or lowest order, when exercised in the cause of virtue, and designed to amuse or instruct our fellow creatures, above mere manual occupation, above the man of bows and " thank you. Sir, there's your change,'* above clerks and waiting maids, above indo- lent affluence and prating insignificance. C!)e Contemplatfet No. IV. SATURDAY, JUNE SO, 1810. O mihi prceteritos refer at si Jupiter annos, Virgil, M ^ TO THE CONTEMPI*A"riST. SIR, TN attempting to address you, I feel all the aukwardness and diffidence of conscious inability; yet, the strong desire I have to give vent to the emotions that now oppress me, urges me to forego my native timidity, and to hope from your generosity, at least, the small con- solation which can result from the declaration of virtue and the sorrows of repentance. My confidence is somewhat increased indeed, by the recollection of an assertion in your last Contemplatist, where you say, that *^ to THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IV. lift ypur voice agaii>st oppression or cruelty of any description, will always be to you an oc- casion of triumph and satisfaction." If truth dictated those words. Sir, let me avow, with a bitter consciousness of wretchedness, that, in what I have now to relate, you will find but too much room for the indulgence of so just and honourable a joy. I am the only daughter of opulent and re- spectable parents ; I was their pride and de- light ; the wealth they possessed seemed to give them happiness, only as it w^as employed to further mine ; and, in the smile that bright- ened my countenance, they read the only re- ward they asked for unbounded love and affection. Whatever could adorn my mind, or add to the graces of my person, was pro- cured with lavish liberality ; and I may, with- out unseemly vanity, affirm, that my progress kept pace with their exertions. As I grew up, mental and bodily accomplishments gYew0 with me; and while I excited the envy of my own sex, I saw, with delight, the admiration of the other. Those quick springing feelings No. IV. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 51 of nature, which take possession of the bosom at that period of life, when first the dawning passion of love finds aliment in the mind, mounted, with abounding vigour, in my heart, and I was, from principle, little solicitous to disguise their existence. Virtue, in my opi- nion, was founded upon self-estimation; T loved it, not as a barren duty, but as a sweet' companion, that cheered my path of life, and* shed lustre wherever she trod. Her dictates*^ were obeyed from the strong conviction I felt, that my own happiness, my own worth and dignity were essentially interwoven with their preservation. I stood in awe of myself, not of the world ; and I laboured to secure the peace of conscious rectitude, without resting^ it upon the basis of opinion. It was thus that I accounted virtue, and I felt secure in my own power. My father was anxious to see me married' in a. manner suitable to my birth and fortune. Hapless words ! How many human victims have bled at pride's gorgeous shrme ! How many sorrowing hearts have approached the 1)2 $9, THE CONTEMPLATISr. No. FV, altar, sickening at their own fortitude, obe- dient to the false notions of parental authority, and withering in their bloom, because torn from that happy spot where they might have flou- rished in peace and lovehness. Strange ! that in the most momentous action of our hves, and in which we alone are to be made happy or miserable, the powa' to will sho'uld be de- nied us : that' cold, unfeeling age should step into the chair of youth, and decide for a youth- ful heart, a heart full of warmth, and love, and sensibility, from the narrow calculations of ava- rice, or the empty phantasies of pride. Is not this a tyranny most hateful ? Is it not a usurpa- tion against which the voice of nature ex- claims, and reason frowns upon as monstrous ? Yes, Sir, it was my father's resolution that 1 should marry according to my birth and for- tune ; but, while he was waiting to match me like a scanty shred, to suit me at all dimen- sions, to fit me at each point, my own heart turned purveyor, and singled out an adored object, whose name, whose memory, even yet, fills me with anguish and contrition. Oh No. IV. THE CQNTEMPLATIST. 58 Henry, were it possible that at this moment you could behold me, that you could see my pallid cheeks, my wasted form, my dull and languid eyes — those eyes, which, you have so often sworn, kindled higher raptures in your bosom than beatitude can give ; could you see them now drop tears, even at the recol- lection ofyour name, as fast as summer clouds distil their showers, one pang would smite you in your ^ay career, and drown your mirth in momentary sorrow and dismay. But I re- proach you not: 'twas yours to forge the snares that circumvented me, and, having gained your prize, to throw it, like a froward child, away. Henry De la Gour I first saw at church: holy and sacred was the spot, and my thoughts were like them. I gazed and loved. It was at that moment I felt, for the first time, all those tunmltuous sensations which crowd to the heart, when the mging fire that wanders through our veins, directs all its rays to one centre. Did my eyes at that instant speak, intelligibly, the strong emotions of my soul ? M THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IV. Yes, they must, for I fixtd their ardent gaze with such devouring warmth upon him, that he blushed. Heavens! can I ever lose the recollection of that moment? I see, even now, the manthng hue that overspread his youthful cheek, giving new lustre to his fine dark eyes, shaded, as they then wer<*, by auburn locks, that hung, iTacful, o'er his manly forehead. He leaned forward to con- ceal the quick alarm which nature had taken, and bent his look upon the bible. 1 was im- moveable; I was lo t ; I knew not that it was myself which caused thr emotion I admired ; for still I gazed , unconscious of what was pass- ing round nie tiii the fuil-toned organ awoke me to recollection and myself. 1 arose and joined the congre^aion in the psalm: — was I deceived, or did I hear a more than humau voice, that seemed to soar above the rest ? I paused' — my ear directed my eyes — 'twas the stranger, whose tones, so sweetly musical, stole, like a gentle slumber, o'er my s(*ul, and left me agam insensible to all but the soft con- flict in my own breast. The service past, I lost this object of newly-created desire, in the No. IV. THE CONTETMPLATIST. 55 moving ctoWd ; but I saw hirti, as he rose from his seat, cast a look towards me, which seemed to answer back the thoughts that filled my mind. I returned home, pensive and dejected. My languid appearance excited the tendei* inqui- ries of iny parents. To elude a distressing explanation, or a disingenuous prevarication, I sought my own chamber, and indulged a hieiancholy luxury of thought, not fair reniov^d jfirom perfect bliss. The week passed ih a painful alternation of strong passions; and, as Sunday approached, 1 hailed it as a day that was to liberate my heart from insupportable bondage. The wished foi" triorn at letigth arrived. Never before did religion appear to tiie half so lovely, or half so amiable. The hours appeared intolerably long from breakfast till the bell tolled ; and when, at last, I set out for church, my steps Seemed tardy, and the distance increased. In imagi- nation I had passed the porch 'ere I had scarce- ly quitted the threshold of my own door ; and 56 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IV. when I entered the aisle, my eyes wandered, with fearful eagerness, to the spot where, the last Sunday, I had looked myself away. He was not there. I sought the image of my thoughts through every part, but saw him not. The service commenced ; I was disturbed, and could scarcely pay a decent attention to the duties of the place. I was lost in conjec- ture. Should I ever behold him again ? Was he, perhaps, a stranger passing through the town, and only there by accident? or, could modest diffidence be so predominant in his nature that he dreaded a repetition of those blushes I had already caused ? These, and a thousand other thoughts, passed rapidly through my mind, while my eyes were wan- dering from place to place, in the fond hope of yet meeting their adored object ; but the hope was vain, and I quitted the church de- jected and oppressed. The evening of that day was calm and fme, and I strayed into the fields, that I might soothe the agitation of my bosom, by the con- templatipn of the placid scenes of nature. I hact No. IV. THE CONTEMPLATiST. 57 ^ favourite walk, arched over with imbower- ing trees, where the silent lapse of years had carved a seat for meditation, out of the decay- ed trunk of a time-smitten oak. ^fbre I had often sat in past moments, wrapped in de- lightful thought, while yet my bosom was a stranger to the tormenting fire that now pos- sessed it ; when my mind was as a peaceful lake that reflected, on its calm surface, the per- fect image of surrounding objects ; not, as now ruffled by storms and vexed with agita- tion. I sat down, and hoped to find the peace I was wont to meet with there. Vain and senseless expectation! To me the trees no longer blossomed, and the landscape was no longer sweet ; my eyes wandered, undelighted, over those charms of nature on which they erst had dwelt with a child's fondness. It was then that I fully felt what before I had only believed, that — ** The mind is it's own place, And in itself can make a heaven Of hellp a hell of heaven l" h8 THE CONTEMPLATiST. No. iV. While I remained buried in these musings, my attention was suddenly excited by a rustling noise that was near me. I turned round, 2i0 saw a man forcing his way through the opposite ht'dge. Somewhat alarmed, I hastily quitted my seat to return home. The person having disen:aged himself, and seeing my precipitate retreat, approached towards me, apolo'gizing for the interruption he had been guilty of. I turned to acknowledge his politeness. — It was the stravger ! I was pleased, alarmed, confused, and our situation was mutual. Never before did I behold the pure eloquence of nature speak so intelligibly. It was her unmasked workings that rose into our cheeks, our eyes, that seemed to free the bounds of time, and bade us view each other as something mutually dear. Though we had never spoken, though we had seen each other but once, and that in a public church, yet we seemed to know that we must not part ; the blush had settled on the stranger's heart, and written there, in flaming characters, senti- ments of love ; the eager gazings of my en- No. IV. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 5o raptured sight had drawn such matter in, that now I stood like one bereft of sense. I cannot, neither were it necessary, recal how we gradually subsided into discourse, wandering those paths once sacred to my own solitary step, while the pale laoon aro^e upon our yet unfinished discourse. Oh ! those were sweeter hours, and left a sweeter recollection on the mind than ever before giaddt^ned a human heart! Each word he uttered fell like the softest notes of mut^ic on my soul, difl using peace and rapture: I listened, and my ears drank his speech even as the thirsty earth im- bibes the blessed rains of heaven ; I trembled lest he should cease, and when he did, every thing seemed blank in nature. My heart, which never yet had throbbed with love for any human being, now laid itself before his altar, and owned no other power. Henry ! that heart was pure, and might have dignified your choice. It was in this first conversation that I learned his name was Henry de la Cour : that i6o THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IV. his father was a haif-pay officer of small for- tune; and that he hunself was not independent, but destined to acquire subsistence in some honourable profess oa. To me all this was nothing; I thought only pf Henry. At length we parterl, I returned home, and found that som^ alarm had been excited by my ufmsual stay. My presence, howe\^er, dissipated evrry fear, and my parents, be- lieving that I had been temj)ted by the fine- ness of an autumnal evening, made no in- quiries: happily for me, or the first fruits of my newly awakened passion must, perhaps, have been a falsehood ; for how could 1 have told my father what he would have been un- able to comprehend? I will not, Sir, extend my narrative by a minute detail of all the interview's which we afterwards had. Suffice it to say, that when, at length, I deemed it necessary to disclose the connexion to my tather, and explained the birth and expectations of my Henry, he sternly chid me, and forbad me seeing him No. IV. THE CONTEMPLATf^T. 6v again ; for, " I must marry suitably to my birth and fortune." If ever pity flowed for any human being, it might then have flowed for me. What! forsake my Henry ! forget, utterly annihilate, all those endearing visions of future joy that had so long floated before my fancy, and decked my future path of life! Play a subtle woman's part, and put affection otf and on even as my garment, and obedient to a father s bidding ! And wherefore? Could stern authority have imposed a harsher mandate, had froward na- ture kind led, in my breast, love for soiv^ worths less, some undeserving object? Harsh even then it might be, but could not be unjust;, now, honour, reason, and humanity loudly proclaimed a:^ainst it What is that mad in- fatuation which would tyrannise thus over the feelings of the human heart? Feelings which even they who own them, hope not to control. I would not arm the pert awd wanton fury of licentious passion against the sober counsel 62 THE rONTEMPLATlST. No. IV. of a father's right; but 1 would for ever con- demn, and, were it in my power, annihilate that unjust supremacy which would decide for the heart of youth in a step which concerns their happiness alone, and w^hich, when taken from obedience and not from inclination, too often consigns the meek sufferer to helpless anguish and unavailing sorrow. Humanity shudders 'to recollect how many victims have bled at the altar of parental authority, and wasted life in pining hopelessness of grief. I needed not to think upon the subject. My secret resolution was formed, even at the very moment when 1 heard my father's sti rn com- mands. To renounce m.y Henry was, I felt, impossible; to wed him, with a parent's blessing, was equally so: driven, then, to the extremes of endurance, I resolved to resign the balance into the hands of nature, and to follow her dictates. I anticipated indeed their cha- racter, but I forbore to quit the station which society has assigned our sex. I appeared to follow, wiih reluctance, while my heart and wishes took the lead. No. IV. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 6S T communicated to Henry what had passed. He was much moved, but he strove to hide it. He bowed to a fate which he deemed irrevo* cable, and. he talked of parting. Parting! Oh! what an icy current seems to freeze through a lover's shuddering frame, whose unwilling ears catch that melancholy sound. I answered, by my tears. They spoke forcibly; and, since our hearts, so closely linked » could bear no thoughts of parting, it was but to bind them closer by the marriage vow, and then, should a father's rigid bosom deny a sanction, to court our fortune through the spacious world. The thought, quick as lightning, informed both our minds : Henry urged, and with af- fected coyness I gave the willing assent which was to seal my future bliss ; every thing was. pre-arranged, and I was to leave my father's dwelling with my future husband. That father is now dead. It were an un- holy office for me to arraign his memory. I ' too shall fmd that oblivious peace which the grave alone can give. Yet, when I look back^. and call to mind what agonies I have endured. 64 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IV. what sorrows I have suffered, what tears I have shed, and how meekly I have home the insulting taunts, the unfeeling scorn, and the gibing contumely of an unfriendly world ; when I think that my days have been spent in want, and my nights devoted to solitary an- guish ; that my frame has wasted beneath the torturing conflict of my mind ; that every hope, which so gaily danced before my eyes in my morn of life, has been blasted, withered, by the unfruitful grasp of poverty ; and that my unjoyous after-course has been unblessed b}' a single ray of comfort ; when I think of this, and think too that all has flowed from the unnatural tyranny and inflexible severity of a father, tell me who will dare to raise the voice of accusation against me, though I should disturb the ashes of that father by my execra- tions and my curses ? Here I stop : in my next letter you shal! know the conclusion of the sutTerings of Julia. London, H t/Street, Ju?2e27, 1810. %f)t Contemplattet No. V. SATURDAY, JULY 7, 1810. Ferfidus, sed guamvis perfidus, carus tamem TO THE CONTEMPLATIST. SIR, TN the execution of my promise, I now continue my narrative. Every thing was arranged for my departure from my father's dwelling. Night was the time chosen, as being the least liable to un- welcome intrusion. Henry was to have a post-chaise in waiting, which would conduct us to a place of safety ; and, on the following morning, we were to be married. I will not deny that my mind dwelt with rapture upoa m THE eONTEMPLATIST. No.V. this scheme rising in proportion to its ro- mantic character. It suited my ardent and enthusiastic feelings. There was in it, in my estimation, something so singular, and there- fore so pleasing, that the innocence of virtue was scarcely startled at the contemplation of it. I felt no emotion but that of joy as I pre- pared the little parcel that was to accompany me ; and I took with me nothing that was not absolutely requisite, for my heart seemed to tell me that a parent's forgiveness would not be withheld. These were the gaieties of expectation, in which the present was forgotten and the fu- ture decorated in all the fair colours of my wishes. Yet, when the moment arrived, my resolution failed ; my heart sunk within me, eind my eyes filled with tears. Twelve o'clock was the hour fixed. Henry was to be in wait- ing at the outer gate. Eleven had struck, and I was sitting in my room, with my small bundle before me, dreading, yet wishing, the hour to come. During this silent, this solemn interval, the mind had time to revert upon itself, and to conjure up a thousand painful No.V. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 67 images. Thought became oppressive, and yet I had no means to escape from it. I sur- veyed my chamber and its dear, famiHar con- tents, with eyes that swam in tears ; and a momentary pang smote me which seemed to predict that I was to be for ever exiled from it. I took pen, ink, and paper, and wrote a few lines to my mother, which I resolved to leave upon my table, to assuage the first pa- roxysm of grief that woukl be ft^lt when my flight was discovered. I had just folded it up when the village clock tolled twelve. Gracious God ! Had it been the fatal knell that was to have conducted me to a scaffold, I should hardly have felt a more appalling dread come over me! I sat for a few mo- ments lost in conflicting sensations : but 1 had approached the verge and could not shrink from the leap. I gently opened my door. I had to pass the chamber where my father and mother slept. Heaven knows with what a bursting heart I did so. Oh ! it was a horrid moment. How like a guilty thief I thought myself, who robbed the innocent of all their little e2 «58 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. V. wealth while they slept the sleep of peace, /was all their wealth, and yet I could in- humanly snatch it from them. T pictured to myself the distraction they would feel when they should awake and find their ruin. But even then, the sophistry of self-gratification came across my mind, and assisted to hush the terrors of, my heart, by whispering to it that 1 should soon return and repair the evil I was about to commit. I gained the gate, and threw myself, breath- less and weeping, into the arms of Henry. He kissed away my tears, and led me, trem- bling, to where the carriage was waiting. It was a clear, moonlight night, which, added to the solemn silence of the hour, awoke a thousand emotions in my breast. Henry spoke only in a Vv^hisper ; and even this seemed to throw so much of guilt into our conduct, that I half recoiled from the step I had taken. But I had no time to think. We were seated in the carriage, and it drove off at a rapid pace. We travelled all night, and, in the morn- ing, alighted at an inn, about thirty miles frona No.V. THE CONTEMPLATIST, 69 my father's house. It was with a rapture which words cannot express, that I saw the first grey of the morn glimmering in the east. I felt relieved ; and I anticipated the coming day as the period which was to give a holy sanction to my rashness, by uniting me to Henry. Heavens ! How shall I proceed ? As we sat at breakfast, I spoke of marriage. Henry smiled. I thought it was a smile of love and joy, and my heart was gay. When our repast was over, Henry drew near to me, and taking my hand in his, addressed me : — " Julia, there is a native sanctity in virtue which no human forms can increase. The heart that is filled with honour and liberal sentiments, needs no other monitor to keep its thoughts in awe than the proud conscious- ness that vice degrades and sullies the breast that owns it. Vulgar minds, indeed, a prey to every rude and lawless passion, submit, Vv ith- out a murmur, to their tempestuous sove- reignty; and, in the wild career, lose all re- collection of themselves and of the society of which they form a part. To such, and such only, can wholesome restrictions be needful 70 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. V. Ah ! those looks tell me you understand me : need I proceed ?" A horrid thought glanced across my mind. I was breathless. I felt too much. Weep I could not; but, in a voice scarcely articulate, I bade him proceed. " Feel not incensed my Julia " he con- tinued. " When I would throw off the shackles with which corrupt custom has fettered the rest of mankind, I do but pay the most exalted homage to your virtue, in believing that no ties can make it more lasting, or that, because you have the power to err, your heart w^ouid let you." The full conviction of his intentions now flashed upon me. Merciful heavens! At that moment I could have annihilated him. Love was wholly extinguished, and rage alone possessed me. What ! Sink into his mistress ? Henry a vile deceiver? A crawling reptile, who could lay snares with subtle villainy, and avo'jcli his infamy with words ? I looked at him : it was a look of scorn and defiance. " Wretch/' I exclaimed after a painful struggle for utterance: but then, suddenly No.V. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 71 recollecting from what height of happiness I had fallen, my eyes filled with tears, and I added, in a softened tone, " Oh I for pity's sake, let me not think you so vile and abject. Tell me that it was but jest: tell me that you are honorable. Let me not bewilder myself in horrid thoughts that paint you to my mind more hideous than words can represent." Henry, unmoved by my emotions, unmoved by the tears that now flewed fast down my cheeks, replied, with insulting coolness, — " Pshaw ! this is but affectation : 'tis wearing the mask longer than even prudish coquetry demands. Come, my Julia! discard the re- straints of vulgar minds : come to my arms, lovely as thou art " He attempted to embrace me; but, with the force and dignity of insulted virtue, I threw him from me: he staggered to the other end of the room, and the severity of my looks awed hmi, for a moment, into silence. I was, myself, a prey to the most agomzing sensations that ever rent the human heart.— To find, in the only object my soul had singled out for its stay and comfort through life, base- 7t THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.r. ness, cruelty, and vice; to behold all my fondest hopes thus wrecked in an instant ; to reflect that I had left my father's hospitable and kindly roof, and must now return to it fallen and insulted : Oh ! what anguish would have been spared me at that moment, what subsequent miseries should I not have escaped, had Heaven, in mercy to my affliction, relieved me from a hfethat had,already,become hateful to me. Yet, it all appeared like a dream. But my persecutor soon recalled me to reality. " Julia," said he, " I will be candid, con- demn me as you may. To marry you I never thought: my situation, my circumstances for- bid it. Besides, would I condescend to steal away ray wife?'' " Base, ungenerous man," I replied, "you would condescend to ruin a helpless girl, to ruin a virtuous father and mother: you would condescend to give me and my hopes to end- less infamy, and to fill my heart with bitter- ness. Neither circumstance nor situation would have intervened to obstruct the com- pletion of that design. Oh ! shallow artifice! Henry, hear me. — I loved you once, for I No. V. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 7S thought you worthy of my love : 1 thought you virtuous. You are not what you seemed, and the love that dwelt so sweetly on the illusion is now converted into hatred : fly me; leave me; begone, or Fil alarm those within hearing and denounce your baseness.*' The firm, undaunted manner with which I uttered these words had its due effect. He quitted the room, and, shortly after, the house. He looked with a smile of scorn upon me as he closed the door. I was now alone, and I hesitated not a mo- ment about what was to be done. I had money with me, and I resolved to return, immediately, to my parents, and hoped to atone for my error by what had been the purity of my conduct. I knew that the rumour of my flight would soon be spread over the place, and I therefore took care not to arrive till the evening had closed in. As I entered the street that led to my abode how my heart sunk within me! I passed along, unnoticed, till I arrived at the garden-* gate which adjoined my paternal mansion. — A melancholy silence seemed to prevail: no one was to be seen : the moon, just risen, cast r4 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. V. a silver radiance upon the foliage. I Avalked, musing, for a few morrients ; how changed, methought, ah-eady, from the time when I walked in peace on that very spot with my beloved parents. The idea was resolution, and I hoped, once more, to find, within that little space, my wonted happiness. As I approached towards the house, I per- ceived a light in a small parlour where I had often sat, with my work, and watched the setting-sun as it shed a golden lustre over the landscape. I advanced slowly : the window- shutters were half closed, and I could just perceive my mother sitting, with a handker- chief up to her eyes. God ! how my heart smote me at that instant! My father was pacing up and down the room in seeming agitation. While I thus stood gazing, with eyes that swam in tears, my favorite spaniel had discovered me, and was whining at my feet: his noise brought out one of the female .servants, who, seeing me, exclaimed, with a -sliriek of joy, " Oh ! my young lady !" In antitistant afterwards I was sobbing on my mother's bosom. But my father ah! rash No.V. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 75 severity ! tore me from her arms, proclaimed me infamous, and forbade me his house ! Oh man ! of what materials is thy heart composed ? Is it to ape a Roman name, that thus ye shut your feeUngs against approach, and seem to triumph in the ignorance of mercy? A daughter, locked within a mo- ther's embrace, weeping, innocent, and yet repentant, who could turn her to the world's scorn, infamy, and want, that ever felt a father's transport in his child ? When parents teach this cruel lesson, shall we wonder that indifferent minds learn it with too apt a per- fection ? He forcibly dragged my mother from me, ordered the servants in, and closed the door. I stood motionless. The magnitude of my feelings absorbed the power of perceiving them. I looked towards my paternal roof, my home, my asylum, my birth-place, and found myself for ever exiled. I heard my mother's cries for her abandoned child. My mind pictured horrors. I tottered towards the door to call for mercy and forgiveness, and fell senseless at the threshold. 76 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. V. "'— • ' -g * How long I lay thus I know not. When I came to myself I was cold and comfortless. — The dews of the night had fallen upon me, and my limbs trembled. My poor FidOy my faithful spaniel, was lying by my side, with his fore feet resting across my bosom a.^ if to preserve there the vital warmth. I felt as I had been in a dream. Confused thoughts rushed across my mind. Henry — father — mother — an outcast. I started up and strove to enter. But no : all was fast ; all was dark and silent within. I went round to the other side of the house where my mother slept: there was a hght in her chamber; even this was comfort to me: but my sighs and wail- ings were audible ; they reached a mother*s ear; her window opened softly, and I saw, once more, the honored form wliich bore me. Involuntarily I fell upon my knees, held forth my hands in supplication, and stammered oujt the words '* forgive meT* She took the rib- bon from her head and threw it towards me, as a token of pardon, and exclaimed " God protect you, my Julia." More she would have said, more have don-', but my father's No.V. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 77 voice called her hence. Ten thousand times I kissed the precious pledge, and I have pre- setv*ed it as a holy relic that shall comfort me in the hour of death. Hope now forsook me. I left the garden, and wandered, I know not whither, till the morning dawned upon me. I then repaired to the house of a dear friend, who, I knew, would be a mediator between me and my of- fended father. When she heard my story she wept with tenderest pity, bade me be comforted, and spoke, with confidence, of my father's forgiveness when he should know that 1 was yet innocent. She left me with strong assurances of success ; but returned, with anguish, to tell me, that neither prayers, nor tears, nor entreaties, could soften that inex- orable heart. Thus abandoned, I looked round to see whither [ should turn my forlorn course. To stay in my native place was impossible : — I must fly somewhere. London was the spot where best we may be forgotten when we wish it, and thither I resolved to go. In the menial 78 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.V. employment of a servant I hoped to lind a refuge from necessity. Yet, ere I quitted, for ever, scenes that v^iere twined round my heart by the remembrance of the happiest hours there passed that ever gladdened a human being, I took a last farewel of them. I stole, at midnight, once more to my beloved home, walked over every place that was endeared to me, looked, with tearful eyes, upon the little room where was my library, and in which I had wept over fictitious woes less dreadful than my own ; and, as I turned away, bade them adieu for ever. I will not. Sir, detail to you the rest of my miserable life. In London, I found that the purest intentions were of no avail without friends. I offered myself wherever I thought I could get employment : but I was uniformly rejected, sometimes with contempt, sometimes with ridicule, and sometimes with insult. — The little money I had* was soon expended, and I had now before my eyes the horrid prospect of a wretched death. From self- annihilation I shrunk back appalled. When No.V. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 79 life is held upon contingencies, the props of virtue are shaken ; while there is a prize to struggle for, the labour is assuaged ; but when contumely imputes the vices that are yet un- acted, it requires fortitude to stem the cur- rent of temptation. Poverty, in the minds of the million, is synonimous with crime. I was soon taught this bitter lesson. You will consider these, perhaps, but weak palliatives : let no one, however, dare to condemn me for falling till they have withstood the same w^eight. A life of prostitution is a life of unmitigated wretchedness : but my career in infamy has been short. I write this on that bed from which I shall never rise again : the constant agony of an upbraiding conscience has preyed upon my vitals ; and I hail, with joy, that moment which is to free me from misery. — I shall stand before my Judge, and my father shall stand there too ; my crimes shall be read aloud, and every one shall fall like a thunder- bolt upon his ear: my punishment shall be declared, and he too shall fall beneath the 10 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. V. frown of Almighty God : for, not a vice has stained my life that draws not its origin from his cruel severity. Forgive me. Sir, that I have thus trespassed on your time : but there are those who may perhaps reap advantage from the narrative of the dying Julia. Lo7ido?7, H ^-Street, Julys, 1810. C{)e Contemplattet No. VI. ♦ SATURDAY, JULY 14, 1810. Ardua res est, vetustis novitatem dare, novis aucto- ritatem, fastiditis gratiam, omnibus vero naturam et naturae mce omnia, Pliny. f\P things not to be compared we often attempt the comparison, by forcing them into fanciful analogies ; and, when the diversities are too repugnant to coalesce, we strive to establish an absolute superiority where only a relative one can be maintained. In the pride of critical sagacity, we call that discovery which is only error, ajnd imagine those things which it would puzzle the sober 82 THE CONTEMPLATIST- No.VL deductions of the judgment to establish. We are pleased, however, with the fertility of our fancy, and call upon the world to bow to it as to the dictates of unerring wisdom. It is in this manner that some writers have amused themselves with comparing the styles of Addison, Johnson, and Goldsmith: but with what propriety may be anticipated by every one who has perused those authors with critical discrimination. A more advan- tageous topic of discussion would be to consider the diction of each of these celebrated writers abstractedly, by which we might hope to learn the secrets of its excellence: and though the examination of the style of Addison has been performed by Johnson himself, I shall not therefore be deterred from telling what I think of it, unbiassed by the authority of his name. There are few things, indeed, which may be more safely disputed than the praises and censures of that critic, who delighted to set himself in opposition to the opinions of man- No.Vr. THE CONTEMPLATIST. M kind, and sometimes confounded truth with novelty. Style is not, perhaps, so much the offspring of taste arid judgment, as the production of genius. Every man, whose mind is com- prehensive, and whose faculties of perception are original and acute, creates, for himself, a peculiar style or mode of expression. As we find, in common life, that the conversation of men differs, according to the degrees of their intellectual powers, so may their written language : and, if this be true, the diction of equally celebrated writers should be considered abstractedly, rather than compared. It is, pertiaps, one of the leading charac-. teristics of genius to be able to form its own language. No imitator is destined to im- mortality. If we recal the works of our truly great authors, we shall find that they all have a manner distinct from each other. He who thinks forcibly, will seek cor- respondent expressions; but, he who wanders T 5 84 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. V7. only upon the surface of thought, will be content with common language. A giant cannot move in the trammels of a dwarf: a lofty imagination will seldom stoop beneath its height That peculiarity of diction which belongs to an original writer, is the result of labour facilitated by habit. He was first conscious of his mode of thought, and he then endea- voured to make his language suitable. What he does always, every writer does sometimes, when he rises above, or sinks below, the ge* neral tenor of his subject, and exalts or de- presses his language accordingly. Instead, therefore, of comparing the styles of three writers so discriminated from each other as Addison, Johnson, and Goldsmith , it would be more beneficial to critical know- ledge to ascertain the respective qualities of each. Let me attempt it: and if I fail to convince my readers, my aim will not be vvholly lost if I contribute to their amuse- ment. ^ No^VI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 85 When Addison wrote, the prose language of this country had not received stability. Dryden, indeed, had written very elegantly, in prose ; yet, not without such occasional imbecility as would scarcely be found now in a newspaper essay.. The prose of Hooker and Temple is often feeble, and that of Shaftsbury turgid. Sprat, whom Johnson praises with such profusion in his life of Cowley, was, notwithstanding, weak and prolix.. Addison,, therefore, had not to ascend very high to outstrip his predecessors; and he seems indeed to have been contented with a blender pre-eminence. The term elegant has usually been applied to Addison, as expressive of his style ; but a style merely elegant, with- out vigour, without a decided character, and without warmth, must be, generally, very, insipid. In the structure of his sentences, /Iddi^on is often negligent, as may be seen in the cri- 45 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VL tical analysis which Blair has given of some of his papers. We are told, indeed, by some of his biographers, that he wrote slowly, and corrected with great assiduity and an^ety ; if he did, he probably refined the rough stamp of his first composition away, and left a weakly, ^^bilitated mass of artificial for- mation. In reading the essays of Addison, I am seldom arrested by any sudden elevations, by any harmonious collocation of sentences, or by any happy application of words. He writes in one even tenor, and must, there- fore, sometimes fail in preserving a neces- sary conformity between his style and his subject. He is not scrupulous in his adoption of words. Such as were most readily obtained, he used ; and, it may safely be asserted, that no one paragraph of Addison's could be selected in which the language shall be un- susceptible of improvements As far indeed No. VI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. S7 as verbal accuracy is to be considered, he must be regarded as inferior to many living writers far beneath him in every other quality of mind. Examples, in support of this assertion, I could produce, if to produce them were tliought necessary. Xo doubt, to this opinion will be opposed the encomiastic one of Johnson, in his life of Addison, Why he deviated so widely from a model which he thought so excellent, can be accounted for only upon the principle which I laid down in the beginning of this paper, that style is the offspring of genius, A man of weaker powers, with an equal ad- miration of Addison's style, would certainly have imitated it : but Jolinson was to create, not to adopt, a style. When Bos well men- tioned to him the great difference which there was betw^een his mode of composition, and ih£it of Addison's, which he had so lavishly commended, he replied, " Sir, Addison had his t^tyle, and I have mine." Whether, how- ever, his commendation has a just foundation, may admit of a doubt. 88 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VI. The great excellence of Addison, as an essayist, is the propriety of his thoughts upon serious and elevated topics, and his wit and humour upon meaner ones. When he is gay and humorous we have no reason to com- plain of his diction : it is then, and then only perhaps, that it possesses all that due con- formity to the subject, which is the perfection of writing. It seems to flow naturally from him ; and when we consider how nearly allied some of his lighter lucubrations are to the common tenor of common conversation, we are surprised to learn that he was so in- ferior in colloquial excellence. This infe- riority must have arisen from the slow com- bination of his thoughts. In words he could scarcely be deficient ; but he could not readily bring, to immediate application, the stores he possessed; and, as conversation is a state of quick and instantaneous interchange of ideas^ the moment that is lost to reply, is lost for ever. The transition from the style of Addison No. VI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 89 to that of Johnson, is like passing from the coldly elegant scenes of Racine to the fiery eloquence of Shakspeare. Johnson impressed upon his language, what, in my opinion, every writer of original genius must do, the qua- lities of his own mind* As he thought witli dignity, he wrote so. As he felt confidence in his own powers, his language was bold, energetic, and decisive. As his knowledge was desultory, his periods were sententious. For the purposes of moral inculcation, the style of Johnson is excellent. He enforces his precepts in language which commands attention ; he compresses his sentiments into short and weighty sentences that assume the force of maxims. The expressions he adopts are those which best convey his meaning, and, at the same time, stamp it on the mind of the reader. As Addison could not ascend, so Johnson could not descend. He never trifles, or, if he ^ THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.VL attempt it, he moves in fetters. 1 will not deny, that had he attended, or had he been capable of attending, to the following maxim of a French writer, (which is illustrated with more force than delicacy,) he would have been more generally pleasing : — *' Quelque ton sublime qiCon preiine, si on ne mele pas quelque repos a ses ecarts, on est perdu, Uuniformite de sublime degoute. On ne doit pas couvrir son cu de diamans comme sa tete^ Sans variete jamais de beaute.'* Johnson could not attain the easy, natural diction of common narrative, tlie spritely in- terchange of colloquial vivacity, or the adap- tation of language to an assumed character*. Whatever he wrote bore the impress of his own mind. In Rasselas, Imlac and the waiting maid, the robber and the philosopher, all speak a kindred language. In reading the prose of Johnson the Srime effect is produced as by the poetry of Pope. The ear is some- No.VL TFIE CONTEMPLATIST. Qi times wearied with its monotony : ahundat duicibus vitiis. But to provide mere amusement is an inferior effort of the mind. Johnson aspired higher, and attained to what he aspired. He left the subordinate offices of literature to subordinate claimants, and advanced himself to the important dignity of a teacher of moral wisdom. If it be allowed that where we would instruct, we must first excite attention, then, it cannot be denied that the style of Johnson is admirably fitted to effect its purpose. No one can read him with a vagrant mind. As, in society, we find that persons of a grave aspect, deliberate utterance, and forceful expression, obtain, and, as it were, command respect and attention even from the thought- less and the dissipated, so the language of Johnson chains the mind down to its subject, and forbids it to trifle with its pages. Oa TFIE, CONTEMPLATIST. No. VI. Such IS the oraiuary chai'acter o^ Johnson* s style : but it boiitetirrjes ascends higher and awakens m the muid passions of a liighef cast. 1 hough pathos was not his peculiar province, yet he is often highly pathe:tic: nor would it be imposbibie to select instances of sublimity from his writings.. Let me -add, that as an essayist, I prefer Johnson to Addison, lam now to speak of Goldsmith: a writer vaho may boldly take his place by the side of those already mentioned, nor fear diminu- tion by comparison. Goldsmith certainly formed himself in the school of Addison: but he had all the excellencies without the defects of his master. In wit and hu- mour he was nothing inferior, and in the power of occasional elevation he was much superior. Goldsmith is another instance of a man excelling in the charms of a plain and natural No.vr. THE CONTEMPI.ATIST. OS diction on paper, yet absolutely unable to carry on rational conversation. It was usual for Goldsmith to say of himself that he always argued best, and always gained the victory, when he argued alone. No man, in fact, wrote more wisdom and talked more folly than poor Oliver, Goldsmith, I think, excels all writers in OUT country in the power of giving appro- priate language to fictitious characters. He embraced a wider sphere of literary exertion than Addison, and has, consequently, af- forded greater proofs of the extent of his capacity. In his essays we find many nar- ratives, the dramatic part of which is ex- cellently supported. The character of Beau Tibbs is finished with matchless ac- curacy. In the structure of his sentences he has greater harmony and greater variety than Addison. In his language he is more scru- 04 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VI. pulous. He does not offend so often by colloquial phrases or obsolete combinations. His prose is not so feeble, nor so coldly regu- lar. In felicity of expression, when intended to coBvey a plain and simple idea, or a na- tural emotion of common minds, he is perhaps unequalled. A very conspicuous merit of Goldsmitfis prose is the lucid arrangement of his sen- tences. Every word, and every period^ appear to be jUst where they ought to be. We have no evidence that he composed slowly, or that he laboured much to cor^ Tect what he had once written : and such perspicuity of arrangement is, therefore, the more remarkable in a man whose ideas in conversation were so perplexed and con* fused. Harmony, simplicity, clearness, and pro- priety in relation to the matter, are the pre- 4omin3iDt qualities o^Goldsmitlts general style; No.Vr. THE rONTEMPLATTST. 9^ but, as he was also capable of elevation, I may add to the above, occasional dignity and energy of language. As a model to be studied, I should prefer it to AddisoiiSy for it is more pure. In delivering these opinions I am not igno- rant that I oppose the general voice. The cant of criticism has long been in favour of the elegant Addison^ vv hnm, in the considera- tion of language, I estimate below both Johnson and Goldsmith, With Johison in- deed, it is as ridiculous to compare him as it would be to compare Shakspeare and Milton : but with Goldsmith, the attempt is defensible, for there is some analogy between them. The lapse of half a century, however, during which the English language had been gra- dually refining, afforded to the latter oppor- tunities of excellence which were denied to his predecesjjor. To a Shakspeare or a Mil- ton only is it given to anticii)ate the progress of time in the construction of their laoguage. ge THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VI. Inferior minds must wait, upon that progress, and receive from it, their c'haracter and com- plexion. Cf)e Contemplattet No. VII. SATURDAY, JULY 21, 1810. Criticism, as it xuas first iiistituted hy Aristotle, was meant a standard of judging well. Dryden. nnHERE are few subjects of miscellaneous literature which are perused with more avidity than didactic and illustrative criti- cism ; whether it be that we are pleased to see an author passing through an ordeal from which he can hardly be expected to issue un- touched, or that we are honestly anxious to rectify our own ideas, and to enlarge the boundaries of our own acquirements. The true motive is, perhaps, a compound of both. We are not unwilling to pursue an inquiry which may lead to the detection of error and a 98 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VII. to the diminution of another's fame, and we hope, also, to have our own minds convinced by the force of the arguments employed, or to have its stores enlarged by the communica- tion of superior knowledge. But the object of my present paper is rather to gratify the passion than to trace its cause, as I mean to offer to my readers some observations upon the language and sentiments of Milton's Samson Agonistes, a poem more frequently praised than read, by those who find it easier to repeat the decisions of others than to form their own. It may, indeed, seem a fruitless labour to criticise what has already passed under the discriminating observation of John- son : but, when we recollect the force of the political and literary prejudices of that writer, it may, perhaps, be a task of merit and utility. My intention, however, is neither to contro- vert nor to defend the strictures of Johnson : I intend to offer those opinions which sug- gested themselves to me upon the perusal of this dramatic poem. That it is confessedly written upon the mo*< del of the Greek drama is well known ; and No.VIL TFlE CONTEMPLATIST. 99 that it should, therefore, have few of those quahties which belong to the theatrical pro- ductions of this country is natural. It is one of the ends of writing to please, and pleasure must be adapted to the state of the recipient. What gave delight to an ancient Greek or Ro- man, need not, necessarily, give the same delight to a people removed, in time, centu- ries from their era; and we find that in some cases it does not. It is the bigotry of erudi- tion only which can hope to assimilate discor- dant principles in attempting to excite plea- sure by means which are approved, not from their congruity, but from their antiquity. All taste is founded upon feeling. There is a strong moral and intellectual, as well as a physical sensibility, and this intellectual sen- sibility is the basis upon which alone can be Veared the matured offspring of education, habit, and judgment, which we denominate taste. There is a wide difference between the perception of beauty and harmony and be- tween the feeling of it. Lord Kaimes was capable of demonstrating, with philosophical precision, the very form and character of a 100 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VII. noble or sublime thought : but I doubt whe- ther he ever felt a sublime or noble thought with that instantaneous sympathy which is the unequivocal evidence of a dehcate and refined taste. It seldom, perhaps never, happens, that an author is read with the same approbation by a foreign student, because a very great por- tion of the merit on which his reputation is built must necessarily consist of felicities of language and illustrations of manners, which cannot be felt unless understood, and cannot be understood unless known. This is true in a general sense, and it is particularly true with regard to the drama, which is still more an exhibition of national modes and customs, even when founded upon events that are not national ; for, I suppose an ancient Roman, could he be called into temporary existence, would seek, in vain, for Roman forms of ex- pression or Roman ideas, in Julius Ccesar, in Antony and Cleopatra, or in Coriolanus. — Addison has said, that a Roman ploughman probably spoke the Latin language with greater purity than the finest modern Latin No; VII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 101 scholar that ever existed ; and, in the same manner, it may be said that a Roman centu- rion was more truly a Roman, in his daily and most familiar thoughts, than even the pen of a Shakspeare could make a Cwsar, an Antony, Qf a Brutus. It may indeed be considered as impossible to transfuse the national character of any coun- try into the page which is written centuries after that country has lost its name among na- tions : and hence, the difficulty of awakening kindred sentiments in the mind of a reader, when he is occupied with manners and customs foreign from his own knowledge of experience. If these opinions be founded in truth, it will then follow, that Samson Agonistes being written in imitation of a foreign model, and being founded upon an event not national, has two powerful difficulties to struggle against in its effect upon the mind. But, to dismiss this consideration, I shall now proceed to offer a few observations upon its execution and upon the sentiments which it contains. The proemial monologue is written with 102 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.VIT. considerable patho.s, a quality not often to be found in the muse of Milton; and, when Samson deplores his own blindness, our feel- ings of pity are, at once, transferred to the author. The evils attendant upon that pri- vation are enumerated with force and truth ; not forgetting, (what is, perhaps, the greatest and most afflictive of them all), ** being in light, expos'd To daily fraud, contempt, abuse, and wrong Within doors, or without, still as a fool, In power of others, never in my own." To a rational being, imagination itself can- not surely conceive a keener or more perpe- tual misery than the consciousness of constant dependence on the mercy and forbearance of man ; a state, surrounded with terrors which exist without diminution, and almost without that hope which alleviates those terrors in the breast of any other individual. The complaint uttered in the following re- monstrance is natural. When we suffer, we willingly ask why some better arrangement did not secure us from the necessity of suf- fering. NcVIL THE CONTEMPLATIST. 103 Since light so necessary is to life. And almost life itself, if it be true, That light is in the soul. She all in every part ,; why was the sight To such a tender ball as the eye confin'd, So obvious and so easy to be quenched? And not as feeling, through all parts diffused, That she might look, at will, thro' every pore? The incumbrance of a chorus is very sensi- bly felt in this poem. It is at once unnatural and superfluous. The mind is dissatisfied with so violent a deviation from the ordinary means of human intercourse, and it is offended at the employment of what might be omitted with advantage. Milton, however, was doubtless satisfied with what he considered as a happy adaptation of the Grecian muse to the English language. The pride of learning was propitiated at the expense of good taste and good sense. The ancient chorus can never be employed to advantage in the mo- dern drama. Caractacus and Elfrida are proofs of this. I have always thought that there is an irreverent use made of the name and power 104 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.Vir. of the deity in the following lines. Sam«on deplores the circumstance of having given an opportunity to the Philistines of magnifying and extolling their idol Dagon as the power by whose means he is now captive and blind among them : but, he adds. This only hope relieves me, that the strife With me hath.end; all the contest is now 'Twixt God and Dagon : Dagon hath presumed. Me overthrown, to enter lists with God, His deity comparing and preferring Before the God of Abraham. He, be sure. Will not connive or linger, thus provok'd. But will arise, and his great name assert : Dagon must stoop, and shall, ere long, receive Such a discomfit, as shall quite despoil him Of all these boasted trophies won on me, And with confusion blank his worshippers. Surely no degree of enthusiasm for the genius of Milton can consider this with plea- sure. The idea of a personal contest between a true and a false god reminds us of the ab- surdities of pagan mythology. There seems, indeed, to be, in Milton, more perhaps than in any other writer, an obscu- No.VIT. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 10^ rity and confusion in his oyv^n conceptions of the omnipotence of the deity. Forgetting that the idea of omnipotence annihilates the necessity of means ^ for the accomplishment of an end, he constantly represents to us the supreme power as producing consequences not by its immediate act and will, and strives to excite our, wonder, that by an apparently inadequate medium it is enabled to perform certain actions. But, it is consonant to our ideas of divine omnipotence, to suppose that what it wills it can perform merely by its own resolution and act : and, therefore, it is incon- sistent in Milton to make the chorus exclaim. Oh madness, to think use of strongest wines And strongest dr^inks our chief support of health; When God, with these forbidd'n made choice to rear His mighty champion, strong above compare. Whose drink was only from the liquid brook. This is puerile ; for the deity, by his own act, could have given, to the pliant sinews of infancy, corporeal strength even beyond that of Samson. To that power which finds every thing possible, only human weakness can imagine Hmits. 106 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VII. The most spirited and energetic part of this poem is the colloquy between Samson and Da- lilah : and this, he doubtless wrote with feeling acrimony from the recollection of his own con- jugal hifelicity. Dr. Johnson says, that in all his writings he expresses a more than Turk- ish contempt for women. This, however, is not true, for surely he exalts thj female cha- racter in Paradise Lost. It does not, indeed, appear, from the accounts of his biographers, that he had much reason to entertain an ex- alted notion of the sex : and when he attri- butes to them fickleness, wantonness, and de- ceit, does he wander far from truth ? Can it be doubted, by any one who knows the domestic history of Milton, that he wrote the following from conviction of its verity? Out, out, hyena ! these are thy wonted arts. And arts of every woman false like thee. To break all faith, all vows, deceive, betray. Then, as repentant, to submit, beseech, And reconcilement move with feign'd remorse. Confess, and promise wonders in her change. Not truly penitent, but chief to try Her husband, how far urged his patience bears, No.Vn. THE CONTEMPLATIST. lor His virtue or weakness which way to assail : Then, with more cautious and instructed skill Again transgresses and again submits : That wisest and best men, full oft beguil'd With goodness principl'd not to reject The penitent, but ever to forgive. Are drawn to wear out miserable days Intangl'd with a poisonous bosom snake. If not by quick destruction soon cut off As I by thee, to ages an example. The bitterness of this reproof can be height- ened only by the recollection of its truth. The same personal feelings which promp- ted the above, probably dictated the following, in which that allusion is made to individual merit which Milton might proudly claim : It is not virtue, wisdom, valour, wit. Strength, comeliness of shape, or amplest merit. That woman's love can win or long inherit. This is dignified; but what solemnity of countenance can withstand the conclusion } But what it is, hard is to say. Harder to hit, (Which way soever men refer it) Much like thy riddle, Samson, in one day Or sev'n, though one should musing sit. 108 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VII. That the muse of Milton lias cowered her lofty wing when soaring where human in- quiry is not permitted to pierce, is confessed ; and it is palHated by the boldness of the at- tempt ; but, that he who wrote the first three books of Paradise Lost should write the above is an anomaly not easily accounted for. Yet this is not all ; for in this same speech of the chorus are to be found lines, surpassing per- haps those already quoted in absurdity of construction. I will transcribe the whole, because the poet still indulges in his invective against women and the infelicity of the con- jugal state : — Is it for that such outward ornament Was lavished on their sex, that inward gifts Were left for haste unfinished, judgment scant. Capacity not rais'd to apprehend Or value what is best In choice, but oftest to affect the wrong ? Or was too much of self-love mix'd. Of constancy no root enfix'd, That either they love nothing or not long? Whatever it be, to wisest men and best Seeming at first all heavenly under virgin veil,. Soft, modest, meek, demure, No. Vir. THE CONTEMPLATIST. log Once join'd, the contrary she proves, a thorn Intestine, far within defensive arms A cleaving mischief, in his way to virtue Adverse and turhuient, or by her charms Draws him away enslav'd With dotage, and his sense deprav'd ^ To folly and shameful deeds which ruin ends. What pilot so expert, but needs must wreck Embark'd with such a steersmate at the helm? Favour'd of Heav'n who finds One virtuous, rarely found That in domestic good combines: Happy that house ! his way to peace is smooth; But virtue which breaks thro' all opposition, And all temptation can remove. Most shines, and most is acceptable above. Therefore God's universal law Gave to the man despotic pow'r Over his female in due awe. Nor from that right to part an hour. Smile she or lour. So shall he least confusion draw On his whole life, not sway'd By female usurpation or dismayed. In this passage also there is, I believe, enough to offend both the critic and tiie mo- no THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.VII. ralist, for neither wisdom nor humanity can sanction the doctrine of tyranny as laid down by the poet. It partakes of more than " Turk- ish contempt,'* and approaches nearer to the vulgar })rutality of those beings who identify the oppression of the unresisting with the vi- gorous con troul of the rebellious. If Milton practised what he taught, who shall wonder that his wives deserted him ? The dignity of the tragic style will not ad- mit of that minor species of wit which is sometimes included in punning : yet Milton could not always resist the temptation when he wishes to express contempt. Thus Samson says to Harapha, Therefore, without feign*d shifts, let be assigned Some narrow place inclos'd, where sight may give thee. Or Tether jfiight, no great advantage on me. And again, the chorus observes. Fathers are wont to laj/ up for their sons, Thou for thy son art bent to laj/ out Nor is the expression, glantship, applied to No. VII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. ill Harapha^ consistent with the solemnity ex- pected in a dramatic poem. While noticing the errors of this produc- tion, I will advert to one or two more. In the following lines the simile is mean and vukar : — *o^ But he, tho' blind of sight, DespisM and thought exlinguish'd quite. With inward eyes illuminated His fiery virtue rous'd From under ashes into sudden flame j And as an evening dragon came Assailant on the perched roosts. And rests in order rang'd Of tame villatic fowl. Surely a nobler comparison might have been found, if sought for, than an irruption into a hen roost, to illustrate the horrible de- struction of a multitude by the sudden falling in of the building which contained them. The ludicrous flow of the following cou- plet needs no comment : Some dismal accident it needs must be. What shall we do, stay here or run and see? Il« THE CONTEMPLATIST- No.ViL These are minute faults, yet they should not be beneath the notice of him who seeks to improve by illustrative criticism. To ascend as high as Milton can scarcely be hoped by any one ; not to sink so low is within the power of all who have mental qualities wor- thy of exertion. Let this defend the appa- rent unimportance of my strictures. Before 1 'conclude this paper, I will point out a passage which is, perhaps, imitated from Massinger, an author doubtless familiar to Milton, and worthy of being familiar to him. The chorus exclaims. Of good or bad so great, of bad the former. For evil news rides post, while good news baits. In the Picture, by Massinger, is a passage very similar to the above : 111 news, madam, 1$ sM^allow wingM, but what's good walks upoa crutches. Cfje Contemplattet No. VIII. SATURDAY, JULY 28, 1810. Nemo adeojerus est, ut non ?mtiscere possii. Si modo culturce patientem commodet aurem. Horace. ^T^O plead the cause of humanity is a task pleasing to the heart of a good man ; and it is one, also, from the execution of which more honour is derived than from in- quiries, however ingenious, which tend only to amuse the mind, or to gratify the curiosity. Speculative benevolence is sometimes produc- H 114 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VIII. tive of more extensive benefit than actual, be- cause the latter may be only local and tem- porary, while the former may continue to operate unobstructed by time or place. The writer who consecrates his talents to the cause of virtue, is a never-ceasing benefactor to mankind. There is scarcely a moment when he may not solace himself with the idea that he is producing some good : the page which he has devoted to the inculcation of morality, may be working its effect, when the author is resigned to languor or to mirth, or when he is pining in sickness and in sorrow : and he may console himself with the hope, that when even death shall have consigned him to the dreary abode of the sepulchre, his fellow creatures will be still benefited by the labours of his life. Inspirited by this conviction, I have formed the resolution of dedicating this paper, and some ensuing ones, to the consideration of a topic which has been brought before the pub- No.VIlI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. U* lie mind by a nobleman, whose name will long be remembered, and long revered, by all whose natures are not unsusceptible of the feelings of pity and humanity. The topic to which I allude, is Cruelty to Animals \ nor will I be deterred from my purpose by any consciousness of my own insignificance, or the small influence which I may be expected to have over the conduct of my fellow sub- jects. Public opinion must be gradually over- come. The conversion that is progressive is likely to be permanent ; and, though it may not be the lot of every man to lead a nation's voice, yet, there is, perhaps, no man who is totally incapable of exerting, somewhere, ^ salutary influence. We allow that the mean- est individual has power to communicate the seeds of vice and immorality, and why then may not the same individual become the vehicle of virtue and humanity? To wait for splendid opportunities of doing good, is to let life slip away in the intention of benevo-^ knee ; but to seize, with sincerity, every occ*- 116 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VIII. sion of doing it, is to approve ourselves wor- thy in the sight of God. And let no man be withheld from exerting himself to his utmost, whatever may be his station in society ; in that station let him act, and he will not act in vain. For myself, if I shall hereafter have reason to believe that what I am about to write has carried conviction to one heart only, I shall not think my labour fruitlessly em- ployed. The first emotion with which the mind is filled, as it contemplates the relation of brutes to man, is that of kindness. They are weak, we are powerful : they are obedient, we are imperative : they serve, w^e command. They are humble and patient; they endure the ills which •we inflict upon them without a murmur, and are still as ready to obey as if they had been cherished with abounding love and mercy. With us they contend not for supremacy. Their actions are devoid of all that can justly provoke us to resentment; and though, for No. VIII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 117 the purposes of domestic and public economy, needful asperities may be requisite to fit them for our use, yet, they'do not justify the wan- ton abuse of a privilege which we possess by inheritance, but for which we shall surely be responsible hereafter. He who is truly merci- ful, will always avoid the infliction of unne- cessary pain ; and even that which is neces- sary, he will perform with emotions of sorrow and regret. That heart must be lamentably hardened which is insensible to the wailings of distress, which bleeds not at the groans, of the dumb creation. It is scarcely to be be- lieved, that in civilized man that ferocity is to be found which can behold, unmoved, the agonies of animals subjected to needless tor-^ ture ; nay, more, (and I blush while I write it) that there should exist indivi- duals who can malignantly inflict pain and anguish upon unoffending creatures, and exult in the sobs and convulsions of expiring nature. Shame and reproof have lost all power ov«r IIS THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VIII. such minds ; all feeling is annihilated in their hearts, and it is vain to hope for their reforma- tion by the gentler impulses of awakened com- passion and remorse. No, the strong arm of the law must be raised to awe them. But, shall we be told, that to curb such horrible excesses, to abridge tRe empire of groans and misery, to give humanity a wider play, and to gratify the virtuous feelings of our nature, is to infringe upon the indefeasible rights of man, and to enforce arbitrary and vexatious regulations ? In what book, in what record, in what moral code shall we find it written, that man has a right to torture ? In what bloody pandect shall we find this right acknowledged ? In what constitution are we told that it is morally or politically right to abuse the creatures of God's hand ? What modern Draco will dare to promulge an ordi- nance so monstrous, so iniquitous, so impious? No, the law of nature is here our guide, whose voice condemns, loudly condemns, the horrid practice. No. VIII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 119 There is no bosom so obdurate, but it will confess this truth, if it be properly presented. Nature is always the same, and when she can be approached through the thick envelope- ments which passion, liabit, and society have thrown around her, we shall find her uniform in her decisions. Evert they who commit the ▼ery enormities of which I now complain, would not deliberately inculcate them to their offspring, nor defend the perpetration of them upon the abstract principles of propriety and right. Men will dare to do what they will not dare to justify. It is so in all other vices, and it is so in this. The practice of it is con- tinued without reflection, and without re- morse: but place it before their eyes in all its hideous truth, and they would shudder at the monstrous apparition. Like the guilty Thane, they will be ** afraid to think of what they have done ; look on it they dare not." Here then is that solemn voice which n^ THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.VIIL speaks in every bosom, and which no man ever despised with impunity. To this let him appeal, who is tempted to doubt the pro- priety of regulations, whose object it is to restrain those by the fear of punishment who can be restrained by no other motive. Let him ask himself if animals have corporeal feeling like his own ? Let him ask whether pain be a desirable sensation, or whether we have a right to inflict it unne- cessarily? The answers to these questions will be the noblest sanction of those measures which Lord Erskine is enforcing in behalf of injured animals. They too, who stigmatise the proceeding as the offspring of a morbid delicacy, of a too refined humanity, shew only their own weakness or their own cruelty. The cause of humanity is the cause of nature and of God ; and is it possible to defend such a cause too zealously ? Believe it not, ye who are willing to embrace any counsel which flatters your own doings. Hearken not to the delusion which would persuade you that it is weak- No. VIII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 1^1 ness, and not virtue, that bids you be merci- ful. Throw away the stubborn prejudices which obscure your reason and harden your hearts, and learn compassion even for the meanest creature that has life and feeling. You will never want the mercy which you shew, nor will you be without a sweet consolation when you reflect upon your deeds. The quality of mercy is tiot strained ; It droppeth as the gentle rain from Heaven Upon the place beneath : it is twice blessed : It blesseth him that gives and him that takes : 'Tis mightiest in the mighty. We do pray for mercy, And that same prayer doth teach us all to render The deeds of mercy. Shakspeare. There is a fashion in most things, and I wish I could succeed in bringing humanity into fashion. Man will do much from custom which he will not do from reason ; and it is 1«« THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.VIII. therefore of importance that he should ac- quire the habit of doing right. A vice that is generally discountenanced will always be acted with caution and timidity ; but that which has ceased to be regarded with abhor- rence by the mass of mankind, will be perpe- trated with few emotions of shame. It is thus with cruelty to animals, which, unless fla- grantly infamous, seldom meets with that reprobation which it were to be wished always followed it. If, therefore, any means can be devised, by which the minds of the multitude may be awakened to a due sense of the enormity of this practice, the basis will be laid of its gradual extinction ; and to effect this salutary reformation must be the labour of many individuals directed to the same pur- pose. The subject being thus brought before them, under various aspects, on various occa- sions, and with various degrees of ability, the great stream of public opinion will be slowly turning from its present channel, till at length it will be happily directed into one where its No-VIIL THE CONTEMPLATIST. 125 course may produce every effect which a wise and good man can wish for. They who condemn the project of legal in- terference, seem not to have any very exact notions upon the subject. Eager to display their own sagacity, by detecting the weakness of a legislative measure, they confound liberty with licentiousness, and pretend to have many fears lest every man should be abridged of an unlimited right to exercise cruelty. But this ferocious freedom may be safely resisted. It will always be easy to distinguish between needful severity and wanton barbarity ; and, besides, the very consciousness that there is a law to punish cruelty will operate as a powerful check upon those individuals who, now, set at defiance every feeling of humanity. No man can walk through the streets of this metropolis without having hourly occasion to wish that he could call in the aid of power to befriend the harmless victims of human brutes. With- out such an auxiliary, interference only sub- 124 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VIII. jects the intruder to such consequences as every man is not disposed to encounter. I would willingly, however, divest the lovers of English liberty of all fears for the constitution, of which they are so vociferously proud, by convincing them that such laws as I am sure it is the intention of Lord Erskine to suggest,- will never rob my countrymen of one legitimate right. It is the business of law, negatively to enforce the practice of vir- tue by the prohibition of vice,, and whatever comes under this denomination, whatever is an offence against the moral system of society, may, and ought to be, the object of legal pu- nishment. A misdemeanor may be more or less criminal, but if it be a misdemeanor, there can be no doubt that some correction of it should be provided. The multiplication of crimes is one of the consequences of civiliza- tion ; but, it is another consequence, that as those crimes become dangerous or inconve- nient to society, the wisdom of the legislature No. VIII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 125 provides remedies. Let no man believe that political liberty can exist with moral depravity. Where good and bad are left in undistinguish- ed confusion, there exists a radical source of corruption which, by infecting the principles of conduct, prepares the way for a universal degeneracy of manners that, like a canker, will fester round the core of social life, and spread infection through its inmost fibres. But, to oppose a barrier to such degeneracy, is the office of well-digested laws ; and a nation is then most truly great when it is most virtuous. If there be any one who is prepared to prove, that the exercise of wan- ton cruelty towards animals is not a crime, it will be then proper to consider how we shall resist an attempt to shackle it with penal laws ; but, while the general voice of man- kind, while universal nature denounces it as a crime, in the abstract, why should it be wished to shelter it from that visitation of punishment which we judge to be so necessary in all other cases ? 125 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.VITL But there are some who think it a needless refinement of humanity, and who condemn it as a measure which may enervate the na- tional character. What ! is our courage in the field, or on the seas, to perish, if we are not allowed to feed it by a cowardly infliction of pain upon a helpless, a harmless, an unre- sisting animal ? Is the heroic ardour of the warrior to' be derived from so dastardly a source ? Shall our armies be beaten, and our navies taken, when it is no longer permitted to our populace to strike out the eyes, to dis- sever the tendons, to crush the bones, or mercilessly to scourge the unfortunate brute that chance places within their power ? Must WT, without the continuance of such practices, lose, immediately, that venerable and honoured name which our ancestors have transmitted to us as a precious deposit, and which we have yet virtue enough to love and cherish. I hope not : I hope our national cha- racter is founded upon something better than this savage freedom which is now so loudly NO.VIIL THE CONTEMPLATIST. 127 ———I ■ t ■ ■ ■ ■ - — insisted on. I hope we may still continue to be a great, a brave, and a generous people, even though there should pass a law to punish causeless, or vindictive cruelty to animals. Surely it is no evidence, either of manhood or of honour, to oppress the unresisting, or to punish the unoffending. Whoever looks upon the animal creation with a mind properly dis- posed, will be immediately struck with the conviction, that man, though he is the lord, was never meant to be the tyrant of it. The sense of benefits received is, in most cases, sufficient to ensure kindness towards those who confer them. But here it is otherwise. We are unmindful of all that we obtain, and we recompense fidelity, usefulness, and cheerful obedience with stripes and blows. I am wil- ling to believe, however, that iniquity so flagrant, requires only to be known and felt to be detested ; and I shall resume, therefore, this subject in some ensuing papers, not with- 128 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. VIII. out the hope, that by repeated efforts I may be able to aid, in some degree, the success of a cause so truly noble, generous, and humane. Cf)e Contemplattet No. IX. SATURDAY, AUGUST 4, 1810. 2u{pque ipse miserrima vidiy Ei quorum pars macrnajui. ■ Suanqua/n animus meminisse horret, inctuque refugit : Incipiam, — — Virgil. npHE recollection of the sufferings of Julia, whose narrative has been given in the fourth and fifth numbers of my lucubrations, was yet fresh in my memory, when I received the following communication through the hands of my publishers : TO THE CONTEMPLATIST. SIR, I KNOW no person to whom I can so properly address myself, on the present oc- casion, as to yourself; for you have acquired a sort of right to be acquainted with the last moments of one whose agonies of mind you I 150 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IX. have contributed to soothe. Julia, whose melancholy story will, I hope, prove a lesson to the cruelty of parental tyranny, and operate as a check upon the ardour of youthful love ; Julia, whose heart was pure, and whose prin- ciples were right, even in the midst of vice and misery, is now no more. She breathed her last in my arms. I, Sir, am that " dear friend" she mentions, who, when she first transgressed, strove, but in vain, to stand between her and her father's curses. I fruitlessly endeavoured to persuade her to remain in her native place, and to try what repeated solicitations might do, operating upon decaying parental anger. But her pride was too great : she felt that she was essentially innocent, and that the rigid severity of her father was beyond the measure of her offence. When she left me, to go to London. I endea- voured to fortify her resolutions of virtue by my counsel ; and, for some some after her residence in the metropolis, she continued to correspond with me. To this I diligently urged her, because her letters were a source of com- fort both to myself and to htr unhappy mother. No, IX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 131 to Avhom I always shewed them, and whose venerable eyes never yet perused them but with a flood of tears. These letters were, for a period, written with all the appearance of a composed and tranquil mind: but, lat- terly, they became less frequent, and less co- herent ; they seemed to be produced by some uncommon perturbation of feeling; and, in my answers, 1 sought to soothe this apparent state of anxiety. But she took no notice of my endeavours, and the last letter I ever re- ceived from her was the following : — ^^ Maria ! Weep for me : pray for me. Merci- " fnl God ! What am I now ? Tell my father, telJ '*■ my unrighteous sire, his unhallowed curses fosten ■''' on me ! What a gulph yawns before me ! Dear, '' dear friend, these lines are blotted with hot and " scalding tears, that fall quick from my galled eyes^. '* My hand trembles. — Maria ! you loved me.-— Oh " my mother ! meek, unoffending parent, where is *' now your once adored Julia ? Julia, whose smile ^* welcomed you in the morning, and whose parting *' kiss at night, imprinted on your honoured lips, *^ was the blessing that soothed you into repose. — *^ Maria! I conjure you mention not my name '' to her: for I am lost to her, to you, to myself, *' to the world, to God!" 1 9 15« THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IX. You will easily conceive. Sir, that I read this letter with feelings of no roiniiiOn poignancy; and the first thought that oc- curred to my mind was, that my unhappy friend, driven to the last extremes of poverty, had wrought up her mind to the horrid pur- pose of seif-destruction. Full of this belief, I was wretched. I could not, in mercy, shew the letter to her mother. I beguiled her with various accounts ; and, meanwhile, wrote se- veral letters to Julia, but received no answer; the last two, indeed, were returned to me un- der cover from the general post-office — for Julia was not to be found ! My suspicions were now confirmed ; and I wept over her memory as of one in another state of being. Her mother I suffered to remain in a state of dubious anxiety, not having resolution to communicate the whole to her. Sometimes, indeed, I had hopes that she might be living; for, with trembling solicitude I examined the public papers, but met with nothing that confirmed the apprehended circumstances of her death. Some months passed away in this state of No. IX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 135 uncertainty, during which time her father paid the debt of nature. I was the witness^ of his last moments, and I witnessed them with horror. He was a proud and stubborn man : a man who woultl persist in error rather than acknowledge himself to have been wrong. In the first fury of his rage he had forbidden his daughter her home; nor would he, from that moment, suffer any person to mention her name to him. But his inward' feelings were visible by their outward effects. He was no longer gay and cheerful : be lost his relish for discourse and company ; his days were spent in moody silence, and his nights in sleepless sorrow ; he rarely walked out, for he felt that every finger was pointed at him, as a cruel and unjust father, while the dejected and woe-worn countenance of his wife hourly reproached him as the barbarous murderer of her eaithly joys ; he grew sidlen and reserved ; he looked no one in the face ; and he was a slow but deserved victim to the corroding canker of an accusing conscieni:e. His health declined, and he found himself at length unable to quit his chamber. There I J34 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IX. often visited him ; and though my presence revived the recollection of hi« daughter, yet he delighted to see me. But he never spoke of her. How deeply, however, the sense of his rigid conduct, and of her innocence, affected him, the following instance will prove: One day, as he was turning over some loose papers that were contained in a small writing desk, a sudden tremulous start of his whole body,, accompanied with an expression of un- common agony in his countenance, alarmed me. I hastened to him and inquired if he was unwell ? He looked at me, but made no answer, and I saw that his eyes were full of tears. He dropped the lid of the desk, but suddenly lifted it up again : his agitation in- creased : his tears flowed ; drops of perspira- tion started from his brows, and he sobbed aloud. When he saw me about to speak, he hastily quitted the room. There was something so strange, so unac- countable in all this, that I ventured to tres- pass upon the limits of confidence, and to look into his desk. Alas ! I beheld there the cause of his distress. There was an interest- No. IX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 155 ing sketch of Julia, drawn in crayons, by herself, and under which her father had written with a pencW, My dear child. The unexpected sight of this had overcome him ; for she there appeared, as in truth she was^ lovely and innocent. I could not myself, behold it without emotion. It was but a few days after this that he finished his earthly career. In the morniiig of the last day he had received the sacrament; but this solemn rite did not seem to commu- nicate, to him, that holy calm which it usually does to the dying moments of the good man. There was something Awfully shocking in his look. His eyes had a fixed and terrific glare : his nostrils were expanded; his teeth gnashed; his breathing was short and loud : his flesh- less hands grasped, convulsively, the bed- clothes : his grey hairs, matted with perspira- tion, were erect: on his hollow cheeks stood big drops of sweat: and, sometimes he would dash his hands forward, as if to drive away something horrible that strove to approach him. In this state I sat and watched him, Avhile nature, growing to a close, struggled 136 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. IX. but feebly with her adversary ; till, at length, he sunk back upon his pillow and expired, exclaiming, " Julia ! forgive me." May every parent who reads this passage, and who beholds here no fictitious woes, no imaginary colouring, learn to moderate that power which nature and society have placed in their hands : and, ere they doom a guiltless child to want, to misery, and to vice, ere they interdict the most powerful and the most natural feelings of the human heart, ere they attempt to establish their authority upon the ruins of the temporal felicity of their offspring, let them reflect, that there is an awful moni- tor lodged in the breast of man, which, arous- ed, plants scorpion stings round every future step of life ; renders what is past, hateful ; what is to come, horrible ; and which makes its victim sick of existence, though afraid to die : a state, surely so dreadful, as to be be- yond the power of imagination to exaggerate. After the death of this unhappy father, the mother of Julia became a sorrowing and a melancholy inmate of my abode. When the poignancy of her grief had subsided, there No. IX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. IS7 remained only a mild and tender solemnity of manner, which interested the feelings of all who knew her. Many an hour have we pass- ed in fruitless conjectures respecting the fate of Julia ; and when we had exhausted hope, and admitted the suggestions of probability, our tears have mingled together in commise- ration of her hapless lot. Reports, various and contradictory were, from time to time, brought to us; but they only served to excite expectations which were fruitless, or to deepen despair. Some months had elapsed in this state of alternate hope and disappointment, when ac- cident threw in my way the two letters which she had addressed to you. They were indeed but a dubious beacon : yet they were suffi- cient to excite my resolution. I had no doubt that it was my unhappy friend : but how was I to trace her ? Though I almost despaired of overcoming this difficulty, still I was re- solved to attempt it. I did not communicate the circumstance to her mother ; but, upon the plea of urgent business, I immediately set off for London. tse THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.IX- My first step was to proceed to the place where I had formerly addressed to her while she corresponded with me. I thought it might, perhaps, form the commencement of a clue that would eventually crown my wishes with success. I was not disappointed. I was directed to several places where she had suc- cessively resided, though under a different name. At length 1 traced her to the very street in which she lived, and the initial and final letters of which agreed with those which she had put at the bottom of her letters to you» It was a dirty, narrow place, and situated in the most wretched part of this metropolis. I was almost afraid to encounter so much vice and filth as presented themselves. I perse- vered, however, and found the very house. My feelings were now at their highest. I feared, yet wished to ask for her. With a trembling hand I raised the knocker. A squalid little girl, the picture of dirt and misery conjoined, opened the door. She seem- ed startled at my appearance. I made my inquiries. She pointed, silently and signifi- cantly, to a back parlour. I entered; but No. IX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 1S9 there was scarcely light enough to see my way along. A ragged blanket was hung up before the window to exclude, at once, the light and wind. The smell which issued from this abode of wretchedness almost overpowered me. I looked fearfully round the room, but could see nothing. The child, however, conducted me across it, into a low, dark closet, where I could just perceive, on the floor, a humaa^ figure extended, covered with a coarse rug. There was a woman sitting down, who was at that moment chafing the temples of the person with vinegar. When I entered, she arose. I asked for Jane Thompson: . The woman pointed to the ground ! Merciful Heavens! Here then I was to behold the once beauteous, the once happy Julia ! This closet was so dark that I could nofc discern the features of any person in it. I begged that a candle might be brought, and,, in the interim I stood lost in a world of con- flicting sensations. I could hear nothing but a low breathing from the being that lay before me. I half hoped that I might be in total error : but no ; the moment the light appear- 140 THE CONTEIMPLATIST. No. IX. cd, I saw but too well the melancholy ruins of that noble edifice I once loved and honoured* Yes: 'twas Julia! but oh 1 how unlike to what I saw her last! She was slowly recovering from a fainting lit : one of those lapses which nature often undergoes when exhausted by disease and misery. I watched her gradual return to life, but did not -speak to her. I was occupied in- examining that form and countenance once so- familiar to me. Had it not been for certain decisive features, which could not deceive me, I should in vain have sought to recognise hen Wrapped in coarse and squalid apparel^ on the bare ground, with only a tattered rug across her ; her head supported upon her arm, her only pillow; the flesh wasted from her cheeks, her temples, her eyes ; her counte- nance meagre and wretched ; her hair in dis- order ; who could have found in such a dish*- gurement of natural charaeterj the bosom friend of our youth ? I asked the woman, in a whisper, how long she had lived there } She answered, nearly Ko.IX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. Ul six months, that she had pintid herself to death, for that she eat little, and wept inces- santly; and that she had heen now six weeks in thitt st;ite, without the ho;)e of living frona day to day. I fon:id that this poor woman had ai tended her with solicitude ane across her mind, which awak- ened the tenderest emotions of love. It might be — she hoped at least it might be— that Henry — sensible of the wrong he had done her, was willing, perhaps implored, to offer that honourable compensation which alone could heal the wounds he had inflicted. She snatched the letter up: she procured a light: she read it : and, as it is now lying before me, I will copy it here : — " My Dear Julia, " May the voice of a penitent be heard ? Will the declaration of sincere con- trition soften your most just anger, and awaken sentiments of compassion towards Nq.XI. the CONTEMPLATIST. 167 One, who has never ceased to lament the error by which he offended and lost you ? ** Julia ! I am not what my conduct must have taught you to think me. The moment of delusion is past, and my reason condemns all that my folly committed. One fault, one only fault may surely be forgiven. Did a Jover ever yet plead for mercy, and found it not, when he had abjured the cause of his mistress' displeasiure? and is my Julia less kind than the rest of her sex ? Can she so soon forget what we once were? Can she forget that night I bore her from her father's house ; that morning which was to have seen us joined in wedlock? Can she forget all this, and remember only my transgression ? " Since that hour when I left you, with all a villain's feelings in my bosom, since that hour I have kuow^n no peace, no earthly com- fort. I felt the aw^ful solemnity of your re- buke, and dared not appear again in your 168 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XI. K, , ' ' ■ ' ■ :? , presence : but I hovered round the spot, and saw you depart for your home. I stood, like one bewildered, and suffered you to escape, having no power to intercept your progress. I dreaded the indignant lightning of your eyes. I became a prey to remorse, nor che- rished the hope of ever beholding you again. *' But the accident of this morning has given me a new being. I followed you to your abode, and shuddered as I saw you enter it. In imagination I beheld all that you have suffered for me. Your father*s anger, your desertion, your present forlorn condition* Can I restore you to happiness. Oh let me : let me, I implore you. I sue most humbly for your pardon. I will atone for my error. Admit me, I beseech you, to an interview. I have much to say, much to offer, which I will not commit to a letter. I will make you honourable satisfaction. If you yet love me, if you would still approach the altar with me, with what rapture should I give you that No. XL THE CONTEMPLATIST. !6f proof of my affection. Once more, let me see you. I will not ask to visit you at your home : there may be many reasons why you might decline such a proposal. But meet me. Dare I propose the place and time? I will: I must. To-morrow, at eleven, in St James's-Park : I will be in the seat opposite the palace. Do not deny me this : give me an opportunity of proving myself worthy of your pardon and your love. '* Adieu: do not disappoint me: once more, adieu! *' Your's, most affectionately, " Henry db la Cour." It may easily be conceived with what emo- tions Julia perused this letter. Anxious to believe it true, she thought it so, and in the anticipation of happier days, now about ta 170 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XI. commence, her heart admitted the stran^r guest-— felicity. A thousand pleasing images crowded to her mind. The hope of propi-» tiating her father's anger, of enjoying her mother's counsel an^^ society, of presenting to them both, her Henry in her husband, filled her bosom with placid feelings: and Julia, poor Julia, retired to her pillow with a happy heart She met him. An interview rivetted all her former sentiments, which the perusal of his letter had already awakened. She was attain lost in the enthusiasm of passion, and she now regarded Henry as a protecting angel, destined to snatch her from the depths of mlstry and anguish, and to place her on the topmost pi<.ndcle of earthly happiness. He veiled his designs beneath the most studied artifices of language and of manner; and when he aifected to be most explicit, he was, kfact, most ambiguous. No. XL THE CONTEMPLATIST. 171 ^ will not, Sir, relate minutely all the step^ he took to accomplish his unworthy purpose* Julia was already humbled in self estimation, and nothing so surely leads to moral depravity as the extinctiort of that dignified principle which teaches us to reverence ourselves. Her love was, if possible, more impetuous than before, while her motives to virtue were pro- bably less. Goaded on by conflicting pas- sions, want, and a jail before her eyes, Julia became the victim of circum tances. She fell before the machinations of tliat being, whose title to the name of man would have l)eeqL €stabliK>hed, by raising her lo an honourable station in society. Tell me, Sir what lau- guage is sufficient to convey a just detestation of the wretch who betrays innocence by add- ing to its dangers, and who triimiphs in the success of an enterprise which might fix addi- tional impiety on a fiend? How Julia felt, and how she thought, when she had fallen, may be known from her letter IT* THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XL to me, which I have already transcribed.— That letter was written in the first lucid inter- val after the riotous excesses of guilty plea- sure. Not a drop of blood flows through the veins of Henry which is not rank with villainy. Let him read this page, and if he have one human feeling, let him tremble! Let the name of Julia smite him like a thunderbolt; and when, in the bitter hour of mortal disso- lution, he calls for mercy on his God, may her shrieks for vengeance deafen the judg- ment-seat of Heaven, till mild compassion shall be turned to righteous condemnation, and the penalty of all his crimes fall heavy on him! Pardon me. Sir, if I seem intemperate in my language. Had you seen, as I did, the sufferings of the mild and once happy Julia, you would be moved to equal warmth of ex- pression. This mean, this abject assassin of # No. XI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 175 Ills victim's peace of mind, soon satiated, soon sickening at his own success, craving, like a hungry vulture, for fresh offals, to offer up at . the shrine of vice and infamy, abandoned to soHtary anguislrthe deluded partner of his guilt, left her to contend alone v^ith disgrace, v^ith want, and with wretchedness. But the constitution of Julia sunk under the acuteness of her feelings, and she retired to that abode of misery where I found her, there to die un- known and unlaHiented. Such was the narrative she communicated to me, and at its conclusion she wept a flood of tears. I sat, unable to offer her consola- tion, for I was, myself, a prey to various sen- sations. A few days after this her mother arrived. I had previously prepared her for the inter- view, and she talked as if she could support it. But when she heard the carriage stop at the door, and knew that her beloved parent was 174 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XL f in it, her weak frame could not bear up against the struggle, and she was insensible before her mother reached the room. I saw that venerable mother fall on her knees by her bed, and, with her daughter's liWess hand clasped in her's, the tears rolling down htr cheeks, breathe out a fervent prayer to Heaven that she once more beheld her lost child: her kisses, her sighs, her embraces, recalled the fainting Julia to life and recollection. She beheld her dear parent, #hose every look spoke forgiveness: she raised herself in the bed, cast herself in her arms, and faintly stammered out Mother — Mother, It was alj she could. "PI' Let me not dwell any longer on this palnfiil yet happy scene : but hasten to a conclusion of my melai;iGhDly narrative. The,b*eaJtll of Julia seemed now gradually lovr^efetablish itself, and we had the most Mtfguine hopes of her perfect recoveiy. But, No. XI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 171? they were fallacious. The hectic flush of convalescence glowed upon her cheek, while death slowly preyed upon her vitals. She herself, indeed, never cherished thfe thought, I may My the wish, of getting welU The silent corrosions of sorrow had peue^ trated too far : the stamina of Hfe was gone j and she breathed now only by the aid of me- dicines and cordials. I was happy, however, to see a great alteration in her state of mind : she seemed mor^ composed: her fortitude changed from the energy of despair to the pious resignation of the Christian. She dis* coursed with calmness upon her hope of pardon in another world : and she rejoiced ftat she had been able to receive her mother's forgiveness in this. Of her father she spoke not at all; and heard of his death without much emotion. She declined gradually ; she grew daily and hourly weaker; and, at last,, sunk into eternity as she reposed her head upon my bosom. 37(5 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XL Thus died Julia : and her story may s^e to warn the thoughtless and reprove the vicious : virtue may see its danger, and learn to shun the snares with which it is too often surrounded. May it also •npress this truth on every mind, — that a life of errror must be a life of wretchedness ! * I remain. Sir, Your h^^mble servant, Maria S t.. London , August 15, 1810. Cj^e Contemplattst. No. XII. SATURDAY, AUGUST 25, 1810. Who by repentance is not satisfied^ Is nor of heaven nor earth : By penitence the EternaVs wrath's appeased, Shakspeare. T WAS deeply moved by the narrative con- tained in my last two numbers; and while I pitied the misfortunes of Julia, I but feebly condemned her errors. Yet, let it not be supposed that I would confound thip diis- tinctions of morality. All virtue and all vice are relative. They who have resisted no temptation, have little cause to bbast of their purity: and they who have yielded to strong impelling circumstances, may justly hope for leniency in the judgments of their fellow creatures. There are some crimes, howevet, w^hich, not ending in themselves, seem to call for louder reprehension in proportion to the ex- tent of the evil which they produce. Among 178 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.XIL these are seduction, and its consequence, the contamination of female honour. At the present moment, when women seem to glory in the publicity of their infamy, a considera- tion of these topics may not be wholly useless, and it will form no improper sequel to my last two papers. Seduction is twofold : that of the married, and that of the single woman : and T know not that it is easy to decide which is the most criminal. The seduction of a married woman, indeed, seems to be attended by evils of a more com- plex nature. A greater number of persons may be, eventually, involved in its conse- quences : and the circumstances under which the seducer must effect his plans are of a complexion more decidedly infamous and flagitious. When Hermione defends herself from the charges ofLeonteSy she exclaims, with dignity and truth, " For life, I prize it. As I weigh grief, which I would spare ; for honor, *Tis a derivatke from me to mwe. And only that I stand for." The married woman, when she stains her No. XII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 179 conjugal faith, entails shame and disgrace upon innocent beings: upon beings com- mitted by nature to her protection, and whom the strongest ties of atl'ection bind her to protect and love. It has been sometinnes weakly urged, that the irregular conduct of a hu^band palliates the transgressions of a wife. But to this it may be replied, that vice is always wrong, and that to urge the plea of example in ex- tenuation of a crime, is to open the door to universal immorality : for, where is the crime that has not had, and still has, its perpe- trators ? and who has passed through life so innoxiously as not to wish sometimes to en- force the law of retaliation ? To bear injuries meekly, however, is one of the constant ad- monitions of the gospel ; and he w ho was on earth all perfection, has set us an illustrious example of patient suffering. We intuitively admire, indeed, acts of great forbearance: and this intuitive admiration is the simple lan- guage of nature. When Philip of Macedon inquired of Demochares, the Athenian am- bassador, what he could do to please the people of Athens, he replied, " Hang your^ M 2 180 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.XIL self." Had Philip sacrificed the brutal cynic on the spot, we should scarcely have blamed him: but, when he mildly dismissed the snarling Athenian, and bade him ask his countrymen who was the most praiseworthy, the giver of such language or the patient receiver of it, we immediately admire the greatness of his mind. There does not exist an opinion more erroneous, or more fatal to morality, than that which supposes the commission of a crime by another a palliation of it by ourselves. 1 he woman who may chance to be wedded to a dissolute, unfeeling husband, should strive to encounter her misfortune with that patience which springs from the conviction that this life is, to all, a state of greater or less suffer- ing: that the virtue which flourishes amid sorrow, and oppression, and contumely, is an object of veneration and respect, while the vice which is generated merely in the rank soil of resentment is justly abhorred and ex- ecrated : and let her also recollect that by the exemplary piety and morality of her own conduct, she may, ultimately, reclaim that of her husband. If these considerations have NcXTI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 181 no weight, she should, at least, remember that there is a future state of retribution where she may justly expect reward for patient and unmerited sufferings here. But she who is driven to illicit gratifica- tions, by no paroxysm of rage, by no sullen purpose of revenge, by no false notions of morality, what can she plead in extenuation? Nothing I fear that will appease the injured, or accommodate itself to the notions of society. Let her, then, pause a moment, and deliberate upon the step she is about to take. Has her husband been affectionate, faithful, and up- right in his conduct towards her? If he have, would not common gratitude suggest a better requital? Has he fixed all his happiness upon her, built his fondest hopes of worldly fpmfort upon her presence and upon her conduct? Does he acknowledge no other motive to action than to provide for her delight, ask no other monitor than her counsel, seek no other reward than her praises ? Oh ! pause, and reflect what an eternal ravage you are about to commit in the fair region of domestic hap- piness, and how ill the pleasures of corrupt embraces will repay you for the paradise you 18^ THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XIT. quit. Look upon the man you would plunge into remediless anguish ! Recall his tender protestations, his love, his virtues, and forsake them if you can. Or have you children? Think of them : think what they have a right to demand at your hands, and tremble while you but meditate upon the thought of sending them forth into the world with the foul blot of infamy upon their innocent heads! Think that for the indulgence of criminal and dis- honest passions you debase your own issue; become worse than the fiercest beast of prey by injuring your offspring, and that you com- pel your children to blush at the mention of their mother's name. Oh ! reverence your- self, and sink not into the grave dishonoured, unrespilcted, unwept, untended by the heart, eye, and hand of filial love. I never could see the justice of that law which makes all the penalty, in cases of adultery, to fall upon the man : not that I would have him escape, but that I would make his guilty partner in pleasure his partner in punishment. Women are rational beings, and as such ought to be made responsible for their own chastity ; for, in violating it, they No. XII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 183 know what they do, and they do it wilfully. Common equity demands, therefore, that they should be amenable to penal laws. It may be remarked, also, that almost every nation of antiquity adjudged punishment to both the man and woman in cases of adultery. Under Constantius and Constans they were either burnt, or sewed in sacks and thrown into the sea. Under Leo and Marcian the penalty was different ; and under Theodosius, women convicted of this crime were punished in a singular manner, the narration of which, how- ever, I do not think it necessary to produce. Nor have modern nations neglected methods of punishing a crime so fraught with mischief to civil society ; and at this day, if a woman in Turkey commit adultery, she is tied in a sack and thrown into the sea, and her lover is beheaded. 1 scarcely wish to propose penalties so sanguinary : but I am most solemnly of opi- nion, that justice and morality alike demand that the ad ul tress should not escape un- punished. But, if we condemn the tempted, what shall we say of the tempter ? What shall we say of IS4 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XII. the man who not only violates female honour, but violates that honour which belongs to another? Who adds treachery to guilt, and descends to the basest iniquity by wearing the smiles of friendship on his face, and carrying the malice of villainy in his heart? In almost every case, the seducer of a married woman must be upon terms of intimacy, and more than common intimacy, with the husband, or he cannot carry on his machinations. Is it possible then to conceive any situation more wicked, more self-debasing, more abhorred, than this ? He crosses the threshold of his friend's door, he is received with hospitality and candour, he is trusted with freedom and confidence ; and yet, beneath the very eyes of that friend, he is secretly plotting to destroy him and to bring his name to public disgrace, and his happiness to private ruin. But to effect all this how must he proceed ? He must lie, dissemble, lurk about for oppor- tunities like a thief, start from detection like a guilty wretch, and accomplish his purpose with all the fearful villainy of a felon. It will be thought, perhaps, that I have tlius decided the question, w^hich I regarded No, XII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 1S5 as ambiguous in the commencement of this paper; and, indeed, I believe it will- be found, upon the most accurate reflection, that the evils attendant upon the seduction of a mar- ried v^oman are greater in themselves and more complicated in their consequences, than those which result from the criminal triumph over unwedded honour and virtue. Yet, let it not be supposed that I regard, with indif- ference, an action which has, in every age, been marked with infamy. The seduction of virgin innocence is a subject upon which more can be said that arrests the passions than upon the other : and hence poetry and elo- quence have not spared their powers to paint the cruelty of the action. We appeal to the judgment and the reason in the latter; but in the former we arouse the feelings. Few topics, indeed, are more susceptible of pathetic declamation than this. We bring before the mind the modest, timid virgin, shrinking, even in idea, from the contempla- tion of vice : we behold her, in the calm peace of innocence, the charm of society, the delight of her friends, the proud honour of her pa- rents and kindred; we see her heart filled 186 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.XIf. with precepts of morality and religion, and her manners and discourse refined by the cares of education: and we anticipate what lovely fruit this early cultivation, this pregnant soil in all that is virtuous, might have produced. The transition from this scene of peace and quiet, to the gloomy turbulence and moral degradation of vice, is powerful ; and there is no heart so callous that is not moved at such a picture skilfully drawn. We contrast past splendour with present abasement : and, like the traveller who sighs over the ruins of Babylon or Rome, we deplore the fallen relics of innocence and virtue. But, to the ravager of this fabric let me address myself. What are your hopes, w^hat are your incite- ments ? Y^our hopes are infamous, your incite- mentsarebestial You have noneofthecommon palliatives of wickedness to plead. You are not tempted, for you are the tempter : no ne- cessity impels you, for your natural and arti- ficial desires may be gratified at a cheaper rate than the perdition of an innocent girl's happiness and reputation. Your proceedings, therefore, are the cool, malignant ones of a had and corrupted heart: you resemble the No. XII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 187 ferocious hordes of conquering barbarians^ who first pillage and then massacre : but your massacre is incomparably more tremendous, for it is of the soul, not of the body : your victim is still left a creature of wretchedness in this life, and ultimately, perhaps, without hope in the next. Surely more than common cruelty must possess the bosom of a seducer. Love, in its utmost fervour, confidence, that knows no suspicion, are felt towards you by the hapless object of your arts : this love you feign to return, this confidence you deceive with pro- mises. That your love is feigned, admits of no dispute, for true love honors its object ; but what is debased by moral turpitude can never be regarded with veneration. That you delude by artifices is equally indisputable; for where is the inexperienced girl, that would yield to solicitation with the assured con- viction that it was to gratify only momentary passion, and that she was finally to be de- serted? No: marriage, that honourable com- post which is laid over the wounds of diseased reputation, is the glittering bait; and her credulous ears are filled with the jargon of 18S THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XII. anticipating joys, which, in a few days, or hours perhaps, shall be sanctified by religious ceremonies. Her fears are thus destroyed : she commits her temporal welfare to the being who smiles only to betray, and who leads her, with designed iniquity, from a path to which she can never, never return. Man of guilt ! when your intemperate pas- sions burn hotly, and your eyes are cast around to meet some fit receptacle for them, turn away, I beseech you, from the fair region of innocence and peace ! Enter not its holy precincts with premeditated ruin and devasta- tion ! Dash not the smile of virtue from the cheek of youth: fill not the heart of piety and truth with corruption and vice : pluck not the fair rose from the stem on which it grew, and having w^orn the bauble for a while leave it on the earth to perish. Think of a father's and a mother's agonies when they behold their poor child dishonoured, lost, debased : think of your victim, and what unimaginable evils may flow from thy accursed act. Re- member, too, there is a state of retribution ; a state, where no collusion will serve : no so- phistry can palliate : a state, where thy crimes No.XII. THE GONTEMPLATIST. 189 will stand in naked truth against thee, and their punishment will be awarded with righteous judgment. And, let not the voice of censure be raised against me, if I venture to call for mercy and compassion, for mildness and forbearance towards the guilty. I know not, indeed, by what arts of satisfaction those parents can lull their feelings who have never practised for- giveness; or how they acquit themselves of the after crimes of their children, when they shut the only door against their repentance which humanity and nature demand should be open. Surely they who have acted thus (and they are numerous) must turn pale and tremble as they exclaim, " forgive us OUR SINS, AS WE FORGIVE THOSE WHO HAVE TRESPASSED AGAINST US," for they implore a heavy retribution of justice. Something may be pleaded in behalf of parental anger: but that anger which knows no mitigation, and which shuts the heart against the cries of mercy, is the enmity of a demon, not the weakness of hu- manity. To the proud father who can forgive no crime* and to the unnatural mother who prides herself upon untempted chastity, per- haps, and turns away from her feiUen but 190 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.XIL repentant daughter, I would address myself in the language of Shakspeare : Alas ! alas ! Why, all the souls that were, were forfeit once. And He that might the vantage best have took. Found out the remedy; How would you be. If he, which is the top of judgment, should But judge you as you are ? O! think on that j And mercy then will breathe within your lips Like man new made ! Nay, it well becomes a parent to seek after the child that has strayed : not merely to wait and permit her return, but to arrest her pro- gress in error, and, with the least possible de- lay, strive to win her from the paths of vice. This is a duty which man owes to man ; but how much more do parents owe it to their otlspring. As a subject not unconnected with this paper, let me interpose a shield between the confirmed prostitute and the w^orld*s censure. I wish not to be regarded as the advocate for a state, which, however necessary philosophers and politicians may deem it, the moralist can- not but condemn: but I would, if possible, awaken sentiments of pity and commiseration instead of contempt, insult, and scorn. There is injustice and cruelty in this. There i» No. XII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 191 injustice, because we know not how far they have offended, from what cause they have offended, or liow sincerely they may, in their hearts, repent: and there is cruelty, because it is oppressing those who have no power to resist, nor any advocate to intercede; for who willingly appears as the champion of avowed infamy ? I cannot but think that the state of prosti- tution is rendered more desperate by the general cry of horror that is raised against it ; as men grow furious from despair, and often plunge into the depths of iniquity, because access even to the confines of respectability and esteem are denied to them. Of those poor wretches who gain a scanty livelihood by the worst debasement, it is not unjust to believe that the greater part w^ould have re- turned to virtuous society, had there existed means. But no : an unhappy female, having forfeited her honor, is immediately driven forth to a wide and pitiless world, without the possibility of expiating her crime by fu- ture amendment. There is surely in this more of ferocity, than civilised society warrants. By what superiority of purity we are entitled to scorn her who repents, it would be diffi- 192 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XII. cult to shew: and, as christians, let us never forget that the Father of all Mercies rejoices in one who turneth from his wickedness I But their sorrows are enough, without our contumely. The greatest misery may be hid in smiles : and the prostitute, who purchases her bed and food and cloathing by her smiles, must not therefore be judged happy. Oh! if the sternest heart that looks in scorn upon them, could view what domestic wretchedness they suffer ; could see them in their solitude, forlorn, ])inched with cold, smitten with hun- ger, and pining with disease; they would forget their errors and pity their miseries. I do not wish to confound the distinctions of vice and virtue ; but I would not aggravate what is already wretched, nor add poignancy to what is already acute. The negative virtue of forbeamnce is within the reach of every one ; and where we do not choose to stretch forth a hand to assist, we may at least refrain from multiplying anguish. — Let us remember what they once were ; let us imagine under what circumstances they may have fallen ; and let us never forget, that the stability of our own virtue gives us no authority to condemn^ without mercy, those who have yielded. Cjje Contemplatfet No. XIII. SATURDAY, SEPTEMBER 1, 1810. Ingenii egregiafacinora, sicuti anima, immortalia sunt. Sallust. Bumanus animus decerptus ex mente divina, cum alio nulloy nisi cum ipso Deo, fsi hoc Jus est dictuj comparari potssf. Cicero. TN my third number I offered some observa- tions upon the superiority of intellectual pursuits, and promised to resume the subject. I shall now perform that promise, by con- sidering the nature of that divine faculty, by which we are so wonderfully discriminated from every other part of the visible crea- tion. N 194 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.XIII. Poets, philosophers, and moralists have, in all ages, stood forward to advance the dignity of man over the brute creation ; and, in doing this, they have assumed for his prerogative that which alone he exclusively possesses — Mind. They have not vaunted his personal endowments, for in them he shrinks from comparison. In his strength, he yields to the lion ; in swiftness, he submits to the horse and the hound ; and in dexterity, he is inferior to the beaver, whose instinctive operations place him far above the savage of nature. But, while he thus feels his own native inferiority even to the beasts of the field, he finds him- self placed immeasurably above them by the resources of art ; and by these resources he appropriates to himself the qualities of the whole animal creation. Placed thus artificially high, it is natural to ask to what he owes his elevation. The answer is important: — to Mind. It is the energies of that living principle, directed by its guidance, and acting from its impulse. l^to.XIIL THE CONTEMPLATIST. 195 which have raised him so conspicuously in the scale of being. The boundless sphere of its combinations open to him new fields of action, in which he only can appear. The highest efforts of brute instinct are much beneath the lowest operations of intellectual power. Man looks upon its sagacity only as the mimic resemblance of a loftier cause : he sees its termination, and its stationary nature* Those animals which have been most cele- brated for apparent ratiocination, (as the ele- phant for instance, whose actions certainly seem, more than those of any other animal, to result from will) have never passed the boundary which limits them : the elephant of to-day has not advanced a single step beyond the elephant of two thousand years ago. But, with man, it is otherwise. Nations that were heretofore sunk in barbarism, have risen to splendour : with him all is progressive : from his cradle upwards, {speaking individually and collectively) he is in a perpetual state of N 9 m THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.XIIL improvement; and this capacity, which so eminently distinguishes him, is the sole result of his mind. Constantly impelled forwards, he unceasingly discovers something that was unknown: one desire creates another: the same impulse animates millions : the mass of being is thus put in motion: and it ad- vances with one simultaneous tendency. The whole creation is hi« theatre, and on its boundless space he acts his part: he looks with forward and reverted eyes, corrects the past and anticipates the future. If then the mind be that distinguishing attribute : if it form that proud character in our nature, what, I ask, can be more digni- fied in us than its operations ? The mechani- cal arts are, some of them, carried on by a sort of instructive imitation: the man of grossest intellect is adequate to the perform- ance of their nicest operations : they address themselves to the eyes, and are produced with precision only by successive repetitions : the mind is entirely unemployed : the whole No.XITI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 197 dexterity is placed at the fingers' ends. — This needs no proof: but if it did, we have only to inspect the work-room of any artisan to be convinced of its truth. If there be any sceptic hardy enough to doubt the omnipotence and pre-eminence of mind, let him, for a moment, cast his eyes upon facts. Let him consider the deplorable degradation, the worse than brutal state of those poor creatures, who have been invested with the human form, only, as it were, to shew its nothingness when unaccompanied by that active and informing principle which gives it all its grace, and dignity, and useful- ness. The savage of Aveyron, the wild boy of the woods, ideots, and numerous other instances might be adduced. What a melan- choly and degrading spectacle ! Look at that vacant, uninformed laugh ; look at that beam- less eye ; look at that hurried and unmeaning walk; hear the shocking laugh; mark the whole evidence of fallen nature. Madness too, is another awfully striking truth both of 198 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XIIL the omnipotence of intellect, and the frail foundations upon which we build our loftiest pretensions. Who can look upon the ruins of a noble mind, who can behold the solemn change wrought in the frame of him w^ho is visited with mental deprivation, and not ex^ claim, with the poet, ** Mind, mind alone, bear witness earth and heaven, The living fountain in itself contains Of beauteous and sublime." The mind then is not only the distinguish* ing attribute between man and the beast, but it is, itself, the highest quality to be found in animated nature. When we consider, not only its pre-eminence, but its utility and im* portance, we are irresistibly led to confess its paramount claims to admiration. Nothing, then, but ignorance or the petulance of ob* jection could prompt any one to degrade the operations of a quality so manifestly great in it,self, and so dignified in its results. We instinctively admire all that is wonderful and striking : the lofty rocks, the majestic oceap. No. XIII. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 199 the boiling whirlpool, the thundering cataract, affect us with emotions of awful delight; the soft and pleasing landscape, the placid scene of rural life, the silver-bosomed lake, the verdant foliage, the embowered walk, charm us no less with tranquil and peaceful sensations: to both we pay our homage — for both are admirable. Yet, he that would dare to advance the dignity of inanimate na- ture over the living lustre of intellectual, would be regarded as impious, or pitied, rather for obduracy of feeling, than perver- sion of mind. It is not, therefore, asserting too much, to say, that intellect holds the highest placfo.XIX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. SOI I am not bound to shew the reason why it is so, though there needs " no ghost come from the grave to tell us." But I will maintain, that a man of common sense may have as accurate an idea of a word derived from the learned languages, as it is used in our own, as he who knows its radix. I say as it is used IN OUR OWN ; for the stability of a language is, or ought to be, such as to preclude inno- vation ; and, although I may know that a certain word bears a multiplicity of signifi- cations in its original, yet J am bound to use it, not according to those primitive signifi- cations, but according to its received and legitimate ones in my native tongue ; and a man who knows no language but his own, may yet acquire his own, in the fullest and completest sense of the word, by the study of the best writers and the use of the best dictionaries. The knowledge of languages is certainly an ornament to the edifice of genius: but when it exists solitary in a barren mind. $02 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XIX. which produces not one indigenous plants which merely bears, and that not in a very flourishing manner, whatever is transplanted into itj I then look upon it as a very humble sort of merit indeed. They can aspire no higher than to the poor applause of successful diligence;. a diligence in which every man can , become their competitor, and many may bear away the laureL It requires just the same temper of feeling by which the woodman fells a tree, or the hedger excavates a ditch ; they know that their strokes, constantly re* peated, will at length produce the desired effect. The linguist also knows that a heavy and inflexible perseverance must ultimately bring him to an end, and imprint upon his mind the words of the language he is study- ing. But, when we compare this humble merit with the higher occupations of the mind, when we compare it with the flights of fancy, the daring combinations of genius, the sublime pictures of imagination, when we compare it with the successful investigation of moral truth, the discoveries of science by No. XIX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 305 which Hfe is rendered happier and our ideas of the Creator expanded ; when we compare it with almost any of the native lenergies of intellect, how poor it seems, how low it sinks; give it its due praise; assign it its just rank ; but let us not sink into the common and disgusting error of making the learned languages every thing, and every thing else nothing ; let us not place Greek and Latin as the boundary between all that is great and wonderful and lovely, and what is poor, unworthy, and disgraceful : let us estimate, truly, what we have, and we shall then find that words do not always give knowledge ; let us not come forth with a ma- gisterial air and a vain parade of learning, to frighten plain, well-meaning men out of their mother tongue, which, heaven help them ! they may have been learning thirty or forty years, by telling them "you don't know Greek; you don't know Latin ; therefore, you know nothing, not even English. Sir, it is impossible that you can understand the mean- ing of synecdoche^ syncopa^ metaphrase, misQm SOi THE CONTEMPLATIST- No. XIX- . * gamist, misogamy, for you don't know Greek!" 1 smile when I think of such lan-r guage, and pity those who use it, I remain, Sir, &c. Attalus* Cfje Contemplatfet No. XX. SATURDAY, O CTOBER 20, 1810. Great mts are sure to madness near allied. And thin partitions do their bounds divide, Dryden. T^HE following letter from a northern cor- respondent will, I hope, be acceptable to my readers : and, if it lead them to think with humility and trembling upon that gift of which we are all so proud, but which the Almighty Giver can, in a moment, snatch from us, the narrative will not be without its use. TO THE CONTEMPLATIST. SIR, A Book was recently put into my hands, entitled Aii Address to the lately formed So- ciety of the Friends of the People : by John Wilde, Esq. Advocate, &c. I had been pre- viously much interested about the author of this work. His story is melancholy and sin- gular, and perhaps will not be perused by your readers without emotion. I have been able to glean only a few scattered facts from partial inquiry, and these I will give you. u 306 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XX. His father is a tradesman in Edinburgh, and I know nothing of what other family he may have, or what are his connexions in life. This son, at a very early age, betrayed marks of a powerful mind ; and an education suitable to his dawning talents, was provided for him. The bar is, in Edinburgh, the principal avenue to fame and wealth for those who, likeWilde, have to acquire both; and he accordingly qua- lified himself for becoming an advocate, a pro- fessional character of great respectability in this town. I have never heard with what success he practised, or whether he was dis- tinguished as an eloquent pleader: indeed, whether he ever practised or pleaded at all, for the name of advocate is often taken here as an honourable title, without any intention of engaging in its duties. But I have been told, that his lectures on *^1 il law, in the uni- versity, were excellent ; tliat his views were often grand and comprehensive ; and that his language was always nervous, forceful, and elegant. I am not able to say at wlmt period he began, nor at what period he concluded, his professional duties ; but it was during their continuance that he published his ^' Ad- dress." No. XX. THE CONTEMPI.ATIST. S07 Wilde saw, equally with Burke, the decided tepdency of the French Jlevolution : l^e was instructed by past wisdom ; froii^ the ai^ajp- gi^s of t}iings he was enabled to predict what would probably happen, or at least to shew what such a concussion must generally pro- duce. Of an epoch so long past, and of prin- ciples since so coi^pjetely developed, it woul4 now J)p idle to speafi; but the work itself has gre^t afl4 Yi^riops iperit. It possesses elo- quence, imagination, fire, pathos, reasoning, leq-rnipg, and wisdom. It embraces a compre- Ijpflsive sphere of inquiry, and conducts that ifiquiry with abUity and strength. It has some passages emineritly beautiful ; some cha- racters felicitously drawn ; and some delinea- tions vivid and impressive. The language occasionally rises to sublimity ; is very often grancj; and never otherwise than fluent an4 enjergetic. It shews, in every page, a mind well stored ; and, what is infinitely better, it shews ^ ITjipd sincere, bold, and independent. The feeder, frori) the Orst paragraph, delivers him- self, unresistingly, into the hands of his au- thor : he never disputes his magic sway ; he bends to it; and oyvns, with a pleasing u 1? 50S THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.XX. ecstacy of mind, the power that subdues him. As a mighty river, rolling in its course, sweeps before it every resisting obbtacle, and bears, upon its bosom, the scattered ruins ; so his eloquence, the charms of his narration, over- whehn the mind and confound, at once, the dawning objections that sometimes arise. I do not exaggerate ; I have read the book with attention, with emotion ; an emotion, perhaps, somewhat increased by the consciousness of what the author noio is. Oh ! does not imagination lend her bright- est rays to paint, upon the tablets of the mind, a man enjoying the love, the esteem, the admi- ration of his friends, the applauses of the world, the proud consciousness of an honest fame ? Does not fancy depict him moving in a sphere where attention waits upon his steps, and distinction walks by his side ; where his words are received with delight, and his maxims treasured up with zealous sedulity; in a sphere where he holds converse with phi- losophers, statesmen, and dignitaries ; where he instructs the wise, polishes the refined, and sharpens the sagacious? Yes; the mind draws for herself a pleasing, a glorious, a noble picture! She sees him in his professional cha- No. XX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 309 racter vindicating the rights of the oppressed, dashing the proud petty tyrant from his car of despotism, and trampling beneath his feet, with indignant mien, the base instruments of corruptive wealth. — The forum echoes with the thunders of his voice, calling upon the ad- ministrators of public justice to avenge injured worth, to castigate shameless and abandoned villainy. She beholds him, in all cases, the guardian of those whom fate has doomed to fall beneath the sceptre of vexatious pride ; and never shrinking from the line of truth, of jus- tice, and of public duty. Or, she reposes in a milder scene. She views him in the retired privacy of domestic felicity ; planning schemes of public good; shedding round a narrower circle the rays of love, benevolence, and friend- ship ; and illuminating the path of elegant retirement. Alas! it is no such thing ! The wreck of his reason has hurled him from the walks of men, and placed an awful mark upon him, by which the ignorant and the base-minded know his degradation. His eye no longer beams with intelligence ; his breast no longer swells with high born sentiments; his tongue no longer pours forth the conceptions of a mind, ^\6 THk CONTEMPLAtlST. Nb. XJt. pregriaiit with grand arid comprehensive ideas! He has lost every characteristic of a rtian but the form ! Oh ! it is a humiliating sight, and reads an av^ful lesson to the heart. That he, whose mental energies were formed to delight, to captivate, to- astonish ; whose soul breathed with ardour in the commanding eloquence of words; whose bosom beat responsive to some of the noblest, and most glorious isentimerits that ever animated the human terAi ; that he should now claim but small distinction from brute, unconscious matter; that he should prowl about in bye paths and unfrequented roads, forlorn, despised, and neglected; that he should be scoffed at by the ignorant and the barbarous ; stared at, with the foolish gaze of wonder, the insulting sneer of mockery, or the sigh and exclamation of pity ! I have seen that eye, which once spoke the soul within^ fixed, with rayless glare, with deadened ima- gination, upon unnoticed objects ; I have seen it wandering about with vague, unconscious look, that spoke the ruins of a noble mind ; I have marked the hurried step, the unbidden laugh, the Squalid form ; and I have mourned the perishable texture of that organisation oh N6.XX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. Sll which proud man builds all consequence ; from which he draws impious importance ; and deduces claims to pre-^miimnce more unstable than the waves, more fluctuating than the winds. You will ask me^ perhaps, what was the immediate cause of this mental derangement. I cannot answer this distinctly, I have heard many reasons assigned ; the most g*eneral one is, that ati intemperate 'C0urse of stady, in preparing his collegiate lectures at a time when he was compelled to employ an ac- tive and dangerous mediciue, occasioned the melancholy catastrophe. The first symptoms were perceived one morning during his lec- ture : he broke off abruptly, and hade the pupils come and warm themselves, for it was a very cold morning. But, wliatever^ were the cause, the effect is equally deplorable; and it is more deplorable when we reflect ^n Avhat amind the awful ravage has been com- mitted. Insanity is, in every instance, an afflicting spectacle ; but how much more so, when we see its wild and gloomy reign in a once happy region, where every thing that was manly, liberal, and noble, took its growth; where science flourished, and wisdom imp'd 512 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XX. her wing for daring flights! where virtue spread her inspiring mantle, and invested every deed in fair proportioned colours. The eye looks with coniparative unconcern upon the smoking ashes of a nameless hamlet ; but the tear starts, and the heart beats when we behold a mighty empire swept from the face of things by the burning ploughshare of o'er- whelming ruin! He is allowed, I believe, a pension from go- vernment, obtained after this solemn event had taken place; and, from a respect to his talents, his virtues, and his misfortune, he is still nominally retained as the professor of civil law in the university, and the act- ing one is constrained to pay him half the salary. A needless kindness ! He wants but a small stipend to supply his few necessi- ties. I have been told that he often locks himself up in his room, and will sit, for whole hours, composing pamphlets upon the French Revolution, which he destroys as fast as he writes them. That he has lucid inter- vals I am incHned to believe from the follow- ing fact. Towards the conclusion of the dedication to his book, which is inscribed to W. Carlyl^, No. XX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. Sl.1 Esq, are the following words : " Indeed, both you and I, in the discording harmony of our natures, could still pass through the same en- chantments, and be raised to the same ravish- ing delights, as in those days when Mrs. Sid- dons (for which our eternal gratitude is her due) sublimed our souls to that reach of feli- city, of which the memory might, in after life, drive away (while itself remained) all possible human pain and sorrow." — Now it is remarkable, that whenever Mrs. Siddons plays in Edinburgh, Wilde never fails to attend the theatre ; I have twice witnessed this myself; I observed him very closely; and whenever Mrs. Siddons appeared, he rivetted his eyes upon her, but seemingly without any consci- ousness of what she said, for, in her most pa- thetic parts, I have seen a vacant smile upon his countenance. Yet the moment she went off the stage, he paid no sort of attention to the other actors, but looked at the audience, or hung his head upon his bosom ;^;and from this posture he would start the moment he heard tl)e tones of Mrs. Siddons' voice. I own I am utterly unable to account for this mixture of consciousness and of insensibility ; of reason and of insanity. There is evidently the Sl4 THte COi^f EMPLATISt. No.Xlt. formei', wh^n he rouses from his reverie at her voice, when he fixes his eyes immoveably up- on her, and turns them away from the other ztctoi's ; and I think that there is as evidently the latter, when he does not seem to partici- pate in any thing she utters ; his countenance ' I'emains inflexible, only that sometimes, in thfe deepest parts, an unmeaning smile appears. To me this is inexplicable. I am riot certairi whether your readers will peruse this account of so melancholy an event with the same emotions that I have written it. I am well aware they cannot feel the same sentiments for poor Wilde as myself, for they have neither seen him nor read his work ; two circumstances very necessary, towards forming that sort of feeling which pervades my breast whenever I think of him, and par- ticularly when I have met him in my walks. He is yet in the prime of life, handsomely formed, vigorous and athletic ; through all his dirt and all his slovenliness this m.ay be traced. He w^alks incessantly, and very quickly. Some- times, indeed, I have seen him sauntering along as if in a meditating mood ; but this is not common. I have, more than once, seen liim in the dusk of the evening slowly pacing No. XX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. hl5 along, his hat 6% attd his f^ce ttihlfed \ip to- wards the heavens muttering to himself. — Ill- fated mortal! never have you cix)ssed my path that my heart h^s not done homagie to thy misfortune ! Never have I thought oh you in the lone moments of contemplation th^t I have not prayed for thy release ! — 1 am almost ashamed to mention, that the idle fears of a few women in this town have lately caused the incarceration of poorVVilde in a private mad-house. They complained that his appeareen driven from the soil ; there now only remain, not to dwell in the land, but to deso- late it, hordes of wandering savages, whose journies to and from their chief encampment nt Pai'is, are marked with rapine and blood ; No. XX. THE CONTEMPLATIST. S19 while the void which has been left by the flight of all the better sorts of citizens, is filled up by the influx (like the rushing into a common sewer) of all the filth and oflscourings of Europe. Such has been the state (the dreadful state) of this ancient and renowned kingdom ; of this country to which nature had been so lavish in her bounties, and where art had done so much as if nature had done nothing : such are the calamities which have afflicted it now for more than three years, ever since the fatal and execrable day, which sonie Englishmen have not been ashamed to place in the holy calendar of freedom !'* The nature of your paper, Sir, precludes the idea of copious extiuct ; yet I will venture upon one more, which I scruple not to pro- nounce eloquent. It is his description of the capture of the Bastile, in a letter addressed to some persons who had met in Edinburgh, to celebrate the occasion with a dinner : ^' Gentlemen,'' says he, ^^ when I first heard that this fortress was demolished, I rejoiced as much as any of you can do. If eating and drinking are to be reckoned the appropriated gind legitimate marks of applause, I should have met with you any where, and should have ate myself (had you demanded it) into a surfeit, or drunk till my eyes reeled in their sockets. Indeed I did consider it to be a great deliverance. Little did I think that this fortress was demolished, only to make a Bastile of all France. Little did I imagine that it was 320 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XX. demolished by savages, and not by heroes. But its captors did not leave their nature long in question. They have published their own annals, and recorded their own triumphs. Read them, Gentlemen ; tell me if all the cen- turies of the Bastile can equal the months of their domination. When Arne mounted its walls, I had figured to myself the shades of patriots hong departed, the Bruti and Sidneys, aiid all the spirits of the illustrious dead, hovering in air over the battlements, smiling upon the children of liberty in France; and my soul, in imagination, flew to join them. Alas! Gentlemen, it was no such heavenly vision ! the demons of perdition rode in the air ! The towers of the Bastile fell before the incantations of the enemy of man ! The shades of the brave and free did not tune their heavenly harps to the immortal song of liber- ty I The spirits of the abyss discordantly howled the dirge of the human race !*' These two portions, which I have extracted, shew only the energetic style and the glowing imagination of their author. They who wish to know his erudition, his sagacity, and his philosophical opinions upon men and things, must inspect the book itself, and they will surely read it with some emotion, when they reflect, that the mind which conceived it, is now but a melancholy token of degradation. I remain, &c. MiSERlCOIlDUS. Edwdiirg/i, Oct. 1 6, 1810. Cf)e Contemplattet No. XXI. SATURDAY, OCTOBER 27, 1810. ' Nosce teipsum, PlTTACUS MlTYLEN^I. nPHE comprehensive command contained in the laconic motto to my present paper furnishes a topic of moral exhortation which has been duly enforced by most writers who have sought to improve the condition of man- kind. To know ourselves, in the large and general acceptation of the phrase which its author meant it should bear, is to be wise in that most important knowledge which em- braces the interests of two states of being, of this world and of the next. He indeed who has never learned to inspect his own heart, to disentangle the intricacies of his own thoughts, to separate the true from the apparent mo- X Sm THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XXL lives of his actions, and to commence, with seriousness, a reformation of conduct arising from this self examination, has yet to acquire the hardest lesson of our nature and one without which all other wisdom sinks into nothing. The virtues which we have, or which we.acquire, the vices we renounce, the piety we nourish, and the benevolence which we exercise, must all equally spring from this source. A life of heedless security must be a life of guilt. Man, beset with his own passions and environed by the temptations of the world, would become the defenceless prey of every vice without that inward inquiry into his course to which conscience impels him, and which reason justifies. It is thus that he learns to know his danger, and knowing to avoid it : but, so weak are the resolutions of virtue and so powerful the attacks of its enemies, that we ar^ secure only by constant vigilance: a vigilance which, however mo- mentarily remitted, will surely serve to shew the potency of our foe. But, as this inquiry too often leads us to the knowledge of weaknesses which are mor* No. XXL THE CONTEMPLATISt. 323 tifying to our pride, we hasten frorii the trial as quickly as we can, and transfer our inqui- sitions to the thoughts and actions of others, because there we are gratified by detection. No tenderness towards another withholds our hand when we are probing the sores of an ulcerated mind; then, we are righteous judges even in our cruelty ; the evil is deeply rooted and must be plucked forth : to spare would be to injure: it is wholesome for our moral constitution that the disease should be ex- terminated. The caustic and the knife are applied : spare your victim t no, what is the pain of moments compared to the pains of eternity ? Do you fear no recrimination ? Do you fear no contumacious refusal to submit to the operation from one as foully blurred with imperfections, perhaps, as he whose wounds you would so deeply lacerate? No. When a moralist sits down to inform man- kind that universal w^ickedness prevails, and that virtue has taken her flight to Heaven, he never reckons himself among the depraved. He is a sentinel, placed upon an alarm-post, to give account of what passes within hisobser- X 2 SU THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XXI. vation. If that retributive justice were gene- rally allowed which retorts the sentiments and accusations of a man, upon his own bosom and conduct, either we should wholly desist from promulgating our opinions, or we should deliver them with the cautious hesitation of a criminal who is giving evidence, and who weighs every word, and balances every ex- pression, lest he utter any thing which may impeach his own credit or affect his own safety. Such a practice would strike at the root of all free discussion, and reduce the task of preceptive morality to a civil interchange of kind expressions. General opinions are to be applied generally, not individually. The modern patriot who denounces his age as cor- rupt and venial, who prates about reform and is eloquent upon abuses, does not expect to hear his fulminations reverberated against him- self, or if they be, he learns to smile at the petty malice which is driven to so poor an expedient. The divine who thunders from the pulpit against the vices of society, who enumerates their catalogue and affixes, to each, its appropriate stigma, does not expect No. XXI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 525 to hear an accusing voice in his congregation pronouncing " Thus have you done your- self;" for though the practice of virtue may give efficacy to its doctrines to him who has the opportunity of observing their union, it does not follow that the purest precepts may not flow from a man whose passions are stronger than his piety, or that we should reject the cup of health because the hand that offers it is unclean. Even in our daily inter- course with each other, in our most familiar conversations, there is a tacit compact, felt and acknowledged by every one, that what we utter as general truths shall be received as such, nor mah'gnly applied to any individual present. Without it were thus, it is very evident that society could not exist, for every assemblage of persons would lead to content tion and perhaps to bloodshed. The French, indeed, have a maxim which prudently bids us not to mention a halter in the family of a man who has been hanged : fll nefaut pas parler de corde dans la maison d^un pendu : ) and this is certainly a discreet prohibition: but the case is of rare occurrence, and of itself suggests the remedy when it does occur. 556 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XXL The difficulty of self-knowledge however, (to return to the immediate object of my paper,) seems to be exactly in proportion to the facility with which we believe ourselves to obtain our knowledge of others. Even the stores of acquired information too often elude our sight When we wish to marshal them be- fore us. To be abstracted from all outward and visible objects, and to pursue a steady course of inward examination, whether it be for the purposes of virtue, of utility, or of amuse- ment, seems to be equally encompassed with difficulty. Some w^andering thought will still break through the fine texture of our mental fabric, and recal our minds to the world and its concerns. The knowledge, indeed, which is derived from books or from observation, is often so limited that we cannot readily summon or combine it for use. We turn the eye inwards and view, either solitary tracks of empty de- solation, or a wilderness scattered over with useless shrubs and gaudy flowers, or trees of statelier growth, but obscured, neglected, and unpruned. It should be remembered, how- No. XXL THE CONTEMPLATIST. sn ever, that to fill the mind with confused masses of knowledge, attending neither to order nor utility is to bind its faculties with a pon- derous burden which depresses every emana- tion of thought that might aspire to the praise of originality. These wer« the ideas which suggested themselves to me as I sat revolving various topics of discussion for my present paper, without being able to fix upon any one that pleased me; and I began to think my own mind in such a state of disorder, that I feared lest I should sink into an idle labyrinth of me- ditation, and waste those moments in fruitless speculation which should be given to action. After having bewildered myself with the ideas of others, however, I resolved to turn from books to men, and try what could be produced by the operations of my own mind upon itself. Then, I began to consider the motives of action, the shades of character, and the va- rieties of conduct which distinguish the moral agents of the world. I endeavoured to un- fold the springs of thought, to trace the in- volutions of passion, to disentangle the intri- S2S THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XXI. cacies of action, and to lay open to my delibe- rate inspection the breast of man. Difficulties vanish before an ardent mind, or rather they have no existence in it; — the rapid combi- nations of thought far outstrip our capacities for performance: and, it is not until we em- body them, until we cease to be contempla- tive, and become active beings, that we feel, powerfully, the superiority of the mental over the corporeal faculties. I pictured to myself the benefit I should confer upon so- ciety, by detecting and simplifying that which has been hitherto known,, though very imper- fectly, only to the sage and the philosopher ; by unfolding to the world, in perspicuous phraseology, the ordinary process of thought through all its gradations ; teaching them to ascend from moral effects to causes ; and to pursue, in all their ramifications, the sources of action. This would be enabling man to form for himself a kind of moral thermo- meter, shewing the degrees of human virtue; of friendship and of enmity, where the one sinks into indifference and the other rises to revenge; where benevolence is found to be No. XXI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. 529 only a wandering ray of self-love, escaped from its centre, and charity an ostentatious display of superfluous wealth: where every passion may be traced through all its wind- ings to its proper origin, and the degrees of every vice and virtue estimated with unerring impartiality. This, I justly imagined, would be an ac- quisition to the interests of mankind, of no common importance ; and, filled with the vast design, I looked forward, with a rapid intellectual glance, to the immortality it would confer upon me. I began, therefore, to contemplate the means I should employ and the objects I should select. But I did not long deliberate ; it was immediately ob- vious, that no better subject than myself could be produced on which to commence my moral analysis ; for it miglit easily be sup- posed that I could trace, with greater accuracy, the operations of my own mind than those of another. I sat down to the task, fully pre- pared to combat all the opposition which prejudice, self-interest, or passion, might create. SSO THE CONTEMPLATIST. No.XXt; But I soon found that it is easier to resolve than to perform ; that it is often the business of one man to detect abuses and to display inconsistencies, but that of another to correct and reconcile them ; that he who can trace the outline may be incompetent to fill up the design ; and that it is frequently all man can do, to tell what should be done, leaving the performance of it to other beings, or trusting^ himself, to the influence of accident or caprice, which may direct him to it. I recoiled back astonished, when I beheld the difficulty of even assigning the real motive which induced me to commence a periodical paper ; the pas- sions were set in opposition to truth ; and they prevented, by their uproar and rude collision, her modest, feeble voice from being heard. When I proceeded temperately and cautiously, 1 perceived that I was in danger of confounding distinctions and mistaking subtlety for argu- ment; if I urged my labours with briskness and rapidity, then I had to fear the impositions of fallacy, and the probability of seizing, with indiscriminate avidity, the specious phantom of error, instead of the majestic form of truth* No. XXL THE CONTEMPLATIST. 351 I should, perhaps, have been like those Indian philosophers, who, rejecting the idea that the globe is self-supported, maintain that it is upheld by a large elephant, that the elephant stands upon a tortoise, and — there they stop. There are, I believe, two causes which operate very powerfully against us in all our endeavours of this nature. With regard to ourselves, self-love; with regard to others, diffidence and prejudice. The influence of self-love is too notorious to need argument or illustration. In most minds, I fear, the passions have the greatest sway; this, indeed, necessarily arises from the constitution of society, from the power of early habits, from our love of pleasure, and our love of ease. In our course through life, warfare with the malignity, the envy, or the depravity of our fellow creatures, is more or less our certain lot ; the most exalted vir- tue will feel their t^tings, as the highest moun- tains are the seat of storms, clouds, and pe- rennial winter ; the humblest will not escape, as the shrubs of the valley are often scattered by the whirlwind while the oak stands un- S32 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XXC moved. This obligation to be vigilant, which is thus imposed upon us, produces, in some measure, an impediment to excesses; but the nature of our adversaries too often contaminates us. As the ancient Romans were accustomed to derive advantage alike from victory or de- feat, and to adopt every superiority which accident threw in their way; so we too often employ against our adversaries the same arts and the same weapons with which they en- deavour to overwhelm us; not remembering that the end will never sanctify the means, and that vice cannot pass through the mind without leaving, like the snail, some of its slime behind. Let no man say to himself, that he will adopt it only as a temporary ex- pedient, and discard it when it ceases to be useful : he will find that its inroads are not easily to be effaced, and that its allurements are sometimes too powerful to be withstood by ordinary minds ; for, as it disdains petty restraints, and overlooks common impedi- ments to our gratification, its progress will always be viewed with momentary pleasure, and its dictates obeyed with heedless alacrity. No. XXL THE CONTEMPLATIST. SS$ It is, therefore, a mortifying investigation to most men, to discover in their own minds the ascendancy of evil; to feel that they are Walking in a path where the flowers of virtue are but thinly strewed ; and that, while the undistinguishing world beholds them with pleasure, and praises their integrity, their worth, and their unblemished honour, they are only sacrificing to a false idol, whose su- perior art enables him to conceal his deformi- ties. ** For neither man nor angel can discern Hypocrisy, the only evil that walks Invisible, except to God alone. By his permissive will, thro'Heav'n and Earth: And oft, tho* wisdom wake, suspicion sleeps At wisdom's gate, and to simplicity Resigns her charge, while goodness thinks no ill Where no ill seeops," Some, indeed, there are, who know no greater pleasure than in weeding out error, and who will pursue a self-investigation with steady perseverance, unshrinking and undis- mayed. But their rarity is only sufficient to make us feel and admire their superiority. S34 THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XXL To descend from a point of acknowledged eminence is a painful humiliation ; to mingle with the crowd, when we have been accuse tomed to direct it, is degrading ,' and, to forego praises and honours after we have re- velled in their charms, is a stretch of human virtue hardly attainable. The whirlwind that has scattered forests and overthrown edifices, that has swept navies before it, and heaved to the Heavens the billows of the ocean, may subside into peace with gently-dying mur- murs, upon the unruffled bosom of some lake; but the mind of man rarely knows such a termination of its storms. The passions suc- ceed each other in an endless train : and he who foregoes, by compulsion, the bustle of an active life, will find envy and desire accom- pany to his retreat ; if he throw it up volun- tarily, too often will regret torment his hours of privacy. But, if we scrutinise our minds under these impressions, we shall then find ambition to be the impulse of a great mind ; envy, a proper sense of injustice; and regret, the longings of virtue, which pants again to move in its sphere of activity. No. XXI. THE CONTEMPLATIST. S55 But if self-love thus interpose its shield, when we would penetrate the recesses of our own mind, and detect the motives of our own conduct, we are equally repelled from success, by prejudice and difficulty, in attempting to .discover those of others. The unwilling gra- titude of mankind will seldom allow it to acknowledged merit when it is obvious, and its indolence, joined with the former, prevent it from seeking it when it is obscure. The littleness of vanity whispers that if we ap- plaud, invidious comparison may follow; and the sense of injustice, which this tacit de- traction creates, is pacified by reflecting that what we do not perform, others may, and that it will be time enough for us to commend, when the world has already given its sanction. I am willing to hope, indeed, that this reluc- tance to sefek for, to bring forward, and to cele- brate real merit, arises sometimes, from a timid apprehension of our own judgments, and a wish rather to glide with the stream, than to direct it to its proper channel : for ridicule and contempt always follow erroneous admiration, and sometimes even that which is founded in S5Q THE CONTEMPLATIST. No. XXI. truth : and where is the mind so hardened or So lost, that is not alive to the stings of deri- sion and disdain ? But, while I thus propose a palliative for occasional instances, I fear that, in the majority of cases, the worst motives influ- ence us; and such as cannot be obviated by sophistry, or vindicated by reason. They are the offspring of envy and malignity, which seek to bring all to one common level, and to destroy those distinctions of virtue which form the great moral barriers of life, and re- strain the wanton inroads of vice and immo- rality, which alone brighten the paths of piety and rectitude, and darken with obloquy and shame those of turpitude and depravity. Amid this rude collision of passion, how- ever, who shall venture to say that he knows the motives of his own actions, or that he has discovered those which operate upon the rest of mankind? FINIS. Squire and Warwick, Printers, FurnivalV Inn-Court, London. 4 U C.BERKELEY LIBRARIES iiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii mil III